Reporting In (Glen, Jarek, Dolores)

Glen felt at ease around Jarek. The half-orc was friendly, earnest, and surprisingly insightful. And, uh, those abs. Those qualities, along with Jarek's kindness after Glen's moment of weakness earlier in the day, led Glen to suggest that they go speak to his military contact together, prior to meeting Sithani to speak to the dwarves who had provided the lead lining at the farm. There was safety in numbers and it would be easy to fool the military types into believing that Jarek was a contractor hired for his skills, maybe a new recruit.

They split up for a bit after leaving the Feytower, just to be sure that any prying eyes would not see them coming and going together. Glen stopped briefly at the bank, adding one hundred sixty-three gold pieces to the youngling dragon’s hoard -- or, at least, that was what people said. He didn’t know if the rumors about the dragon were true, but they thought brought a smile to his face.

Glen waited for Jarek near the entrance to the encampment that contained the military’s chambers and offices in the city wall. He had taken off his Feytower guard’s tunic and belt, stashing them in his pack; otherwise, he was dressed the same as when Jarek first saw him. Shaggy and plain, trying to be ready for anything. He hoped that Jarek wouldn’t have trouble finding his way - they both lived near the wall, so he hopefully knew the area well enough.

((I was thinking we’d go over to Jarek for the quick meetup outside so Glen can give Jarek the rundown on Dolores and the arrangement here, and then they’ll proceed into Dolores’ office where I can set the scene based on my knowledge from the backstory. Once they’re in there, I’m thinking that Dolores can show up shortly thereafter. Feel free to message if this doesn’t work, I’m just spitballing. =) ))

Jarek returns to the ranch with his sister, checks on the herd... pack... flock, relays the Great News about his new stablehand contract to the rest of the staff, and then finds himself puzzling over a problem again.  The day has already asked more more subtlety than he normally had to employ, and it isn't even sundown yet.  Still, even if a girl's life wasn't imperiled, for a hundred and a half in silver and copper he'd puzzle until his skull overheated.  He stares at his closet and considers clothes; he faces perhaps predictably the perfect inversion of his sister's problems.

Who is actually a danger out there?  Pirates, apparently, but not just pirates.  What might give him away to these people?  Was it suspicious if someone who'd just been to the Feytower (where he had no apparent business) then went direct to the wall garrison (where he had even less)?  What are the chances they're already being watched?

"Don't dig too deep on this one," Jarek mutters to himself.  "This Glen guy is military, he knows what he's doing, you're just there to watch his back."  Still, he probably couldn't be too safe.  There aren't overly many orcish folk in the city, and plenty of people in the neighbourhood will know him at a glance no matter what, but if someone's out there skulking after them, he can try to complicate their life.

The figure that approaches Glen on the street a short time later is draped in sturdily woven poncho and hood, hauling a bulging rucksack across his back.  The poncho hangs low enough to cover the tattoos for Kord and Obad-Hai on Jarek's arms, and whatever colour it might once have been, it has long since been overwhelmed by literal earth-tones of soil, grit, and dust.

"What do you think?" Jarek asks in a quiet rumble.  "Do I look like some vagabond who just got to town and wants to join the militia?"

Glen is waiting, appearing to be looking at nothing in particular but actually keeping a close eye for anyone who might be out of place. His face breaks into a grin at the sight of the half-orc and his outstanding disguise. He did think that the religious symbols might have helped curry favor with the vice-captain, but it was probably better not to have visibly identifying marks like tattoos showing on the way in. "Yes! Absolutely. I've seen folks looking just like that come into camp to enlist. Nice work. I doubt anyone will give you a second glance."

Satisfied that they merely look like a recruit and a soldier having a chat, he speaks freely but not loudly. "We're going to meet my vice-captain, a human woman named Dolores Imokina. She's a paladin of Pelor and a good friend. I want to give her an update on our mission and I want to ask her about any new criminal activity outside the city, on my usual route through the Silverwoods." He looks directly into Jarek's eyes, confident and assured. "We don't need to keep anything from her. I would trust her with my own life and the lives of those I love most." He claps Jarek on the shoulder with a smile. "It'll be a breeze."

"Ready to head inside?"

Jarek hesitates at Glen's torrent of faith in this Dolores person.  Paladins are usually good folks, and Pelor in particular fits the shining knight out of fables, but he's been twisting himself towards suspicion since they got the job.  He chews his tongue for a second before resolving not to object.  At least not right away.  Glen knows what he's doing, and Jarek can make his own judgment soon enough.

"Well, if we've got Laerdya's trust and this paladin has yours, let's be on with it, eh?"  He follows the elf's lead inside, asking recruitish questions at intervals--how long have you been garrisoned here, what kind of trouble do you get into, is the food any good, does the uniform help you pick up--but at the same time he tries not to press too much and risk distracting Glen from their task.

Glen nods, turns, and walks into the encampment, a couple of his relatively shorter steps ahead of Jarek’s longer stride.

As they walk, they pass all manner of folks. Some are wearing plate mail shined to a mirror sheen; others simple tunics. Even though they pass without acknowledgment from most of the other people, Glen’s gait is easy and confident. He clearly feels at home here, among the recruits and soldiers. Moreover, they could be talking about anything from idle chit-chat to complicated philosophies on the interactions of people, nature, and the gods and Glen wouldn’t mind. He has a preternatural sense of direction, to the point that he navigates the winding halls and staircases in the city wall effortlessly.

Glen responds enthusiastically to Jarek the recruit’s excellent cover questions - recruits get into all kinds of trouble, but the higher-ups usually don’t mind as long as you don’t catch the ire of someone important; the food is pretty good, actually, especially if you aren’t picky (which Glen isn’t, after years on the trail in the forest); everybody loves seeing a soldier in uniform - and, before he realizes it, they’re at the door of Eighth Division Vice Captain Dolores Imokina. Glen gives two firm knocks and pushes the door open. “Ma’am?”

Glen pushes the door open to reveal a very chaotic office. The office is a mess of books and papers which seems to be at about the same level it was when he last visited. At least it seems like she is fighting the red tape to a stalemate, Glen thinks cheerily. Glen carefully picks his way over to stand in front of the desk.

On the other side of the desk is a young human woman in her mid-twenties. Her dark hair is carefully curled, and freckles adorn her dark velvet skin. Her gear is well-made; not expensive, but not cheap. Jarek can tell right away that she has worked to get where she is - if she was just there because she knew folks in high places, they’d have just stuck her in a higher rank rather than making her earn her way up through vice-captain.

Glen smiles at her, saluting smartly by clapping his fist over his heart.. “Made any progress on the paperwork, ma’am?”

Dolores returns both salute and smile, shaking her head ruefully at the question. "I'm drowning in it. You'd think I'd have made a bit of progress by now, but it comes in as fast as I can deal with it."

Noticing Jarek, her smile shifts into something more polite and less casual; she stands to shake his hand. "Greetings. Dolores Imokina, Paladin of Pelor, Vice-Captain of the Eight Division, she of the Brilight Army. To what do I owe the honor?"

After thinking twice, Jarek doesn't try to salute, but he does pull back his hood when they enter the battlefield office.

"Ah, I, ha--the honour is mine, I'm sure, captain," Jarek says as he quickly shakes. "Jarek Riptide, he of the Sylvan District." The tiniest extra stress on 'sylvan' and the twitch around his eyes make it a fraction of a joke, a pre-emptive defence against civilised judgment, more out of instinct than anything. "I'm just backing up Glen"--was that his full name, should he have used a rank?--"as we're both on the same job right now. He's spoken glowingly of you, though. I hope we're not interrupting anything urgent."

"The same job?" Dolores' manner sharpens instantly and she nods. "Ah! You're working this Siannodel thing? Please, please, sit down. Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Riptide? I can put the kettle on. And, no, no, you're not interrupting anything more urgent than this. I know full well how vital the Lady Laerdya is to the functioning of the city. Glen, were you able to meet with her, then?"

"Yes, ma'am, we were." Glen sits down, nodding to Jarek in case he isn't sure whether it's actually okay to sit. “If you have some coffee already made, I'd gladly have some, but you don't have to brew any on my account.” Glen's demeanor is friendly and easy, but he still sits up straight, punctuating almost every pause with a 'ma'am.’ It's readily apparent how much he admires the vice-captain.

“Yes, the same job. Jarek and I - and six others, in fact.” He thinks a moment. “Let's see - a paladin of Yondalla, a singer, a warlock, a sailor, a cleric, and Jarek’s sister, an…” he looks over at Jarek. “...animal researcher, I think?”

His face turns quite serious. “We're tasked with recovering Ms. Siannodel's daughter, Gwynnestri, who has been kidnapped and is being held ransom for an impossible sum of money.”

Dolores is pouring a round of coffee for the three of them when his last words hit home and she nearly spills the kettle in her whip around to face him. Her eyes are wide; not alarmed, but more than a little surprised. "Laerdya Siannodel's daughter has been kidnapped? Sun above, when? Where? Who? And she wants a strike team instead of the full city guard on it?"

"I don't know the details so far myself, but I gather Laerdya's already tried the big team effort and been frustrated," says Jarek.  "So we're helping her try something subtle that the kidnappers won't be expecting.  Honestly, it's a credit to you that Glen wanted to come talk to you openly about it.  Luther Rivvers has been clear about just how many kinds of catastrophic consequences there could be if we take one wrong step in this scheme."

It's a gamble, dropping the commissioner's name like that when he's got no idea what the politics might be between the tower and the wall, but Jarek hopes that the captain will take it as reassurance that they're not just a bunch of vigilante madfolk.

"And, uh," he adds as an aside to Glen, "you'd have to ask her about specifics, but Thimb's sort of a... farm alchemist?  Natural reagent theorist?"  Dissatisfied with both of these answers (which he has constructed out of overheard phrases) he looks back to the captain.  "We--our family runs the chimera ranch.  You've probably heard about it."

"But anyway, why we're really here is just to ask what you've heard about the--well, Glen can probably phrase it better." With exacting care in where he steps among the papers, Jarek tries to shift back to the side a bit, in case he needs to stop someone at the door.

Dolores nods slowly and notices his subtle movements. "There's a bar for the door, just there," she says with a gesture, noting a wooden bar propped in a nearby corner that will fit in the slots. "Held over from when they thought we might have to conduct siege battles at the wall; now it's just useful for keeping people from running in and out of my office when I need to think. Do you mind barring the door now? Thank you."

Setting out their coffee cups on her desk, she runs a hand over her eyes and tries to assimilate all this. "If Luther Rivvers wants discretion on this, then I assume he knows what he's doing. But gods above, I'd assemble the city guard or even the army itself and go after her with numbers. Anyone targeting Siannodel's daughter is practically committing an act of terrorism right now. People are sick and desperate, and distracting the lady is an act of unfathomable cruelty."

She focuses her attention on Glen as directed, but pauses for just a moment as something Jarek says triggers a memory. "Riptide. Ah! You're the ones who supplied those magical snake skins that were so good at deflecting arrows? It's a shame we couldn't get more than a dozen chest pieces made from that stuff; will you be getting any more?"

The bar set, Jarek prepares to watch and learn from these two, and then the classic question comes at him. He smiles wearily and hopes it doesn't look forced. "I hope so. It's mostly down to luck and how many tails they grow in the spring, near as I reckon. But that's why we've got a wizard as sharp as my sister on it. I'll make sure to tell her you asked." Please, please, let that be the end of it for now.

Glen, having been listening thoughtfully, jumps back in. "Well, ma'am, Gwynnestri was taken about a month ago. Laerdya," he dropped the formality of calling her 'Ms. Siannodel,' since they were now talking about multiple people with the same last name, "apparently gave the city guard that long to investigate the matter, at the request of Commissioner Rivvers. Their efforts were fruitless, so she hired us to take matters into her own hands."

Glen sighs. "She hasn't been resting, so I'm sure she is at her wit's end. She suggested that we hide in the caravan that would contain the ransom and take fighting griffons magically disguised as oxen to ambush the ransom's collectors. You and I both know how dangerous the Silverwoods are, even when they aren't being populated by extra bandits and pirates and who knows what. We disabused her of the notion that plan could be successful, and instead convinced her to let us pursue our own leads." Glen waits to hear from his commander before continuing, pausing to take a sip of his coffee.

Dolores actually winces at the griffon-based plan, shaking her head and sipping on her coffee with a pained expression. "Wizards," is all she says about that, but her tone is eloquent. Then she gives Jarek an apologetic nod. "Er, the ones in the ivory tower, I mean. Not the ones dealing in practical snake-skin applications."

Sighing, she rubs at her chin and retreats into thought. "Wait, they want the ransom sent to the Silverwoods? So it was bandits who took the girl? Not another disguise job, was it?" She studies Glen with concern, recalling how similar treachery took the lives of him and his team.

"The ransom was to be delivered to the Silverwoods, yes ma'am, but this was not perpetrated by our old friends," he practically spits out the word, "in the Silverwoods. Apparently, the kidnapper was a half-orc; a pirate of some reputation and a member of a well-connected crime family. Have you heard of Korogur Redfang, ma'am?"

Her frown deepens. "Oh, sure," she says with a nod. "We get the wanted bulletins from the city guard and he's always high on the list. But you're saying a pirate demanded a ransom be sent into the Silverwoods?" She shakes her head. "That's... strange."

"Well, yes and no. On the one hand, Korogur is the kidnapper, but I believe that this entire situation has a larger and much more complicated endgame. The Redfangs are apparently a sprawling crime family; once from the Southside, they have taken their family and their operation up to the Northside. The Yondallan paladin, Father Rik Templeborn, said that although they have some legitimate business interests, most are thieves or thieves' fronts, and they have much of the city in their pockets. For instance: one high-up member of the family, name of Betreygis Redfang, a leading cleric of Olidammara, is married to the son of an elven councilman who possesses a heredity seat on the council, one Immeral Xiloscient."

Glen pauses, trying to remember the ins and outs of the long conversation they had. "If I remember correctly from what Father Templeborn told us, Xiloscient's son ran away from the Redfang family and ended up at the temple of Yondalla. Templeborn met the son there. Apparently, Templeborn assists people conceive children - and from the way she talked to him, I wouldn't be surprised if he helped Laerdya herself. But when he met Councilman Xiloscient's son, one thing led to another and Templeborn ended up fathering children with the son, using 'a more traditional method,' as I believe he put it."

Glen pauses again, to take a sip of his coffee, both to pause from explaining that absurdly complicated scenario, and to give himself a break from suddenly and unexpectedly having to talk about sex with his commander.

Dolores' eyes widen and she sits very still for a moment, just taking this in. "O...okay."

She clears her throat and looks at the door again, rechecking to see that it's been barred. "I appreciate the report, Glen. This is good to know. Thank you. Having said that--and I know you know this and I'm just being extra-unnecessarily-careful, but--please do not repeat outside this room those accusations about the honorable Councilman Immeral Xiloscient or this cleric, ah, Betreygis Redfang, you said his name was? Those are very serious charges, as I'm sure you know, and words like 'crime family' have a tendency to be tossed around carelessly to describe orcish and tiefling families who are doing nothing more than existing peacefully within Brilight's fine walls. Our responsibility to our station is to exercise care and not spread harmful and unsupported rumors."

This warning delivered--with, it must be admitted, a slight air of having been said before enough times to be rote memory--she sits back in her chair and sighs. "Probably shouldn't mention any of that about Ms. Siannodel, either," she admits with a light frown. She takes a sip of coffee to collect her thoughts. "Okay. That said. What is the plan of action here? You say you convinced her not to send you all into the Silverwoods--well done, by the way--but I'm at a loss how to tackle this one. Lot of politics here. I don't like it, Glen."

"Of course, I understand, ma'am. For what it's worth, I found Templeborn's account to be credible. He's fathered children that are intimately entwined in this matter and is deeply worried about the Redfangs finding Xiloscient's son. I don't know if it renders him any special insight, but he is of orcish descent as well. And moreover, he - like everyone else hired to do this job - was recently resurrected. He says he was murdered by the Olidammaran cleric, or the cleric’s agents.” He takes another sip of his coffee.

“Well, ma'am, we're all taking a couple of days to figure out what to do next and pursuing leads. The singer in the group apparently has political connections, so she's pursuing possible leads that way. The sailor knows the slums very well and is seeing what she can find out there. The cleric is going to the Temple of Olidammara to see what they can find out. There's a bookseller who might have some information, and a business that provides scry-proof materials as well.”

“As for me, I'm here to provide you with my first report, but also to see if there has been any new or different bandit activity in the forest. I know the bandits were emboldened after the ambush.” His eyes smolder, the hot coals of an anger that will never burn out. “Have the escorts seen any changes in attire or insignias worn by the bandits? Changes in the quality of the weapons they're carrying? More orcs than usual? That kind of thing. We were thinking that the Redfangs would have to be taking steps to secure a place for the drop-off of the ransom, near Black Dagger Peak. I was hoping you might have heard something.”

“I'm also…” he trails off, trying to think how to word that he will be meeting at midnight with a thief to devise how to break into the home of a private citizen, even if he is a pirate and an orc mafioso. “I'm meeting up with the sailor to see if there is a way for us to gather information from Betreygis Redfang's home.”

Dolores' eyes widen at this last bit and her eyebrows shoot up almost to her hairline; sitting back in her seat, she puffs her cheeks out. ".......oh."

Taking a deep breath, she picks her words with care and maintains eye contact with Glen. "Though I am your superior officer here on the wall, I cannot tell you what you may or may not do whilst this special assignment. While my preference would be for a full and complete accounting of your activities, you are correct in understanding that there are some things it would be better for me not to know about." Her fingers brush the sun symbol of Pelor which hangs from her neck as she speaks. "Please be careful out there and use your best judgment about what is appropriate behavior for a soldier. We represent the city's protection and succor, and the people look to us as examples and guides in times of hardship."

Sighing, she turns back to less fraught matters. "Regarding the latest report on bandit activity, they seem by all accounts to be in a bit of a frenzy," she observes with a frown. "We've had our first credible report of a reanimated plague victim found inside the Silverwoods, which means the plague is no longer restrained by our walls and the sea at our back. If the bandits are coming down sick with the illness, I'm unsure what will happen; the captain thinks they'll be easier to defeat, but my fear is that they may be emboldened to drastic measures."

Glen listens intently, not breaking eye contact with his commander at any point. "I understand, ma'am. Please know that whatever I do, I do in service of the mission, the city, and her people."

Meanwhile, his heart turns to ice at hearing the plague has spread beyond Brilight's walls. He takes a sip of coffee, trying to banish the though of a plagued Sariel and Enna from his mind. "Any reports of new players or different tactics, amid all the frenzy?"

She frowns and considers this at length. "Not that I've noticed from the reports, but I can discreetly ask around," she offers. "I'm not sure the soldiers would think to mention something like 'more orcs' without being asked; you know what a motley pick-and-mix the bandits so often are."

Then she pauses and frowns. "Tactics, though. I remember seeing something, hang on." She begins digging through the detritus on her desk.

Glen stands up, looking around at the various papers and objects on her desk. "What are we looking for? Maybe I can spot it."

Perception to spot whatever she's looking for wrote:Rolled a 19+4 modifier=23 total
Glen takes inventory of the entire desk. And also does Dolores' taxes.