In the tradition of the Illaveren Apostolic Church - an elvish-Christian church with a small but stable following in RhyDin - St. Aulden's Day was a feast day on the 10th of December, preceded by a blessing or other good fortune the eve before, often close to midnight. Any bad luck that evening was taken as a serious ill omen, such that sailors would keep to land for many days following the day of the feast, even those who were not part of the Church but knew of it, or knew sailors in it.
So when a ship ran aground not far south of RhyDin and three of the crew were confirmed dead, and most of the rest assumed washed away, claimed by the sea, dark murmurs ran through the West End. It was already a dark time according to many sailors, with strange creatures of bone wandering the streets at night and attacking those not cautious (or lucky) enough, and many were quick to call it an evil omen, brooding over their mugs of ale and grog in every waterfront bar in the West End and beyond, warning any who would listen against voyages by sea, or any real travel at all.
"Red Paul's not returned either, and 'e were due back three hour 'go," said Christian Burke, sitting in his favorite old chair in front of the roaring fire at the Split Cork, a seaside pub with a seedy reputation that was not entirely deserved. As a rule, the grizzled and superstitious old patrons warned whoever would listen of evil omens, and when no omens could be observed in stars and crops and the saints' days, they spoke of curious men who came to the Split Cork years ago and came to sinister ends within the very walls of the place. Many took the stories seriously - but as far as any patron could remember, if he chose to remember, no one had come to any serious violence at that bar. After all, most of the regular customers were too far past their prime to concern themselves with fights, except in the (very frequent) retelling of brawls a generation old or older.
That night, one man sitting outside the ring of listeners and tellers (the two groups switched sides frequently and far from seamlessly) paid very little attention to Christian Burke's story. It was not that he was not interested in the fate of Sanderton's Pride, the name of the ship that had wrecked south of the city now four hours ago, but that he was less interested in any evil omen it might foreshadow, and more in the escaped cargo. Sanderton was a famous waypoint at which recently captured slaves were sold, and then brought by tricky and treacherous paths to realms between realms like RhyDin - for Sanderton itself was a moderately mysterious place, situated on the very edge of a thousand far more mysterious places.
What this man, Josiah Belleran (one-half Dark Elf, on his mother's side), knew was that the ship had wrecked very close to shore, that the seas were not rough at the time of the wreck as many now thought but became rough an hour after, that bandits with lanterns leading the ship into false port were likely to blame, as a local militia had rode several of them off shortly after the shipwreck; and that there were very likely survivors, according to his colleagues who had already investigated the beaches near the wreck and found footprints and other signs of recent travel.
The bounty for returning escaped slaves to their owners (or at least their owners' heirs, in case their proper owners had perished) in Sanderton was very high, and Josiah Belleran belonged to a security firm based primarily offworld called Alastair-Adder Solutions. The son of one of the senior partners, Fredrick Alastair IV, had recently opened a branch in RhyDin City, and so far the return of escaped slaves had proven a profitable and worthwhile venture. Only those "street-wise" in both the preternatural and technological were now sent to RhyDin by Alastair-Adder, as those not savvy enough had too short a life expectancy to be profitable for the firm.
When the bartender moved from his post to argue with the storyteller (now a woman called Lily), Mr. Belleran, dressed to blend in but wearing a blaster pistol just under his coat at his hip, rose to slip stealthily to the counter to examine the ledger for the rooms upstairs. He was quick to pick out the regulars among them, and found two with artificial-sounding names had checked themselves in an hour ago, and had somehow paid a great deal of money.
Joe and John Reedsville were their "names," and Josiah expected they had already encountered so-called "slave liberators" or an underground railroad of some kind who had given them the money, which they in turn gave to the bartender to keep quiet. Well, it was worth looking into - and if they're the wrong guys, well hey, won't be too hard to shoot my way out of this shithole.
Josiah narrowed his eyes at the top of the stairs and put one hand on his gun, hesitating to consider his next move.
So when a ship ran aground not far south of RhyDin and three of the crew were confirmed dead, and most of the rest assumed washed away, claimed by the sea, dark murmurs ran through the West End. It was already a dark time according to many sailors, with strange creatures of bone wandering the streets at night and attacking those not cautious (or lucky) enough, and many were quick to call it an evil omen, brooding over their mugs of ale and grog in every waterfront bar in the West End and beyond, warning any who would listen against voyages by sea, or any real travel at all.
"Red Paul's not returned either, and 'e were due back three hour 'go," said Christian Burke, sitting in his favorite old chair in front of the roaring fire at the Split Cork, a seaside pub with a seedy reputation that was not entirely deserved. As a rule, the grizzled and superstitious old patrons warned whoever would listen of evil omens, and when no omens could be observed in stars and crops and the saints' days, they spoke of curious men who came to the Split Cork years ago and came to sinister ends within the very walls of the place. Many took the stories seriously - but as far as any patron could remember, if he chose to remember, no one had come to any serious violence at that bar. After all, most of the regular customers were too far past their prime to concern themselves with fights, except in the (very frequent) retelling of brawls a generation old or older.
That night, one man sitting outside the ring of listeners and tellers (the two groups switched sides frequently and far from seamlessly) paid very little attention to Christian Burke's story. It was not that he was not interested in the fate of Sanderton's Pride, the name of the ship that had wrecked south of the city now four hours ago, but that he was less interested in any evil omen it might foreshadow, and more in the escaped cargo. Sanderton was a famous waypoint at which recently captured slaves were sold, and then brought by tricky and treacherous paths to realms between realms like RhyDin - for Sanderton itself was a moderately mysterious place, situated on the very edge of a thousand far more mysterious places.
What this man, Josiah Belleran (one-half Dark Elf, on his mother's side), knew was that the ship had wrecked very close to shore, that the seas were not rough at the time of the wreck as many now thought but became rough an hour after, that bandits with lanterns leading the ship into false port were likely to blame, as a local militia had rode several of them off shortly after the shipwreck; and that there were very likely survivors, according to his colleagues who had already investigated the beaches near the wreck and found footprints and other signs of recent travel.
The bounty for returning escaped slaves to their owners (or at least their owners' heirs, in case their proper owners had perished) in Sanderton was very high, and Josiah Belleran belonged to a security firm based primarily offworld called Alastair-Adder Solutions. The son of one of the senior partners, Fredrick Alastair IV, had recently opened a branch in RhyDin City, and so far the return of escaped slaves had proven a profitable and worthwhile venture. Only those "street-wise" in both the preternatural and technological were now sent to RhyDin by Alastair-Adder, as those not savvy enough had too short a life expectancy to be profitable for the firm.
When the bartender moved from his post to argue with the storyteller (now a woman called Lily), Mr. Belleran, dressed to blend in but wearing a blaster pistol just under his coat at his hip, rose to slip stealthily to the counter to examine the ledger for the rooms upstairs. He was quick to pick out the regulars among them, and found two with artificial-sounding names had checked themselves in an hour ago, and had somehow paid a great deal of money.
Joe and John Reedsville were their "names," and Josiah expected they had already encountered so-called "slave liberators" or an underground railroad of some kind who had given them the money, which they in turn gave to the bartender to keep quiet. Well, it was worth looking into - and if they're the wrong guys, well hey, won't be too hard to shoot my way out of this shithole.
Josiah narrowed his eyes at the top of the stairs and put one hand on his gun, hesitating to consider his next move.