He didn't understand her in RhyDin. Sylvia knew that from the uncomfortable way he looked when she said she was going to the Red Dragon Inn. Kieran had tried repeatedly to find its allure, that strange charm it had on his wife, but it never caught him up in its web of half friendships and glimpsed moments. She had to admit that these days she felt more outside than ever. The inn had changed so much, she felt out of step with the motions.

Then, her one dear friend still in RhyDin, more than just a person who knew her name and that she used to tend bar, had vanished. Perhaps he was dead; most people believed it. Others searched for clues in the ruins of his home or in the underground places where truth is buried with urchins and the less than scrupulous. True, they had found another body in the remains, but not his. So there lay the mystery. Was there simply nothing left of him to find, or had he somehow known and gotten out? Was Lucky truly lucky, or had irony taken its final grip on his life?

Sylvia had examined the remains, not for remnants or signs that he had been there, but for signs that he had gone. After seeing so many destroyed homes in wars past, she had learned a great deal of the way blasts sent debris. How an opened window looked as opposed to a closed, a hollowed wall in difference to a solid one. The arc of wood and stone distorted from its intended purpose. All she wanted was a sign one way or the other, or to put a metaphoric spin on the thought -- was there an open door to the mystery or a closed one?

Kiema fell into harmonious step with the baroness as she walked on. Though the minstrel?s natural skills here were discordant and limited, it did not take a Changling to feel the emotions trilling from Sylvia. Remorse, sorrow, anger, and helplessness reverberated like a nightingale song. ?No one would think the worse of you for leaving this to others. In fact, most would agree you?ve done too much.?

A sharp look, one that brought many an eye low, flashed her way as the lady replied through gritted teeth, ?Of that I have little doubt.? Her steps increased and Kiema matched the pace easily. ?Where?s Ewan?? she questioned.

?He?ll be along,? was the cryptic reply. Truth was Kiema had no idea where the Master of Arms was roaming these days. They had parted three days ago when word reached them from Baron Logansson to return to RhyDin city proper for assistance in the search. ?Leave this to us, your Excellency. If there is news to be had, you?ll be notified.?

They had reached the porch steps of the Inn. Kiema had no interest in going in there at this hour when it would be filled with the cat wailing noise some called music. It was so hard to find an artist these days who wanted to move others souls instead of screaming out their own. Sylvia waited before her, internal debate apparent by the furrowed brow and tired sigh. With what little connection she could build, and only because she knew the baroness so well, she sent out a tiny thread of calm and serenity, and the effect was all she could hope for. ?Very well. Be certain to inform me the moment you hear anything. No matter what the news.?

A nod and slight bow as she parted from Sylvia, Kiema knew how to interpret that. Do not hesitate should she find out in certainty that Lucky was dead. A staccato step along the streets, she made her way to a guild house for minstrels, bards, and the myriad traveling performers. She often stayed there when in town. Information could be had for the right tune or coin.

The Marketplace was full of life, the weather being more than gracious in its wealth of sunshine, and the merchants with their variety of offerings hoped for a substantial gain in wealth this day as well.

Kiema wandered from stall to stall, pausing from time to time to take interest in a bit of cloth, a sample of spices, or a ribbon or two. She eavesdropped on each passerby as she made her way through the large square.

A glance to the sky, it was not more than an hour past midday, and she hoped she would not need to wait much longer for the Master of Arms to arrive. He had finally sent word he was near town, and he would meet her here. She could not fault his choice. An innocuous place for two people to meet.

Seablue eyes cast upon a merry beribboned cart. Myriads of lacings and ribbons flutter in the light breeze, and Kiema eased her way through the crowds to view the wares being sold. She surveyed the ribbons luxuriantly draped over wooden pegs of the merchant cart, delicately lifted one or two to see better in the sunlight. One hand moved yet again to the mandolin on her back, protecting it from the bustling passersby as she stepped around the end of the cart to view more elaborately woven ribbons.

She felt Ewan's presence as he neared and set aside the latest delicate ribbon of burgandy and gold to greet him, though the smile is barely perceptible, keeping a business-like demeanor. "Ewan."

He gave a curt bow, "Ambassador,"then motioned to the ribbon she has just lain aside. "Would not suit your hair. Wrong color.

She could not help but smile slighty, "So you say." One hand fluidly motioned for him to join her in walking from the Marketplace. Her voice pitched low though she kept her face animated, as though they might be talking of the weather. "What's kept you? Four days it has been since we received word."

He matched her expressions and nodded, though his words were of a less jovial nature. "You try losing a pack of Mackra when the quarry takes off like a straight arrow. I had to confuse your trail or you'd be in scalding water."

"I am sorry." she apologized. She had to admit to having left a mess for him to handle. "We have little time. It has been at least a month...," she paused her words as they moved through a narrowed area due to crowds gathering about two opposite carts. They had to go single file, but there was slight tug at her waist. Before she even looked, she knew what had happened. Evidently so did Ewan, and he reached into a small space between two people in the crowd.

As he pulled back, she saw he had hold of a struggling whisp of a lad by the grimey shirttail. "Give it back lad, and go seek better employment." There was no hesitation in the boy's reaction, summarily tossing her small coin pouch back at her and scampering off to be lost among the throng. With her coin purse back in her possession, this time tied benearth her overskirt, she turned with a sigh to Ewan, "Let's just get to a place we can sit and talk without worrying if we'll be trampled to death."

A nod, perhaps a smile, and a motion for her to lead on was all she received from him.

Seeing Thorm again had been good for the soul, if not particularly good for the headache that drinking his favored Black and Blue brought in the morning. She had confided in the good Norseman her lack of gaining any ground in her endeavor. His appearance gave her new hope when she was, admittedly, about to accept that Lucky?s friendship was lost to her. They had talked long as the bustle of the inn grew and then dissipated. He wanted to meet with Sid, and it was a worthy idea for them to talk about what Sid knew of Mr. Howe?s demise.

Sylvia, however, had been sent word to meet one of her comrades in this venture at the docks. So, she arrived at the height of the pandemonium, as the sun kissed the horizon for morning, and fishermen rushed preperations to sail out for their day?s catch. Her thumbs hooked in her belt, the pinky finger of her left hand tapped the hilt of her silver dagger lightly. Black waves of hair were tied back in windtails, small clutches of hair at her temples tied together, while the remaining top half of her hair was tied back keeping it from her face in the gusts of wind.

When she found Kiema sitting on a bench at the end of one dock watching ships navigate the harbor, she noticed the lady wore travel clothes; breeches, calf high boots with good soles, a long tunic of grey-green, and her midnight blue cloak rolled around the strap of her mandolin she held in her lap. The slender fingers lay upon the strings in anticipation of any moment?s request. ?Sit, your Excellency,? came the minstrel?s soft comment that was nearly swept away without notice upon the breeze.

?You?ve news?? Sylvia sat as requested, legs stretched out before her towards the water.

A nod accompanied by a shrug, ?Something to follow up. Ewan has discovered two couriers that have recently, and unusually, changed their preferred routes. He and I plan on meeting with each upon the road. Perhaps a drink or two or some friendly assistance will find them forthcoming with more substantial information. If not, ??

?If not, let it be. This is not the war, Kiema, and be sure to remind Master Corinsson the same.? The last thing she needed was to have the death of pages, no more than pawns in the game the Barrister and his enemies had played.

?He knows, Sylvia.? The woman used the less formal, familiar reference. ?One of us will contact you when we are back in town.?

The two sat there for passing moments, each in thoughts unexpressed to the other, until Sylvia spoke, "I may return to Yransea for a few days. Captain Othinsson," she glanced to Kiema for a response of recognition and received a nod for her to continue, "is in town. He has intentions in this mystery, but should he make requests of you or Ewan, I ask that you do them."

There was no more than a nod from Kiema before that lady rose and walked away the length of the docks. Sylvia waited some time more as the scuttle of the ships drifted into the mechanizations of a working day.

One thing was certain to the minstrel, a more direct path needed to be followed if a definitive answer was going to be revealed any time in her life.

A sour note of frustration curved her mouth downward. She walked in a swift staccato step in the shadows of houses in the center of town on her way to the Marketplace. Ewan still had not returned, nor sent word, on his interview with the courier, but she would not pause her own plans for his tardiness. More than this, the conversation with the Captain had set her on edge. A fortunate thing this was RhyDin where people would take little note of a wandering player whose eyes swirled with multifarious color.

She needed to find Lucky's manservant. She had not heard any account of him, and he had not been seen except one place. When she questioned the grave diggers, they had mentioned a man of Gwyr's rough description in attendance. The puzzlement was when she asked which way he had left, they could not say but did say a carriage had waited for him. He could have gone a great distance, or be within the city. Too many people to ask, but of the many places a manservant might go on his routine duties, the Marketplace was a most prominent one.

So, she arrived into the open sun brightened courtyard where a squall of noise intruded upon her inner conversation.

?No, no, thank you.? Kiema repeated to the overzealous merchant with a hand raised slowly to ward off any continued strident urgings to purchase a rack of pork ribs. His disappointment was so perfected it urged Kiema to add, ?I am but a traveler, and have no place to keep such fine meat to prevent spoiling.?

?In your stomach, lady! In your stomach!? A laugh like the gales at sea rolled out of his mouth, and Kiema could only smile and shake her head as she turned on down the aisle of carts. He had not provided information on Gwyr, nor could he recall ever dealing with such a fellow as she described. Still, not dampened yet of spirit, she had many more provisioners to question.

The aroma of cheese, its colorful array of sharps and muted scents, assailed her nose as she approached the next cart. An elderly lady gave a gapped grin and a hobbled curtsey as the minstrel approached. ?Cheese travels well, miss.? The sibilants of her words strung together like the slow release from a bagpipe.

A glissando of laughter, ?You listen well to conversations of others, matron.?

?One must make due with a talent,? unabashedly admitted as she arranged with fingers that trembled rounds of cheese in their cloths.

?So, a round of Mojina cheese, if you?ve some on hand, and perhaps some word on the other conversation I had with your neighbor.? A few coins more than the cheese was worth offered out.

?I?ve seen the man, miss, that I have.? The coins taken before she selected a small round of cheese.

A slow sigh at the vagueness of the statement, ?Recently, say in perhaps the past week or so??

The lady eased herself onto a stool behind her cart, adjusted her skirt, picking at threads coming free of the weave. Kiema grit her teeth and, for what was the thousandth time, wished her gift worked in this place. She picked up the cheese, ?Thank you, matron,? and placed it in her travel sack resting at her hip.

?Six days ago, saw him,? the elderly lady said without looking up. ?Can?t say which way he went. Took his parcels with him; not delivered like he?s wont to do.?

?Thank you, again, matron. I?ll compose a song in your honor.? It wouldn?t hurt to butter the woman up, especially if she needed ply her with questions again later. The lady blushed and waved her off with a muttering of denials and humble thanks.

So, Gwyr, or at least a man fitting his description, was still about. Kiema still didn?t know where, but there was more than she was certain of before. She would use the details of his carrying parcels in her description as she moved on further to a cart selling a variety of fruit.

?Why is it I always find you in the market, Kiema?? Ewan walked up beside her and looked over her attire. ?Travel clothes, again??

She looked Ewan over, ?Where have you been?? It was so casually asked as she looked over the fruit, a smile to the vendor who was less than pleased that Ewan had diverted his customers attention, even if briefly.

Ewan?s knack for answering her questions with a sarcastic summary of his mission was expected, ?You try to find a boy no more than fourteen in the wilds of the western forests ? and without your talents.?

Kiema scrunched up her mouth slightly before giving a nod, ?Did you, then??

?Meet you at the inn, later. We?ll share our information then. Right now, just wanted to be sure nothing imperative had come up.?

A shake of her head in answer, ?I?ll see you later, now let me find some fruit.?

Ewan bowed slightly, and then set off into the crowd allowing Kiema to smile to the merchant. ?Let?s see, I do believe my friend mentioned this cart as the one he favored for a particularly fine fruit, but I just can?t remember what kind. Perhaps you know him and will be able to help me?? She smiled warmly before starting her ploy with the description of Gwyr.

Viking Child, so free and so wild, tell me why do you roam? Battle on! The Seawulf in search of Home! ~Steve McDonald

Guthorm stood and slowly wrapped a leather cord snug around the neck of the small pouch. All that he claimed of Lucien Mal, friend and st?rsmann, was in that pouch: grey ash and charred slivers of wood, an oblong shard of dark coloured glass, an ornate and now twisted supper fork, made of silver, an instrument's pearl tuning peg-still with a shred of music string on it, a piece of tattered curtain that still had clung in its tatters to the blown out window that overlooked the street, three irregular chunks of strange, alabaster-white...perhaps it was stone, and a piece of splintered bone.

Perhaps it was the barrister's, forgotten and abandoned in the picked-over rubble of his hus.

Guthorm could not know for sure. He knew the barrister did not live alone, though he was unmarried. He had...servants in the hus. One of them, he heard, was buried in the cemetery, maybe in pieces. It seemed that the other had disappeared after the explosion...maybe to take advantage of a new life...maybe thieving, maybe worse. Maybe he was running from his guilt. Oh, that the Viking would like to find him who disappeared so strangely after.

Disappeared...much like Lucien himself. Lucien. Blown to bits? Or taken captive? The questions warred in him from opposite sides of the field. The answers were slow in coming.

Still with the smell of the salt sea on him, the Norskmann had been urgently told of the barrister's disappearance. No sign found of him in the ruin of his hus, and yet it was said he was home at the time. Then, where was he?! Was this little bone he found.....? Eh. He refused to believe it. He knew Lucky well, from their talks at Hops Hus, and their time at sea. He knew the man was cunning and quick. Strong and with a tough mind. The Viking could not figure that his friend was so easily killed. Nei...

But time and time was slipping quietly away. He had spoken to Sylvia in a long overdue reunion. It was she who told him the most of what he knew so far about the explosion, and about the trouble Lucky was in. And the woman, Kiema, ambassador, a face out of hazy memory, had sat with him and related her searchings and that of another with her. Master of Arms. Sylvia's people. He was learning names...Mrs. Clancy, Gwyr, Ewan, Dewey, Cheetham...and Howe.

The Viking ground his teeth in aggravation and turned his back on the rubble that was once his st?rsmann's home. Lingering in a slow march past the courthouse site, he ticked off in his mind what he already knew:

1. Alysia still had fond feelings for the barrister. Though he had no idea (due to his sudden departure seawards) why they had not married, he was not willing to suspect her hard now. She seemed genuinely grateful when he had insisted that Lucky was too clever, too good a fighter to be killed outright.

2. Sylvia was a rare kind of friend to Lucien. One who carried loyalty and integrity in her blood and bones. She would not give up her search until she found the answers there were to be uncovered. Until she found Lucien himself. She was hurting. Her family was suffering her absence and though she had every reason to have regrets of this, what with a man and babes at home who needed her, she was determined, and would not be put off.

3. Kiema...nei, he did not know much about her, other than she was ambassador for Sylvia. And a skilled bard.... Mmmmm....ja, she played the harp well.... But she felt uneasy to him. Contradictory. As if she hoped for help, but was reticent to take it from him. He blamed himself. Many who did not know him well, thought him to be untrustworthy. The Norsk were often accused of being cold and unapproachable. His shifty eyes contributed much to people's opinion of him. She would have to get used to him and his ways if they were to join as partners in the search for his st?rsmann.

4. And then there was Sid. Sid...who he thought was intelligent and crafty. Sid...who he considered a friend to him...

His pace quickened as thought settled on her.

...from what he could piece together, it was because of Sid that Lucky went up against Dewey, Cheetham and Howe, to speak the law in Sid's defense. This did not surprise the Norskmann. He knew well that Lucien was a lawspeaker. He knew this work could be dangerous for the barrister. Apparently...this DCH did more than talk the law. Apparently, they made whatever laws suited them. It was not uncommon in Rhydin, he knew.

What was worse, he had been told that Sid had a hand in slaughtering Howe. That was the worst of news!

How could Sid be so stupid!!

If Lucky did not die in the blast at home, if he had survived to be taken by his enemies, or even if he was wandering injured elsewhere outside the city, with his wits blown away in the Northwind ...the killing of Howe could seal the barrister's death! Retaliation. A life for a life...oh, that was acceptable where he came from.

Howe was dead and who could pull what he knew of all this out of his head now? The Norskmann couldn't. Not now! That opportunity was lost.

And, if the barrister had survived his home's demise, Sid was to blame now too, for putting a dead man's mark on Lucien Mal.

Sid was too much to blame for all of this!

Discretion, caution, perception.

Those were the qualities that shone in the man, qualities he refined over the many years of working for the barrister. The manner of the barrister's business and associates, past and present, continued to demand nothing less. Gwyr left nothing to chance.

The carriage, which would have been easily recognized, was not anywhere near the Inn. The man did not choose one of the booths at the Inn. Nor did he choose a remote table in some shadowy corner of the room. The table he chose didn't offer much in the way of seclusion, but it did give him a means of quick exit.

Gwyr was not a man to frequent Inns. But he made sure he wouldn't stand out as he waited for the Ambassador and the Master of Arms. He casually drank from a steaming mug as he perused the copy of the Oracle someone had left there. He's choice would have been to avoid the meeting altogether, but their persistence gave him few other options. So the man waited.

The Red Dragon Inn was rather quiet during the man's visit. A few patrons milled around the bar, a few others drifting back and forth between bar and booths. Nothing out of the ordinary, save the relative peace that settled over the establishment. The hour was early still. The evening crowds were still a few turns from emerging.

And in this quiet setting sat a man of mundane routine, one that came in and sat that table to drink a cup of coffee and read his paper every day. Or at the very least, Gwyr appeared as such. He knew the very moment the Ambassador and Man at Arms entered the establishment. He followed Kiema's path to the table and Ewan's path to the bar without ever looking up from the article that seemingly had him so engrossed. It wasn't until the minstrel joined him at the table, that Gwyr look up from the Oracle.

"Mayhaps the fall harvest will brin' bett'r offerin's from the merchants." What may pass as a smile broke on the man's usually stoic features and accompanied his greeting to the Ambassador. The man turned his attention from Kiema to the Man at Arms as Ewan joined them.

"No more than already done, Ser." The man's remark was softly and succinctly spoken with a nod to the front page article. The paper was folded and set aside, but the steaming mug remained in his possession. The man between the Man at Arms and the Ambassador.

"Y' sought and hav' found, aye?" The question was hardly a question as the man's casually spoken words fell into the mug he lifted for another drink.

The man rested his full attention on the Ambassador as the Master of Arms fell into his silent vigil. The mug was surrendered to the table and the man slipped into casual repose and banter of tone. A rare, but full smile broke upon Gwyr's hard features.

"Your reputation preceeds y' Madam Minstrel." Gwyr gave a passing nod to the instrument that she had in her possession. "Rare is the performance, if any, that would be beyond y'."

The man then gave a light shrug. "Mayhaps it is the third or fifth. Mayhaps the first or last intermission." Gwyr continued, speaking in the same soft and efficient voice he carried. "Questions o' casting and direction should be asked o' the stage manager or director," he paused for only a passing breath, "nae a stage hand."

A subtle shift took place in inflection, as if one who had been sought was now the one seeking, though nothing in posture. "Madam Minstrel, you would know this. Pray tell, which is the greater? The path or what it is sought?"

The conversation with Gwyr had set her somewhat at ease. At least there was an indication that while this movement may be concluding, the symphony played on. That evening took her to the Red Dragon Inn and a much needed glass of port. The Ancient was tending with her usual expertise in the cacophony of denizens. Ewan had been there. Though he did not approach her, having been in deep discussion with the Norse lady captain, she knew his presence. His emotions floated to the top too often these days, and she saw him drink more than he was wont to do. She would send message to Her Excellency to take a hand in the matter along with all the information she had gained in the past days.

At such times, when contemplation was due and the area a soul desired to be did not harmonize with the mind?s need for quiet, Kiema would play. This night being no different, she sat on the flagstones of the hearth, set the port down beside her, and began to play her mandolin. Wordless were the songs, though the lamentations and spirit hailing intricacies of the melodies seemed to touch a few of the patrons. Giftless she could only watch with sea-blue eyes the responses in their expressions and movement of bodies. Of a rare thing was the payment, generous indeed, she received for her playing. The man was unique even in this realm, though not overtly. Perhaps something in his eyes, she did not linger on them for they felt as though a thin veil kept her from looking over a great precipice at the edge of the world. Grateful, however, for the show of appreciation, she played one more before departing for the guild hall that night.

A nod to Old Jess at the door of the Guild Hall before passing inside, she paid no pause to the small gathering in the common room and made straight for her own cramped quarters. A note lay on the floor just beyond the door. It must have been slipped underneath in her absence. The twined tri-circles of the seal would remain unbroken when she picked it up and set it carefully aside on the small bedside table. There was no need to read the message. With patient rhythm she packed her belongings and built a shield around her heart. The Circelus wanted her home.

He had mapped the path he wanted to take while watching the crossroads from high up in the crags outside of town. Straightaway from there, he headed to town. He needed to find Sid.

At table, the debris taken from the site of Lucien?s hus only served to sharpen the mood he was in as he waited...the pieces of rubble, the glass, the bone...all like a thorn in his side, moving him ever closer, and yet farther away.

A wave distracted him sidelong and he turned to look.......and casual gaze went hard...hard in a flickering-eyed regard.

Sid had come to the Inn.

?Sid.? He acknowledged her with a touch of sarcasm come to his low greeting.

When Sid had finished her own greetings to friends, she looked at him with a cant of her head that had sent elflocks to ringle tinny and hollow. ?Guthorm??

He tossed his tankard on the counter and it clattered and skittered over and across, landing on the floor. Coming closer to her, he lowered his head and peered sidelong at her. Finally, he had the chance to speak his mind...a warning on behalf of Lucien Mal. ?Where I come fra, kvinne?? He paused, staring at her close with shifty eyes. ?Where I come fra, who kills a man has a price to pay.?

The words from the Norseman had her pausing, though, turning fully to face him. ?I... Wha' in the frell be ye speakin' about, m'friend?? Her slanted eyes had narrowed.

?I do not think you can afford the price.?

?Ye 'ave a problem with me, m'friend, mayhaps ye should be speakin' ye mind fully and completely afore I take umbrance an' make me own conclusions.?

He gifted her with a twisted grin, born deep in his beard and turned then, leaving her to her wondering...let her think on that and pretend she knew not what he spoke of....time enough to realize...time enough.......but it was growing ever shorter and shorter....

Note: some content quoted from chat logs and written by the other players.