2017-04-26: Three Dicks in a Wagon
- Log: Three Dicks in a Wagon
- Cast:Morgan Newkirk, Noah Hawthorne
- Where: Somewhere in Adelhyde...
- Date: April 26, 2017
- Summary: Noah retrieves something that belongs to him from Morgan Newkirk, who has a really, really big mouth.
<Pose Tracker> Morgan Newkirk has posed.
Where was Morgan? Well truth be told the fox wasn't that hard to find. A few quick inqueries at the Guild points anyone with a sharp pair of ears in the right direction. Which would be supervising and assisting in getting some of the rebuilding materials for the renovations on the Guildhouse. Just like in Kislev the Fox has taken to improving the Guildhouse first, and then expanding from there. No matter what most people thought of it.
So its near the edge of the city at a warehouse where Morgan can be easily found. Arguing with a human merchant. Well. Not quite arguing. More practicing that time honored trade of insults known at haggling.
"YOU WISH TO STARVE MY CHILDREN DO YOU NOT YOU GODS BE DAMNED BEASTMANN!" The merchant, a rotund and florid faced little man, was in full voice as him and Morgan tossed words back and forth. "I SHOULD NOT BE ABLE TO FEED MY FAMILY ON SO LITTLE!"
"Come now!" Morgan's voice not quite as loud but still of a tone to show he was enjoying a little byplay between the two. "You know how transportation fees are! And how much the carpenders shall charge! Their dozen children shall starve as well if I give you your asking price!"
<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.
It's tough to say how long Noah's been there watching, leaning back against the front-porch railing of the building just across the street. Toothpick soaked in mint oil in his mouth, he's been lazing away the minutes watching negotiations circle ceaselessly around the same points of contention without much in the way of forward progress, demonstrating amply the kind of mettle common to the people of Ignas: a fiesty lot, as true in the east as in the west, he's been gratified to find.
At length he finally levers himself up off of the rail to close the distance with that loose-rolling gait of his, a small splinter of something dangerous embedded in it. He favors the lazy grace of a slacker on most days, but he's capable of twisting that demeanor a just a quarter-turn to the right when he needs to, transmuting indolent laziness into the leonine ease of something infinitely more predatory. It's something to do with his height and physique, possibly. However the alchemy works, he turns up beside Morgan with a hand on the grip of one of the peculiar ARMs slung from crossed belts low at his hips, jaw squared and eyes lidded.
"Took care of that thing you wanted done, boss," he says, all trace of that comingled accent of his gone, replaced with rougher gravels in the local slant of roughnecks on the wrong side of town. "Half-deaf in one ear from the squealin' though, and I think one of'em put their teeth straight through the leather, but..." His smile is thin, sick. "I kinda liked it, so I won't charge you extra."
And then, as though noticing the merchant for the first time, chilly, empty hazel eyes trickle over to rest on the red-faced figure. There's a stretch of silence before he asks, "This guy givin' you trouble?"
<Pose Tracker> Morgan Newkirk has posed.
The ruddy color drains from the merchants face as Noah strolls his way up. The pitch is perfect. The delevery without peer. The effect is imeadeate and expected. A gasp of breath. Eyes wide as he fixes upon Noah. His striden voice falls to stutters after a few more moments as his eyes flicker between Morgan and the newcommer.
Morgan is nothing if not quick.
"Good good," Morgan's smile never fades as Noah saunters up. "I was wondering when you would get back. I'm glad to hear everything went well." A twitch of a smile. "...and no. I don't hink he's giving me trouble."
There is an arched eyebrow from the fox as he fixes the now sweating merchant with a singularly flinty gaze. "Are you?"
"N-no! Certinly not! J-just wrapping up the last of some negotiations! I think we had just settled on a price."
"We had!" Morgan's smile is bright and beaming as he pulls out a full contract. "Just go ahead and sign here and we'll be on our way."
The price is a good ten percent lower than what they had been working on. There is much sputtering from the merchant but eventually the papers are signed as the man stomps back towards his building, shoving workers out of the way as he goes.
Morgan can't help but twitch a smile. "I thought I'd never get out of here..." He murmurs. "...so. What do I owe you for that one?"
<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.
Noah waits until they've got some distance between them and the merchant whose day he just ruined before he drops the act, all of those hard shadows in him dissipating like dew in the full sun. "He probably still overcharged you," he points out, and that's his voice again, all velvets and satins and some peculiar twist to the syllables that doesn't seem to come from any one specific place. He lifts a hand to roll the mint-soaked toothpick in his fingertips, and then fixes the beastman beside him with one eye. "Nothing, as long as you intend to give my property back to me. Consider it settling up for the inconvenience I caused you the other day." His head does finally turn, one brow cocked upward, the question written like an etching in his eyes. "You do still have it, I hope?"
<Pose Tracker> Morgan Newkirk has posed.
"Of course he did, but that means he won't spread too many rumors about me hiring new legbreakers." Morgan replies with a smirk as he turns his bright gaze on the man at his side thats somehow morphed from hard-eyed gunslinger back to rogueish laze-about-town. Its always a marvel when he makes that sort of shift. Morgan can't quite master that sudden a change.
But everyone has their own skills.
"No, I flung it into a fire as soon as I was out of sight." A beatpause. "Of course I still have it. I couldn't have handled the puppy-dog eyes you would have shot at me if I let that thing go." A jerk of his head indicates the loaded wagon parked next to the building. "Help me get this back to the Guildhouse, and you can tell me why you have such a 'priceless cultural artifact' anyway. And why people want to hurt you badly for it."
<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.
If asked how he came by the ability to go from zero to downright menacing in no seconds flat, Noah would want to say that it's a curse he turned into a gift. He wouldn't be able to say that...but he'd want to, because it's true. Too true. And therein lies the problem.
"You'd have been lucky if puppy-dog eyes is all I'd have shot at you," he quips back, though it's all in jest. Probably. "Good, though. I need it. Today."
And then Morgan lets him know what the price of that exchange will be: returning a loaded wagon to the guildhouse. Skepticism dictates that his brows knit. "I hope by 'help me' you mean 'sit on it while Newkirk does all of the actual work.' You still can't afford my rates, foxman."
Planting a boot on the runner, he hauls himself up and into a seat beside the driver's, leaning back into the miserly backboard in search of comfort that isn't there to find. "We can talk about the what of it once we get somewhere a little bit less public. The rest of it's easy enough to explain; there's a man who thinks he knows what it is and what it can do for him, and he's wrong. He's rich enough not to have to put any effort himself into obtaining things he wants, so he's hired a goon squad to come and get it for him. I'm starting to suspect they were told to take me alive, though, which means he can't--" He pauses, retools whatever he was going to say. "Make sense of the thing without help."
Glancing sidelong at the man he's come to see, he thumbs over his shoulder at the workyard behind them. "What's with this? Are you into construction now? Going on the straight and narrow? We should have a funeral."
<Pose Tracker> Morgan Newkirk has posed.
"I will have you know that I am a compleatly legitimate businessman," Morgan drawls out as he hops up on the wagon. "Who can afford your rates I just usually choose not too." His lips twitch as he says it though, entirely unable to keep the laugh from his eyes.
Noah knows better when it comes to this fox.
"But I'm doing a favor for the Guildmaster. He asked me to pick up construction materials. Apparently he's renovating and expanding the hall. He's also old and looking to retire soon." A smirk. "I'm not suprised about the renovations. Some noble lady came by and dropped enough gella to hire the entire Aveh section of the Guild in one swoop." A beatpause. "Which of course isn't suspicious at all."
Information broker. Smuggler. Guildsman. Geohound. Morgan wears almost as many differennt masks as Noah.
Almost.
"I'll do the actual work, you keep lookout for people that want to shoot either of us. Thats the usual division of labor." He adds with a smirk as he starts the wagon on its way. There is a sigh though as Noah launches into his story, the reins in his hands flicked to keep the horses on track as he plods his way though town.
"Always did have a habbit of making new friends that did then want to kill you. But yeah, the dumb ones are always the worst to deal with. Well, unless they happen to be a mark. Then they can be a joy."
The wagon continues on, a thankful lack of bullets on the short trip. So far at least.
"Is the pretty one single? I didn't get to ask her last time before you started throwing firecrackers into a barrel full of gun toating psychopaths. Who the hell was that Baskar that got into the middle of everything too, friend of yours?"
<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.
When Morgan outlines his current business and all of the sundry reasons for it, Noah turns his head enough to look more directly at the man with the ears, his brows gradually climbing, hazel eyes probing his opposite's expression in searching assessment. The pieces are all there: in his world, one only comes to the selfless aid of the elderly when they're looking to inherit something for the trouble...at least when 'one' is the kind of 'one' that Morgan is.
"Are you angling to take over the Adventurer's Guild, Morgan Newkirk?" Incredulity stains every word.
Bringing his arms up, he rests his elbows on the back of his seat and slouches down, carefully -- not quite gingerly, but with uncommon care -- bracing the sole of his right boot against the rail to the fore of the bench seat. He looks every inch the definition of repose, but there isn't much on their route that his eyes don't take in, always wandering. Adelhyde's greener than most of the pastures he's been traveling and therefore more temperate, and he's found himself enjoying the respite from the furnace of the deserts of Ignas. The sun is out and shining brightly, but it falls over him like a bracing warmth that keeps cold from settling in his joints rather than pummeling him like an unrelenting fist, creating in him something of the cat that feels like fetching up in a puddle of the glowing stuff to take his ease for the stretch of a late afternoon.
And maybe he will, when he's finished with this errand. Better if there's a drink and a dame involved.
"Which was the pretty one?" His brow cocks, skepticism writ plainly in the crease that creates. "Marza? Hell if I know. Just some mercenary out of the Badlands. It's her crew. I gather she's the brains of the outfit, but.." He flicks a glance down at the back of one of his hands, the curl at one corner of his mouth smugly self-satisfied, an excellent thing to pair with the cocky, even arrogant sentiment that follows: "She's got a way to go before she can keep up with me."
The next question that Morgan asks sours this look a little, tarnishing the gleam of it. For no immediately apparent reason, he looks momentarily sullen. "Eh, some piece of meat they're putting on the cover of those Jack Dove books."
<Pose Tracker> Morgan Newkirk has posed.
"Not the entire Guild. Not yet at least," Morgan's reply is lazy. A smirk angled towards Noah as they continue on. "I mean it would be a pain in the ass to be leader of the entire thing. You wouldn't be able to keep track of anything. Not like you can manage things via parcel post."
He's got a point.
He's relaxed as he drives, turning the last corner before the Guildhall as he angles towards the ally next to it where is seems workers are already starting to gather. He's not in a hurry, and he trusts Noah to watch his back. Even if its only out of a sense of self preservation that he's doing it. The day is warm. The company isn't trying to kill him. All in all this is the closest he can really get to relaxing.
"Yeah, Marza." A smirk. "You know me, if they can't kill me I'm not nearly as intrested. But I'll put the feelers out, see if I can find out anything on them. Mostly because they shot at me." Which means they linked him with Noah. "...which means they likely think I'm part of whatever harebrained scheme you have going. So if they are trying to kill me I better at least get to find out why." A smirk. "I mean is the old guy's rod of power not working so he needs a new one?"
A blink then even as he starts to slow the wagon. "Wait wait wait. Those horrible gella novels that take your adventures? The ones that you make that face at whenever we pass them? That guy is the new face for them?"
And Morgan starts to laugh.
"Oh my god, are they after you. And then think he's you? Because he's on the...oh man. The amount of trouble you can cause by just existing never ceases to amaze and astound."
<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.
"You can look into it if you want to, but there's every chance they'll forget all about you once they know you don't have the...item. Collateral damage is expensive. I am all for there being more moving targets involved, though, so you can go right on ahead. Maybe if you keep Marza busy enough in the sheets she'll leave me alone long enough to do what needs doing."
The whole affair bores him terribly, obviously, his tone of voice almost absent, thoughts elsewhere -- prowling through the things that need doing vis a vis whatever mess he's tangled up in, likely as not. It's Morgan's question about the artifact that pulls him gently out of those truant thoughts, bringing his eyes back around, fingertips plucking the thin sliver of mint-soaked wood from between his lips to toss it away into the unpaved street.
"For a ceramic d--?" The bray of a mule drowns out the last of his sentence. "Pretty sure he could have another one made for a lot less than what he's paying these dipsticks to follow me across an entire continent, Morg."
And then the wagon begins to rumble to a slow halt, and what Morgan says has Noah sitting upright, leaning and outstretching one arm as though he could muffle the foxman directly. He can't, and in any case he doesn't trust putting his fingers near the man's mouth -- he needs those fingers, and between the two of them there's not much telling where either fingers OR mouth have been, so it's probably best that they do not cross the streams -- but the effort to shush him is obvious, and chased with a glance up and down the street. "Hey, that's -- you know, you're supposed to keep that to yourself." Thunderclouds, faint but real, scud across the clear plane of his forehead, brows daggered inward just enough to suggest petulant annoyance. "You've got a mouth like a sieve. Yes, him." The pause that follows initially seems destined to be every bit as full of grousing as the moment that came before it, but he remembers -- as he climbs down out of the wagon -- something amidst all of his theatrical brooding, and in the same way the vault of the heavens is split asunder by the first light of dawn, the dark look he's wearing gives way to something brighter, wholly amused. It means terrible things for someone.
"Oh, I guess that means you haven't seen the cover of the latest one. Mmm. You oughta go do that. Now can you please give me my--" *HEE-HAW* "--so that I can get back to work?"
A trio of young women passing by overhear this last part of the exchange and shoot Noah the most scandalized of all possible looks, hurrying to create some distance between themselves and the wagon.
<Pose Tracker> Morgan Newkirk has posed.
Morgan leans way back from those grasping hands. He knows where they could have been and he doesn't want any part of that. In fact he nearly tumbles off the back of the wagon as he continues to laugh. "Oh come on, Noah." Comes the wheezing reply as he fends off the other man. "Who is going to tell, the horses?" One hand fending off his friend still he starts to hop down from his side of the wagon when he realises that Noah isn't trying to stifle him with suspicious digits anymore. In fact he's not frowning anymore. Furthermore he's actually smiling.
...this imeadeatly makes him entirely too suspicious.
"...have I what?" A longer pause. "Wait why? You just suddenly got too smug for my own good!"
Which happens often.
As the ladies hussle away Morgan gives the man a suspicious look before he pulls a rather non-descrit looking pack from just behind the wooden pannel of the wagon. From the unasuming mass of leather and buckles he withdraws a familiar black box that he holds out towards the other man.
"Your p----" And a mass of sawing beings to drawn out words. "...sir."
The poor young women are already hussling off as Morgan's roving eye angles in their direction and he smirks. "...and I think you've ruined my chances with those three."
<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.
Box once more safely in his possession, he takes a peek under the lid to ensure that it's still there, then tucks it beneath one of his arms and slants his gaze first up toward Morgan, then off in the direction of the aforementioned young ladies. The look that crests into place is deeply dubious. "They were walking by on the street. Do you just..." He lifts a hand, gestures vaguely. "Spend all day calculating your odds of being able to get each and every girl you see into bed? Because if so you really need to come up with some sort of shorthand system. It's amazing to me that you get anything else done."
He spends a moment adjusting the lay of gunbelts at his hips, and flicks one last canny glance at the beastman. "Oughta do what I do, and just assume you've got perfect odds every time." With a wink and a loose, half-assed salute, he pivots on the ball of his foot and whistles his way in the other direction, off to do god only knows what with his bizarre prize.