Brindle clamped his teeth down hard, as if to stubbornly refuse to say anything else that might provide the roe -- thus far classified as probably an enemy -- any more fuel.
But, snark was too hard to resist. His teeth opened on a snarl: "I'll not help ye find 'er."
They were approaching lights: another hole-in-the-wall. Time for more questions, and more of the half-answers Limsan Lominsans were so rutting good at.
______________
There were times when Solitaire knew in the depths of his gut that he was onto something good. Anyone else might spit on it, but he'd always trusted his instincts. His instincts were good. He had the stashes to prove it. The encounter with the roegadyn had triggered something in him, and even several bells after they'd parted his mind kept returning to it, itching, and itching. Something was going on, and it smelled like gil.
He'd two things needed seeing to, and he did them in order. He prided himself on being reliable, but while he was about his business he dropped a few lines, and felt them up for tension. As usual there was more than a fair share of various nefarious things going on, some further abovedecks than others. It took time to sift through the tall tales, rumors, and hard pearls of truth. One thing he knew for true, though, was that a small number of interesting folk were tailing after the crook-tailed scut. What he didn't know was why.
He was finishing a delivery when he heard a few strongarms laughing at a tall weed of a duskwight. The man was distinctly out of place in the smoking shop, even for its illicit backrooms. He looked like a navigator off a merchant ship, the sort of man best at home with books, puffed-up snobs, and overpriced wine.
"I was speaking to the shop owner," the man was saying, low voice cutting through the guttural chuckles.
A bag of gil was produced, taken, and the rowdy sailors were unceremoniously shooed out with the customary banter of regulars.
Solitaire turned to a display of elaborately carved pipes and their accouterments, shuffling sideways to another shelf with trays of leaf so he was out of direct line of sight of the duskwight.
"I've a package gone missing, along with the runner what was charged with its safekeeping."
"What'd ye have me do for ye?" The owner asked, voice all velvet.
"All manner o' missing things come traipsing through. I've a mind to make sure if what's lost finds its way through your door, it finds its way home."
Solitaire strained to hear the next few exchanges, and caught only a few words -- one of which was 'tail.' A longshot, that word. But his gut told him it was one worth following.
When the duskwight left the shop, Solitaire was not long behind. . .with a fresh pouch of leaf in his pocket.
But, snark was too hard to resist. His teeth opened on a snarl: "I'll not help ye find 'er."
They were approaching lights: another hole-in-the-wall. Time for more questions, and more of the half-answers Limsan Lominsans were so rutting good at.
______________
There were times when Solitaire knew in the depths of his gut that he was onto something good. Anyone else might spit on it, but he'd always trusted his instincts. His instincts were good. He had the stashes to prove it. The encounter with the roegadyn had triggered something in him, and even several bells after they'd parted his mind kept returning to it, itching, and itching. Something was going on, and it smelled like gil.
He'd two things needed seeing to, and he did them in order. He prided himself on being reliable, but while he was about his business he dropped a few lines, and felt them up for tension. As usual there was more than a fair share of various nefarious things going on, some further abovedecks than others. It took time to sift through the tall tales, rumors, and hard pearls of truth. One thing he knew for true, though, was that a small number of interesting folk were tailing after the crook-tailed scut. What he didn't know was why.
He was finishing a delivery when he heard a few strongarms laughing at a tall weed of a duskwight. The man was distinctly out of place in the smoking shop, even for its illicit backrooms. He looked like a navigator off a merchant ship, the sort of man best at home with books, puffed-up snobs, and overpriced wine.
"I was speaking to the shop owner," the man was saying, low voice cutting through the guttural chuckles.
A bag of gil was produced, taken, and the rowdy sailors were unceremoniously shooed out with the customary banter of regulars.
Solitaire turned to a display of elaborately carved pipes and their accouterments, shuffling sideways to another shelf with trays of leaf so he was out of direct line of sight of the duskwight.
"I've a package gone missing, along with the runner what was charged with its safekeeping."
"What'd ye have me do for ye?" The owner asked, voice all velvet.
"All manner o' missing things come traipsing through. I've a mind to make sure if what's lost finds its way through your door, it finds its way home."
Solitaire strained to hear the next few exchanges, and caught only a few words -- one of which was 'tail.' A longshot, that word. But his gut told him it was one worth following.
When the duskwight left the shop, Solitaire was not long behind. . .with a fresh pouch of leaf in his pocket.
