torkill13 wrote: ↑
Sat Jul 20, 2019 1:22 am
While the newcomers followed Anya up the stairs, the big man elbowed his way to the bar. He set a couple of coins on the counter, and ordered another ale. As waited for his drink, his eyes scanned the common room, closely observing the other patrons, trying to gauge their reaction to the commotion a few moments ago.
Perception: [1d20+4] = 15+4 = 19
The general consensus of the murmurings from the other patrons -- guardsmen included -- seems to be "good riddance," as well as disappointment that there were no fisticuffs. Apparently, odds leaned heavily in favor of Horvik and the dwarf.
Several minutes passed, and Horvik wondered what could possibly taking the others so long to drop off their bags. As Cal passed by again, Horvik gently grasped him by the arm. He tried to keep his voice down, but the din of the crowd worked against him. "You mentioned other girls. How many others are missing and when did all of this start?"
He sighs. "From town? That logger's girl, and my Fiala makes two. If 'dolfo's griping about his tunics holds any water, then that seamstress from Verge is a third, probably around the same time as the logger's girl. Cute lil' one, that one. Seen her a time or two coming into town from across the river with her da." He snorts a laugh. "Wouldn't it be funny if Ohnrus' beer is late because his delivery girl's up and disappeared?" He chuckles again. "Ohnrus' girl --now she's a crack of the whip. Good luck to any grown man tryin' to lay hands on her! Heard talk of the others that some goblins tried to give them some trouble in the pass coming down from Eltan's Spring this summer past, and before a sword could be drawn, that girl had clonked three of them cold with a stave and sent the fourth a-running back to whatever hole it'd crawled out of."
"Three from town, two from Verge," says another man, with a sigh. He taps at the surface of the bar.
"The usual?" Cal asks.
The barman nods, and reaches for the bottle on the top shelf. He splashes three fingers into a small glass, and sets it down before the man.
"You're off duty, Sergeant?"
The man laughs through a thick, dark mustache. "I won't be off duty until they're found, and we find the culprit. These aren't girls of age to go traipsing off with their beaus," he grumbles, "and so close together? The similar appearances? That whoever this is likes them fair-haired means it's no coincidence."
He quaffs the drink, grimacing as it goes down. "Don't you let eyes off that niece of yours," he says, and slips his cloak back on. A golden braid decorates one shoulder.
"You louts! Mealtime's over. Back to the fourth ward. Boots on the street!"
The guardsmen scattered about the common room scramble to rise, swinging cloaks into place. They look about to complain, but a glance at their sergeant's face hardens their own.
"You'd think that little street rat was his daughter, the way he's taking the news," one of them grumbles to another as they file out the door.