2017-04-02:The Real Deal

• Log: The Real Deal
• Cast: Gwen Whitlock, Nightburn Acklund
• Where: Adlehyde - Castle
• Date: 4/2/2017
• Summary: Ready to give up on getting some possibly sensitive information to those within the walls of Adlehyde Castle, Gwen meets an old hero of hers for the first time, who provides some handy advice, as well as a choice for her to make.

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============================<* Adlehyde - Castle *>=============================

Lying at the centre of its titular city and Kingdom, Adlehyde Castle is the seat of King Justin II. The Castle was built atop a ruined city shortly after the Day of Collapse, and is one of the oldest structures in Filgaia, outmatched only by the Sword Cathedral and Arctica Castle.

While the Castle is a medieval-style keep, its builders were clearly influenced by more modern construction techniques. The outer walls and ramparts are heavily reinforced stonework, and the keep is a dome of gold-wreathed steel, heavily armoured as if to resist attacks from above. Adlehyde soldiers are present throughout the Castle, but visitors are generally welcomed...though watched carefully.

BGM: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydSsWl0Lm4c

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

"So what's the procedure I gotta follow if I need to get some info in? Look, I know I said I didn't exactly know if it was important information or not, but I kinda wanna get it to someone who could decide."

After the madness that was yesterday (one word: 'cuccopocalypse'), it was easy for Gwen to forget her original objective of that day. It was one she had been putting off for weeks now, with her dreading the thought of tempting fate once more. To get involved in higher matters, even if they may end up to be nothing at all, is risky business, doubly so when she herself is trying to pass off as the ordinary courier, an ordinary Drifter temporarily held to one part of the continent versus another.

But still. The information Gwen had unearthed on that dig at the Sult Mines around a month or so ago seemed notable enough in her mind. To sit on it as conflict threatened to spill into Adelhyde seemed foolhardy, regardless of its actual importance.

That's why, on a pleasant spring day, Gwen is in front of the gates of Adelhyde Castle once more, her gloved right arm held fast in a makeshift sling. "I know it looks really suspicious-"

The guards, admittedly, are very polite, if firm. "It's not that you look suspicious, miss. You just... don't look like anything at all, really." The second guard, the thinner one of the duo, sighs. "Look, maybe you can write a letter? I'm sure the king'll get to your letter eventually."

The conversation goes on for a while, before Gwen politely excuses herself, shaking her head as she leads the oblivious Gulliver away, cart in hard. "Maybe it's just not worth it, Gulliver. They probably already know whatever I was gonna tell them. I mean, the Sult Ruins... what's the chance of there being anything there that military base can use that they haven't already? I've got nothing to lose by walking away, right, Gulliver?"

The grey horse just snorts, eyeing a nearby cart full of grain. "... Yeah, you're right, Gulliver! Food and drink it is."

<Pose Tracker> Nightburn Acklund has posed.

With the soldiers having thus demonstrated their incredible efficiency at barring passage to random street waifs, there seems to little recourse but to trundle away. As it so happens, the local adventurer's guild happens to rest between the castle and the nearby inn, a rather strategic location for an institution that deals frequently with both local government figures and citizenry alike. Nothing seems terribly out of order at first glance, with foot traffic in front of the building starting dwindling to the faintest of trickles as sun sets overhead. With the sun setting overhead, most have long since concluded their business and are making their way toward the local taverns for a round of ale.

It isn't terribly uncommon for one or two of those stragglers to stop and check the bulletin board on their way past, and so it is now. A drifter in his late thirties can be found stroking his chin while examining one of the wanted posters. With his back to those passing by, it's easy to overlook the tie that marks him as someone of slightly higher social standing than those who typically frequent this place. Only the scent of the cigar extending from the other hand would hint that something is slightly off here; the fragrance is that of robust spices with just faintest hint of sweetness, and a distinct deviation from the cheap cigars that can typically be found burning outside of this establishment.

The man appears to be squinting at one of the recent bounty postings. 'WANTED: Virginia Maxwell, on charges of being A PUPPY THIEF.'

"A little too close to the mark for my tastes...ought to charge this bandit for using my likeness." That likeness would be that of none other than one Nightburn Acklund, though he certainly isn't known wear his hair in the braid gracing the poster.

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

Food and drink await the merry (usually) courier, but first, the Adventurer's Guild, if only in a bid to ensure the day was not completely wasted. Gulliver mournfully allows himself to be guided away from the promise of a meal momentarily, pining with black horsey eyes and long lashes through any windows he can capture of glimpse of his Person as she disappears inside.

Inside is the scene of yet another tragedy in Gwen's day, as the clerk at the desk sighs and gestures to the bulletin boards. "With the cucco attack, people are tryin' to recover, not deliver. Give it a few days. Besides, you look like hell! Give that arm a rest, already." He sighs as the courier shuffles off, her stomach growling as she situates herself in front of the indicated boards, next to-

Someone very, very different. The clothing, the tie, the sweet smell of cigar smoke. It speaks more of a citizen who would frequent the finer establishments of the city, not a lone Drifter looking for a few job scraps. The tired looking courier's expression immediately sharpens back into focus, hearing his remark and looking to the poster in question. Running her left hand through her short pale auburn hair, Gwen peers closer at the poster, then sighs. "I was on a dig with her before that mess happened. Kind of sad I'd see her face here. Well, not... this face. She's actually a nice-looking girl, certainly not the sort you'd see in this line of..." Her words slow down as her brain begins to catch up. Wait. Just wait a minute.

Blue-grey eyes now switch to Nightburn's face, then to the face on the poster. Back, forth. "..." Her expression switches from confusion, excitement, suspicion, caution, and the glee that a puppy may find upon discovering the perfect ball. "M.. Mister A-" She claps a hand over her mouth- her right hand, specifically, slipping out of the sling in a moment of panic.

That's when the soreness and pain from slamming a metal hand over and over into hard surfaces register in her mind, overwriting her previous whirlwind of emotions. She bends over, holding her right arm with her left. "Ow-ow-ow-ow..."

<Pose Tracker> Nightburn Acklund has posed.

The man's ears do well enough to register the presence of another approaching, leaving his eyes free to finish traversing the postings. Nothing worthy of further interest or humor, at least to someone of his pay grade and interests. He would step away at this point, but it looks like the stranger intends to make conversation with him. Best to keep his eyes to the board and maintain a semblence of disinterest, lest this newcomer get the wrong idea. The topic is relevant, which is a nice change of pace to the usual conversation starters. "Hah! It's common for these posters to be pretty far off, but it sounds like someone put some effort into this one." The words are slowing. His face betrays nothing, but mentally his mouth tightens as he braces for what comes next. It only happens several times a week, after all. Wait for it...

Nightburn's poker face falters at the exclamation of pain, prompting him to finally turn toward the girl despite himself. The wince is visible once he pieces together what just happened. Come on folks, put your own well being first! "Easy there little lady, I wouldn't want your doctor coming after me. People might get the wrong idea!" Quickly flicking his eyes over the girl's appearance and attire, he judges her for the type forced into the drudge work of others in order to make ends meet. Not terribly uncommon, nor does her state of overdress surprise him. It's not uncommon for women in that line of work to not want to draw more attention to themselves than is warranted.

Deciding that she's harmless enough, he finally settles on the approach he'll take with her. "I'm afraid we might have a case of mistaken identity here. You see, I think you've got me confused for my partner here..." He shifts his free hand to the edge of his coat, pulling it away from his torso to reveal the fancy ARM strapped to the interior; a compact rifle type, easily a piece worth several years of living wages. "Mr. 'A-Ow-ow-ow-ow', or so he's called in these parts." Lowering the weapon once more, he casts a glance around...fortunately, they haven't attracted any unwanted attention, most likely due to the hour. "You sure you want to be leading a horse around with your arm in that shape? These are peaceful times and all, but one should always have a hand at the ready."

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

Indeed, there's nothing about Gwen that would surprise anyone in the Drifter line of work. A marketing mishap, perhaps, but it's one Gwen's well aware of. Some drifters can get away with less clothing, especially in this more fertile lands, but the unrelenting sun of the Badlands back out west leaves few with many options. ... That's Gwen's take on it, anyway. Be plain, have a big enough personality, and back away when things get a little too heated for your own well-being.

"'ppreciate your concern, sir," Gwen manages, carefully directing her right arm to slip inside its sling with her left. She straightens and gestures to the safely wrapped up with an easy grin. "I simply pushed myself too far yesterday. Wasn't expectin' to be swatting away a horde of cuccos." Nor deciding to boost the flight of a very enthusiastic Zed. How could such a gangly young man be so heavy? "You should've seen it. Hordes of them, invading the saloon, peckin' through doors, invading the opera house! Just me and a few other Drifters, runnin' for our lives from a bunch of damn poultry. No, sir, I'm certain this arm is just karma for somethin' I did and just forgot about, at this point." Her small recollection is interrupted by a few intermittent laughs, Gwen easing back into her laid-back persona. As if the man was simply a colorful, richly dressed stranger.

Then she re-remembers her earlier anxiety, dispelling her earlier social ease. This man. This man. THIS MAN. HE'S- 'I'm afraid we might have a case of mistaken identity here.' Immediately, Gwen's face falls, forcing her to look to the side to hide her embarrassment. This makes it easy enough for Nightburn to direct her gaze to the fantastical ARM at his side. "Ah, yes, I see," she says with a sideways grin, though her gaze lingers on the ARM. The way her eyes track across it may betray a certain general knowledge of ARMs, if just by her lack of unease and the way her expression registered surprise at the make. "My mistake~ I must've been thrown off by the smoke."

Her expression changes again when she realizes, again, that she's possibly talking to a man whose adventures inspired her as a child. Possibly. He's not said either way. But it's the closest she's ever come to seeing the man! "O-oh, uh." Gwen dumbly looks at the arm in her sling. "I suppose... that's just the state of things. Unless you're offerin' to he...lp..." Just whether she finds herself returning to her usual state, she sees the man's face and finds herself back at eight years old or so, the awkward girl whose identity hadn't evolved beyond 'burn survivor'. "Not sure I could, uh... offer much in return."

Oh god if it's really Nightburn he could help her, she just needs to get him out of here, right??? oh god it's Nightburn. "But I'd gladly accept it!" The clerk's sleepy state is awoken by Gwen's sudden exclamation, a factor the courier quickly picks up on. Oh, of course. This. Is. Nightburn Acklund. The man who _probably_ wants to not be known as _Nightburn Acklund_, right now. If he is. "If you don't mind, that is. Can't be a courier if one of my arms is about to fall off, can I?" Oh god, she's ruining it all

<Pose Tracker> Nightburn Acklund has posed.

The man's eyes cross at the mention of yesterday's feathered shennanigans, though the distracted look on his face suggests that Gwen herself isn't the immediate cause. "I had the fortune of being one town over, thankfully. The called me into town for an 'important work'...I told them that Nightburn Acklund doesn't accept contracts to exterminate a nest of encroaching fowl, no matter how good the money is. We're in a sad state if Drifters are afraid to taken on *that* kind of work." Or maybe, just maybe, it's something that you would have to experience in person to understand the true terror of. For now, this man seems adamant that he is above such work. He takes a long puff from the cigar to punctuate the thought.

Identity confirmed: present company includes one Nightburn Acklund, legendary drifter extraordinaire. And if such a legend is above that kind of work, he's almost certainly above taking time out out of his busy Celebrity Drifter Schedule to help some random doe-eyed, tongue-tied lass who is randomly accosting him with peasant errands. It goes without saying, right?

Despite that likely train of thought, the man's countenance turns contemplative at the suggestion. "Of course...", he continues, "...contracts are one thing. How I choose to spend my personal time is another. I couldn't rightly call myself a man if I turned a blind eye to the state of affairs I find in front of me." Grinning to the girl, his eyes light on the clerk and he raises a hand to pre-emptively dismiss him. No trouble, he's got this one. He inclines his head toward the door to encourage her on. "I can't spare too long, but this late in the day I figure you've only got one or two more deliveries. Courier you said, right?" He's already looking for a horse as they emerge.

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

It's easy enough to settle into the program Gwen's developed for herself. Be a touch naive, be a bit of a clown, try to get the other party to laugh a bit and reasonably enjoy your company. That way, in the future, when your ARM is inevitable revealed or you're forced to do something that may make you look far more frightening than you care to look, there's enough of a backup chorus of 'but she's a nice person!' to override the voices of fear. Or, accidentally amplify them due to the dissonance between the presented, manicured identity and the one lying underneath. It's easy because it is her, to a certain extent. It didn't come out of nowhere. But the real Gwen is the one who feels her ARM, understands its weight, accepts the scars that have allowed her to continue living.

What is *not* a part of this measured identity is the child-like glee Gwen has to hide behind a hand, specifically her left, which is clamped over her mouth. It travels into her eyes as she looks up at the older man, blue-grey eyes glinting with the sort of joy Nightburn has no doubt encountered before, many times. "Y-yes. That's something I've seen. A lot of." She takes a breath. "I suppose it'd make a lot more sense if I introduce myself?" She extends her left hand. "I'm Gwen Whitlock, sue... su..." Gwen pauses, then admits, her freckled cheeks turning pink, "... super courier..." She waves a hand. "It's okay to laugh, it's kinda silly, y'know?" Two fingers flick to the side of her head, then out. "But a sense of humor is needed for the sorts of jobs people need, right? But yer right. Let's get goin'. It's gonna get dark before long."

As they exit the Guild, Gwen motions to the mopey-looking Gulliver and the small cart behind it. "You have your partner. This is mine. His name is Gulliver. The finest horse a girl could ask for, as long as they ain't looking for smarts. He's also from Badlands stock, so he's tough." She smooths the black mane of the horse, taking pride in showing the well-kept 'partner' off to Nightburn. There are finer horses among the many gathered and traveling about, even just within sight of the two drifters gathered here, but the muscular frame underneath that speckled silver coat, the healthy legs, and the attentive head of Gulliver shows many of the earmarks of the sort of beasts that travel the tough sands of the Badlands.

Seeing a guard ride past on a fine military horse of her own, Gwen rubs the side of her neck, remembering her previous adventure. "To be honest, and this is going to sound embarrassing, but I was trying to get a message of my own to somebody within Adelhyde Castle. See, I do digs from time to time, especially right now. Unearthed some information at one that may be of interest, but, er. Not sure if it really is. From the Sult Ruins. I... can't say I intended to go there in the first place, but it sorta worked out that way, y'know?"

Nightburn. He's clearly got to be Nightburn. But what, Gwen now wonders, if he isn't? Would it be fair to trust him with such information? He dresses the part, with the fine clothing, the sweet-smelling cigars, the expensive ARM. No one could have an ARM like that. She wants him to be Nightburn.

And so, she'll give into that naivety. "I'm about ready to decide it's not worth the trouble, but. Well. I can show you what I have. If you feel it's important, and you think you could wield some influence, I'd, er, definitely owe you a favor, for whatever that's worth." Gwen looks down at her right arm, lying motionless in its sling. "I swear, it'll be worth a lot more when I'm better. I'm a gal who likes to take care of herself, y'know?"

<Pose Tracker> Nightburn Acklund has posed.

"'Super courier', eh?" The declaration is met with neither derision or encouragement. The man calling himself Nightburn regards Gwen flatly, exactly the sort of thing that would cause that embarassment to seep in further. Eventually his eye close as he shrugs with both arms, a coy smirk finding its way to his face as the cigar bearing hand creeps back over for another drag. He lets a ringlet of smoke escape his mouth before he speaks up again. "Say it with pride next time, kid. It doesn't matter who you're speaking to. It's the truth if you want it to be." His expression turns severe at that last statement, turning to regard the girl head on. "But now you've gone and said that to Nightburn Acklund. ..." Uh oh....

You better not make that man a liar when he recommends a super courier to the next person who needs one." The corner of his mouth cracks upward, the smallest act of mercy to let the girl know that she's being teased.

Taking Gwen's introduction as an invitation to approach the horse, the man calling himself Nightburn stops a few feet off to the side. Forearms rest loosely atop squatting knees as he squats down to inspect Gulliver, his torso tilting at an angle toward the end. "I've seen a few people get cheated on a Badlands horse, but he's the real deal. Pretty well fed too." He grins. "I'd have to think twice about helping someone who eats better than their horse."

Standing once more with a bit of flair, or rather demonstrating that it's possible to stand with flair by simple virtue of being Nightburn, he seems to take on a genuine interest when the courier shares her tale. "Something you found within the Salt Ruins, eh? Important enough to get a message into Aldehyde Castle?" Well, this was unexpected. It could be the usual bunk petition, or possibly something of actual interest. His cold read of the girl suggests that she's earnest enough to genuinely believe in the worth of the information, at least. "Hrm! I did offer to help with your last stop, but that's quite the doozy. Tell you what though. Let me take a look, and if I think it's important enough I'll see what I can do. I might know a few others who would be interested, depending." After all, why let Aldehyde bask in the glory of something that the Golem Hunters themselves could do better?

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

Hearing the phrase echoed back at her makes it feel even more false, like gilding on a statue that's just begun to flake off. The silent moments after Nightburn's flat statement cause Gwen to clear her throat, her blue grey eyes idly glancing towards the buildings beyond. That right shoulder occasionally budges, wanting to answer to the call of an idle scratch of the head or hand gesture.

Finally, Nightburn offers his advice, and Gwen seems to warmly regard it, nodding her head readily. "It's hard to sell something like that to someone who's had to sell his image a whole lot more." Her gaze on him grows solemn, regarding Nightburn as they step into the evening air. "To folk all around Ignas who might not've given you a first glance otherwise. It's one of the reasons I look up to you, Mr. Acklund. I, er." She looks to the side again, a bashful pink coloring her cheeks. "It's hard to admit it, since I ain't no longer a little girl, but. The fact that I'm even here is because I took those stories about you to heart. You made your own path."

It's best she not go into detail- time is short, and if she's seen him once, it's very possible she'll see him again. His words assure her of that, even if it's by word alone. Flicking her hat back on her head with a coy smile of her own, Gwen says, "Don't intend on letting a client down anytime soon. Especially if it's someone referred to me by you." A part of her sends up a pang of caution; normally such foolhardy assurances would be the sort to get her into trouble.

A coat of grey that could be called 'silver' in the right light, with black markings on the mouth, mane, and hoofs, Gulliver turns his head around to regard Nightburn with a curious gaze, hardly seeming to be the sort of horse to scare easily. He doesn't, however, turn fully, sensing the man's studious gaze. Not the sort of man he could nudge lazily food or pets, clearly. For better or worse, that's the lengths of the horse's thought process, as he instead looks towards Gwen with pleading eyes. She gives in, petting his head with long sweeps of her left hand. "I'd say he works harder than I do. I don't have to run around Ignas delivering people's packages and be limited to one person's yammerin' all day."

Turning to Nightburn as talk moves on to more serious matters, Gwen nods. "Let's go over there," she says, indicating an alleyway nearby. "I don't think it's something that'll be completely shocking, but I'd like to make sure there ain't someone lookin' in over my shoulder. If you got a place you prefer, I'll all ears."

Once they get to a spot where Gwen feels comfortable, the courier will reach into a compartment on one of the saddlebags, drawing out a folder. "Needed to get some help on these. Encryption ain't my skill. Thankfully I had a few connections."

<Pose Tracker> Nightburn Acklund has posed.

Nightburn's face creases wryly as she speaks such high praise of him. The fact that his reknown has taken hold this firmly even in the reaches of the northwestern Badlands amuses him, but speaking at length to that topic would go against the image he prefers to project. Why wallow in false modesty when an empowering message is so much more impactful? "Honestly? It's the same whether someone has heard of you or hasn't. The first step is convincing them that you believe it. The second is letting your deeds do the rest of the talking." Taking one last drag of the cigar, he discards the butt off to the side of the road with the other miscellaneous refuse. Sanitation here in Ignas is a far cry from the standards of Laila Belle. "That's all it is."

No protest is raised at the mention of the alleyway, though the man does linger for a moment outside to make sure he's unobserved before following. It's far too easy to attract a crowd with shifty behavior when you're a known entity. Using both Gulliver and a stack of barrels as a shield against visibility, the older Drifter takes the offered folder and begins to leaf through it. "Hrm...unexpected." Given he hasn't even begun reading it yet, he's more likely referring to the fact that Gwen had her hands on these to begin with. The documents are skimmed page by page to confirm how many pages have been redacted by cipher, confirming that little aside from the maps are legible to the average person. Turning away from Gwen, his intentions remain unclear for a moment until he holds a paper aloft with a beam of light shining through it. Apparently he's wealthy enough to afford a flashlight, which isn't terribly surprising at this venture. Finally, he nods. "Not a forgery, as near as I can tell. Which means..." The thought is left unfinished, the man apparently running through a number of possibilities before finally turning back around.

"This is definitely of interest, but I've got a bit of a conundrum. I happen to know some parties who might be able to break this code, but...let's just say they don't have the best of relationships with the local monarchy?" The fact that many successful Drifters have friends on both sides of the law is one of the unspoken truths of this world, and the fact that Nightburn numbers among them is likely to be completely unsurprising to one of his fans. "These friends work fast, but I'd still need...two days, let's say? I have faith in them, but I wouldn't want to set them up for failure." His face takes on a resigned look, which unfortunately suggests that's not all there is to it.

The reason is swift in coming. "The main problem is that Aldehyde's military is unlikely to let us keep the original, or make us a hard copy." He offers a small shrug of apology; celebrity or not, he's still a civillian, and that only goes so far. "And obviously it's not an option to tell them about my contacts. That leaves you at a bit of a crossroads milady, and as it's your find I'll leave it up to you."

"Do you want Aldehyde to know about this as soon as possible and leave the matter in their hands, or do you want to know what this says?"

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

When a child's healing skin and weakened heart confines them to the innter sanctuary of the heath, it leaves them open to listen to many things. Nightburn's stories weren't the only ones that Gwen managed to hear (and later, read), but they were the ones with a consistent narrative. A man who took on feat after feat, who charted out what it meant to be a Drifter. There's no telling if the stories Gwen heard were all true, but she much preferred the sorts of tales where a man took on a challenge and won. The sorts of stories about how a single man mercilessly leveled an entire town? Not so much. No happy endings, there.

The fact that Nightburn is here, in front of her, makes those stories real in a way they weren't before. The courier still seems to show some indication of realizing NIghtburn's need for distance and secrecy; when she ushes him into the alleyway, she allows him time to decide when to duck in, using those moments to instead set up a feeding bag for Gulliver to munch on as they look upon the documents.

Gwen lifts herself on some sturdy crates as Nightburn pages through the documents. "Yeah, I know, right?" She rubs her freckled face. "Got caught in the ruins when a delivery went bad. Didn't think the gal whose letter I delivered happened to be the sister of that soldier's best buddy. Had to scram quiicck." Her lips twist in a small smile, choking back a small laugh at the entire affair. "Went further in with a few other people who got caught up in things, and, well, that's the result. Managed to get some context for it from my aunt, but with her stuck in Boot Hill and me over here, well. Not much I can do about the encryption. What's clear is that military's been rummaging around those ruins, and there's only a few candidates on who it could be." Her eyes focus on the flashlight in interest, but she's quick to dismiss it as simply a benefit of him being rich. ... Almost too quick to dismiss it. "If it's a forgery, they used some nice paper for it. Feel that paper weight? That ain't that cheap stuff that yellows up in a few years. Gotta spend money to be or look that legit. It ain't gonna just crumble into dust just by being in a cave, barring any mold."

Nightburn's words cause her to wince. "... Please tell me they ain't Gebler or Aveh. Not that they're the worst folk in existence, but the military force might be also workin' with them as well. Could throw us both into trouble." The thumb and index finger of her gloved right hand feel at her earring as Gwen ponders over the man's next words. "I appreciate you leavin' me the choice, Mr. Acklund. As well as tellin' me the consequences." She lets out a low sigh. "The fact that I'm doin' this at all is because I ain't been too happy with Aveh throwin' its weight like this. If whatever that military force finds in those ruins means something like a gear or ARM that could spell trouble for everyone, and assumin' they're one of the forces allied with Aveh like my auntie's supposin', I'd really like to make sure a war doesn't break out. Adelhyde's a nice country, and it's the one most likely, I'm thinkin', to do something with the info. However." She muses further. "Pardon me thinkin' aloud, Mr. Acklund. Ignorance is bliss, as they say, but I like knowin' what the hell's going on over there. So yeah, let's do this."

<Pose Tracker> Nightburn Acklund has posed.

When asked whether he has contacts within Gebler or Aveh, Nightburn guffaws with amusement. "No one involved with this three way stalemate, I promise you. Playing favorites in this conflict is bad for business...and your health." Whether those parties might have an interest in influencing the outcome (or duration) of that conflict is left unsaid, but it's beside the point. After all, Mr. Nightburn left the decision on what will be done with this hard copy to Gwen, so unless he bolts off with it or has a photographic memory, she has a reasonable assurance that she controls the fate of this information.

~~Interlude~~

It's certainly a good thing that digital imaging technology hasn't been invented in this day and age. Otherwise, Nightburn might have been able to snag a makeshift copy of those documents for his own purposes while fiddling with what passes for a flashlight. It's also a good thing that denizens of Ignas lack long range wireless communication that can relay pictures to other continents within the span of an hour. The implications of that technology would be downright *scary* in the hands of a covert agent.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

---

Nightburn studies the freckled lass patiently while she renders her decision, doing nothing to hurry her along. He is content with ensuring that she knows that the decision is important, and that it is hers alone. He nods gravely once she's made up her mind. "Alright then. We'll meet back at in this alleyway two days from now. Same time of day, just to keep things simple. We'll go over what I've been able to learn, and then pay Castle Aldehyde a visit. Just so things are clear...I can get you through the door, but this is your show afterwards." His hand apparently needing something to occupy itself with in the absence of a cigar, two fingers lightly tap against the side of his head as he thinks the scenario through. Ever the businessman, he's apparently trying to make sure that there are no loose ends left when the two part ways.

"A few other things. One, consider whether you want to be held for questioning. If you stay inside long enough for them to read it, you might be held for an indeterminate period of time. It's up to you whether that presents a risk or not. Two, once you leave those doors, pretend that delivery never happened. If anyone asks me, this was a discreet letter from the mistress of a guard I owed a favor to." Turning his head to the side with feigned nonchalance, his lower lip juts out to accomapany an over-exaggerated shrug. Who's to say that this hasn't actually happened before?

"Remember what I said, intervening in a war brings trouble. Good on you for putting your people first, but be discreet. The eyes and ears of your enemies are always closer than you think." Sage advice, indeed. Having seemingly run out of details to mother the courier with, the Drifter slips the documents back into the folder and slips it back into his coat. He doesn't actually *need* the documents at this point, but explaining such would solicit far too many questions. It gives him a chance to ensure a better quality digitization, besides. He'll beckon back toward the entrance of the alleyway. "If that's settled, it's best that I be making myself scarce. I have faith in my contacts, but two days is a tall order even without any lateness on my part. Does that about cover it?"

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

Gwen dips her head slowly, acknowledging Nightburn's statement. "Alright. I mean, I wouldn't think badly of you just for having contacts there. As for playing favorites..." She chuckles. "Pardon the comparison, but you're soundin' just like my auntie, but she was a tough as nails Drifter too. The advice is solid, all the same." Looking out towards the traffic passing just beyond the confines of the alleyway, Gwen runs her hands through the short hide of Gulliver's back. "In the end, we're Drifters. Our concerns ain't theirs. If Adlehyde was the one that got a bug up its ass and started picking on other countries, I'd probably be goin' someplace else with this info. The best sort of landscape I can wish for is a neutral one. No wars, no matter how justified. Drifters ain't built for wars."

Which probably is just preaching to the choir, but Gwen seems to trust Nightburn's advice. Whether that's due to bias, his charisma, or how it holds up is hard to say, as the expression on the courier's face remains sober as long as she thinks on this particular subject.

Nodding as Nightburn warns about what possibly may follow, Gwen tilts her head to the side and throws a wide, sunny grin. "Thanks. I appreciate it, Mr. Acklund. It was a pleasure meetin' you, regardless of whether it turned out I had a favor to ask or not. Guess I'll be owin' you a favor in the future. Not that you really have to hold me to that in order to get anything done. Having fans has its benefits, wouldn't you say?" She holds up a finger. "Nothing involving politics, of course," she says, with a light-hearted wink, "this deal here is an instance of me breaking a personal rule of mine. And if they question me..." She sighs playfully, holding a gloved hand to her forehead. "I'll just have to suffer for it, won't I? But it's not like they don't know I've been tryin' to get in here before. Your tracks'll be covered."

'The eyes and ears of your enemy may be closer than you think.' There's almost an innocent cast to Gwen's face as she ponders over the notion. A drifter may have dangers and obstacles, but Gwen, perhaps, never considered the concept of 'enemies', much like many Drifters used to the freelance lifestyle it carries with it. "Never had to deal with an enemy longer than the time it took to deliver something," Gwen admits sheepishly. "I'll keep it in mind. But yeah. I figure, if we meet in two days and you got nothing, just give me an autograph and you'll have your cover." She chuckles and raises a hand in a slow, casual wave. "Anyway. I best be headin' off myself. Maybe, after all of this is done with, we'll just find out everyone already knows all this, and nothing'll come out of it. Take care, Mr. Acklund."

<Pose Tracker> Nightburn Acklund has posed.

The elder Drifter half turns his head to give Gwen an amused glance -- and a raised eyebrow -- from over his shoulder. "Who's to say that I don't have contacts with them? I only said that it wasn't one of them *this* time..." Fans like it when you keep them guessing. In his experience, among the worst things that you can do is pull back the veil and replace the magic of the mystery with cold, boring reality. In his particular case, it would be the *very* worst thing he could so, but that's another story entirely.

Turning his head back to the road in front of them, now scarcely illuminated by the setting sun that marked their initial meeting, the road has all but emptied. Enough so that he can still keep the banter mildly related to the earlier topics. "Unfortunately, the people in charge don't pay claims of neutrality much heed right after a Drifter has just finished providing their foe a solid favor. And some of them have long memories."

At the talk of favors, the Drifter makes a show of sighing with head shaking exhasparation. "If everyone made good on the favors they owed me, I'm pretty sure I'd crush this continent's economy. You just pass the good deed onto another and we'll consider it even. If that other happens to be me in the near term, hey, can't stop ya." Offering Gulliver a gentle pat near the saddlebags, with the care of one who has dodged the obligatory kick of an unfamiliar horse in his younger years, Nightburn adjusts his tie before offering Gwen a salute. "Regardless of what happens, it'll give a friend of mine something to do. She likes ciphers as it so happens. Doesn't stop her from complaining, but you learn to read between the lines after awhile."

Turning his back to the horse and courier Duo, Nightburn raises a final hand in farewell before walking off into the opposite distance. As it turns out, an autographed picture has already been slipped into Gulliver's saddle bag. The obvious conclusion is that he keeps a few of them in his pocket for occasions like these. Apparently it was a simple enough ask that he simply paid it forward!