Yardie (prime)/Information Seeking
Osrich, the halfling patron, shifted on his stool, tugging on his suspenders, his brow creased and stained with droplets of sweat. With a jerk of the hips, he turned away from the Faendryl, awaiting inquisitively. “Mayor Talliver?” Osrich brought his frosty mug to his lips. “What about him?”
Yardie scratched behind his ear, the tip of his silvery lor quill peeking like a sheathed weapon. Violet eyes whimsically gazed at the halfling’s mammoth display of discreetness. “I find it hard to believe that an entire town could lose an accomplished warrior, let alone one in charge.” Taking a sip of whiskey, Yardie let that golden burn singe away his patience while shrouding it with that rush of alcohol into his bloodstream. “A blatant threat to endanger Icemule if they did not get the orb, and yet Mayor Talliver gains no extra protection? No extra eyes? Sounds suspicious.”
Osrich shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know nothing ‘bout that.”
A quick shift of the Faendryl’s gaze landed upon the left hand of the halfling. “That black eahnor ring says otherwise.” Yardie downed the last drink and heaved a weary sigh. “You know the problem with those who oppose the Dusk Coven?” After a pregnant pause, Yardie answered, “They play fair. They’ll chat with the enemy in plain sight, ignore every threat, and discuss the prospect of a world where Lornon worshippers pray freely.” Yardie rose slowly, letting every muscle loosen under the taut discipline of restraint. “I’ve been inside the mind of what that world looks like. It’s an abattoir of horror, a virus like the Green Death, gangrenous, waiting to consume the body if not amputated at the source.” With a roll of the shoulders, he took in the halfling again, who rose from his seat. “I heard about the Talliver report. Several boots on the snow, signs of a struggle, and the inference a defeat of a warrior whose mettle would best others one on one, but not if he were jumped. And for that to happen, the Mayor would have to be scouted, his patterns surveyed, and then isolated in a well-crafted am—”
Osrich’s jab loosed rapidly for a short figure, catching Yardie square in the nose. A small creek of blood from Yardie’s already flat nose tickled the Faendryl’s upper lip, but the Panicky Phantom remained otherwise unphased. Slowly, he rolled up his sleeves. He sighed disappointedly, approaching the halfling, “So that you know, The Dark Tower hits harder.”
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Osrich’s world blurred as he opened his glazed eyes. His surroundings had changed from the Honeybeer Inn to somewhere dark, the frigid air an indicator that he had never left the Trace. He moved to stand, his mouth eliciting a groan, only to find his wrist taut with rolaren wire spooled around a wooden chair. Ears rang, and his balding head pounded with the sound of a thousand drums.
With the haze cleared, a crouch Faendryl stared back disinterestedly, a hint of annoyance resting upon his high cheekbones. “Oh, good. You’re awake. Now we play my way,” Yardie breathed in an even-tempered tone. “Tell me what you know.