[Choose Your Own Adventure] Tales of the Evergrave

[Heartsteal]

Roan Geelen, Gilward

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After his goodbyes, Roan still felt his eyes puffed and red, he'd wept at leaving his wife Helen, still heavy with child; yet he knew that she was left with capable hands, and that for the sake of their people, and their faith, he must do what he set off now to do. Already, near on a week ago he'd taken the brand of Zealotry for the Rosen Court, but the bandage was still wrapped around his palm, lest the burn become infected whilst on his journey. Between his puffy eyes, bearded face, and bandaged hand, it was easy to mistake Roan for a drunk, and innumerable folk passing him in the market gave him the berth and stares that one might receive.


It was near impossible to pin down any one pair of eyes in such a busy city as Roan made his way slowly, and without plan down the streets. Shouldering past basket-carriers, spice-sellers, and pickpockets alike, he hadn't a clue as to where the Aegis might have gotten off to. While the sun began to sink over Gilward, casting long shadows that blackened the streets, Roan wondered who he should ask, or where he might go.


Before he'd even thought as to where he should begin his search, Roan found his way to the market district by instinct. From his service in Lorewind, the zealot knew that there were often those who fenced illegal goods there, though none so rich that they'd even take a chance at buying such a priceless artifact as the Aegis. Where then would one go?


The Geelen man's expertise only went so far as petty crime among city-folk, and it wasn't likely that a lone thief had strode into the royal archives to liberate a singular, and extremely large object for themselves, especially one that had so little saleability.


Who then might steal such an object, and what agenda might they have? One might jump to the conclusion that the Reverence had done it, but they had little reason to, as did most others now that he thought of it. The only places that were certain to have some use of the relic would be the mages of Lorewind, and the merchant lords of Vosgi. Mages might be able to find some divine power buried within the shield, and a particularly crafty merchant lord would be able to ransom it back to the Court. Salters would never be involved, as the theft was far too distant from shore, and no blood had been spilled. The Crooked Blades would never bring righteous fury down upon themselves in such a way, and the Carrion Fraternity was little more than myth.


What then, might he be looking for?

 

[Heartsteal]

Assuming that money was the more likely motive, Roan chose to seek out a Vosgian Merchant Lord who might know something of the missing relic. Whether they'd found it or not, it would be likely that with their wide array of contacts, they'd hear about it at some point.


Luckily, finding Vosgians was no difficult task; getting them to speak however could be a much different problem. All roads lead home, and all gold leads to Vosgi as some might say.


Searching through the bustling market crowd, Roan could see different folks aplenty, and the wash of colour made it fiercely difficult to identify one person from another. After a moment though, the gold started to become more evident, and sure enough, the faces wearing it started to show through. Easily enough, Roan found a shop where several Vosgians seemed to be gathering. The sign above its doorway was written in the strange letters of their homeland, and despite the number of their folk he'd come to know, Roan couldn't read it for the life of him.


Knowing anything in that building would cost him, Roan checked his coinpurse again, just to be sure it hadn't been cut, and finding himself satisfied, or as much as he could be, knowing that pouch would be empty in just a few short minutes, strode inside. Beyond the doors, the tavern, and that's what he knew it to be, was filled with extravagant pipes of grasses, and the air nearly choked with a purplish haze. Lounged about the room in varying states of consciousness were a number of dark-skinned foreigners, and a handful of locals, though they of paler persuasion were near all round-bellied and bedecked in jewels. Rich folk.


"Wurryet ĕ maïachell?" one man asked, emerging from seemingly nowhere. The sudden appearance nearly had Roan draw his sword, close on two inches of steel rasping clear of its leather home before he caught himself, and slammed it back home. Too long he'd spent without a blade at his side, and now he was too twitchy to see it freed.


It was a worker, asking if he was in need of anything; though while he'd come to know the phrase well enough, Roan couldn't respond in the same tongue.


"Sorry brother, my Goldtongue is not very strong," the zealot said, working in the complement as subtly as he could before giving a square answer.


"I was looking for something, and only hope one of your patrons might be able to help me," he went on, careful to keep both hands from his scabbard, especially seeing as the man in front of him hadn't so much as blinked at the movement. Either he was daft, or confident enough that he had no fear of a blade, and it was better to be safe than sorry.


"Understanding," was the Vosgian's response, with the barest nod of his head. The small movement made it clear why he'd not been afraid; he wore the chain of a Dervish, forged of silver, hanging behind the vest he wore. While he was a competent swordsman in his own right, there was no way that Roan would have been able to beat a Silver Dervish without his sword at least drawn beforehand, and some space to start swinging it.


The barman gestured to one of the waterpipes near the back of the chamber, and the five people tucked into its recess in the wall. Three locals, two men and a woman, all of them dressed like high nobility, and two Vosgians, a man and a woman. Both of the latter were dressed not in gold, but mostly in bronze, and bearing a fair number of scars to them, looking much more like his own sort. The Gilward natives seemed to just be finishing up, leaving Roan to figure out what exactly he'd be asking, or more likely, how he'd go about asking it.