A short man bearing a long overcoat and a small bowler hat walked down the 'streets' of Gridania... if that was what the locals called them, and indeed Charleston Gusteau could not be sure. Peering out from beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes caught between its edge and a large mustache that had been his calling card for years, his stocky frame marched confidently beneath the bows of the trees, flecks of dirt catching upon his shoes.
His eyes shot downwards, a scowl forming on his face as he noticed the scuffs forming near the soles, but he had no time to deal with it. He continued along, just behind him the lanky Harry Trumpert trying to keep pace, dressed in likewise gentlemanly clothing and fine shoes. They had been on the road for a few days, having departed from Ul'dah once word had reached them of a series of murders performed in the area around Gridania.
"Can you imagine what they mean by this... this "Hanging Tree, Trumpert?" he asked, voice blustering through its thick accent and carrying in the wind. "A tree that hangs? Does it set out to kill? What a preposterity, an absurdity, an inconceivability!" he cried, the thin framed Trumpert shaking his head as he briskly walked alongside the inspector. "Of course it must be the work of local deviants, scourging the area and putting the people into fear."
"Of course, inspector!" Trumpert eagerly agreed, slightly winded from the speed at which they moved along.
"And yet... what if not? What if it is some sort of killing tree?" He glanced sidelong at his companion, a sparkle lighting in his eyes. "It would be yet another feather in the cap of the famous Inspector Gusteau!" He nearly shouted this as he thrust a finger into the air, breaking mid-stride to turn his ambitious gaze towards the door of a nearby inn. "There is no better a place to begin our investigation than at a place where women do nothing but gossip and chatter and men tell lies to sate their egos. Come, let us go!"
The duo walked towards the doors of the building, Gusteau immediately taking on a calmer air, his demeanor changing as he suppressed his excitement. His hand pushed open the doors of the inn, and though he had pushed aside the majority of his bravado and anticipation, he still entered with an unmissable air of confidence. His mustache itself nearly bristled as he walked confidently into the midst of the room, his eyes spying the area, Trumpert only a few steps behind him. Though famous among those who consorted with the Law, he was a rather unremarkable and utterly unknowable man by face until one was alerted. Then, one never again forgot that broad mustache and unmistakable hubris bred from years of investigations.
Still, he remained relatively humble even as he thought to himself: Charleston Gusteau is on the case!
![[Image: Mog%20House%20Final.jpg]](http://usera.ImageCave.com/DaishiGajo/Mog%20House%20Final.jpg)
