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Tranquil Waters: The Lead Crown Ch 7.2, Fallen Idols

Despite Friar Arlowe's knowledge that time was of the essence he still couldn't help but feel relieved that the group decided to spend a few extra days in town. Truth be told, the Monk was not particularly worried about a random Doberman seeking out his brother-- in a worst case scenario Brody could always stay in Vallara while everyone else made their way back to Newport. What the Raccoon Dog WAS worried about was his son... and Cruffington was decidedly not yet done healing.

True, it was only another three or four days, but Arlowe knew it would still make a world of difference in the case of mending. He regretted that Dr. Brownell had left, but at least before doing so she had provided him a collection of unguents and tonics for Cruff. Already the young man had been making great headway and improvement, and the Monk was certain that the group would be properly ready for travel when that time came. He leaned back in the living room's arm chair and let out a deep breath.

It seemed strange to him that Brody waited until after the sun started setting before going out to find his brother; from what the Doberman had said it seemed like the matter was much more pressing than to have delayed so long but, as was the way with those who grew up on the street, few things made sense if you were on the outside-- Arlowe had begun life in poverty, so knew that well. Not everyone was taking it in such a relaxed manner, however.

Tobias was also seated in the living room, but he fidgeted, rotating the end of his broken horn in his hands endlessly. "I know he's with Sir Umberto... but that still doesn't explain why he is going alone. I mean... doesn't he trust us?"

Friar Arlowe looked to the Prong Horn, and folded his paws in his lap as he sat up to address the scholar. "Perhaps... or perhaps not... but he knows his brother better than we do, so at this point we will have to trust HIM."

Shrugging, Tobias continued to busy his hands with the endless fumbling of the sundered bone. "He could have taken someone else with him... in case his brother turns out to be the one that shouldn't be trusted. Can't say I'd have the heart to feel positively inclined toward criminals... well... not MOST of them, anyway... I mean, any man worth his salt as a scholar needs to have at least ONE contact in any given profession and--"

The Raccoon Dog smiled patiently, "You ARE quite concerned, aren't you, Mr. Severna?"

The Prong Horn paused, "Is it that obvious?"

The Monk chuckled warmly, "I have noticed the more stressful the occasion the more you do tend to ramble."

Tobias' rotating of his broken horn came to an end, "I was rambling?"

Arlowe nodded, still smiling, "Just a little."

The scholar took a deep breath as he looked down to what had once adorned his brow, "I do apologize, Friar Arlowe... I've had many things on my mind as of late... and one less thing on my head."

The Monk nodded, leaning forward. "I am not licensed by the Church for confessionals, my friend... but that does not mean I cannot provide a willful and nonjudgmental ear if there is anything you wish to discuss."

Tobias remained quiet for a moment, thumb absently running across the jagged break at the bottom of the snapped horn. "I suppose, more than anything else, it is a matter of--"

Their discussion was interrupted by a loud bang from the second floor, followed by a rhythmic thumping. Friar Arlowe didn't miss the way the scholar's ears reddened and how he looked anywhere but toward the ceiling. The Monk also realized that Tobias was probably not incorrect about what he likely assumed was happening in the bedroom above them. In the end, the Prong Horn simply slunk down in his seat, "And, there they go again..."

The Raccoon Dog chuckled, "One cannot blame lovers for expressing their commitment to one another in ways beyond words alone."

The Prong Horn mumbled something in response and, although the Monk missed the first part of it, he was fairly certain the last few words had something to do with, "and they probably WOULD-- several times a day, if given the chance."

* * * * * *

Sir Umberto looked down at the small stiletto Brody had offered him. The Doberman did not seem entirely pleased with his rejection of the item. "You don't have to USE it... just stick it in your boot or something."

The Templar snorted, pushing it away a second time. "I already have a sword. Besides... small blades are the tools of assassins."

He was surprised when Brody seemed to take offense at the statement. The Dog scowled, "Not everyone can wield a claymore, you know."

"Broadsword."

The correction didn't seem to help. "Whatever. Just take it."

In order to keep the peace, the Templar did just that, and stuck the sheathed blade into his belt. "He is YOUR brother... why should we be worried about going armed?"

Brody gave him a lackluster glance, "If you weren't worried then you wouldn't have insisted on coming along... and don't put it there... stow it somewhere it's not visible."

The suggestion caught the Wolverine by surprise. "Hide it? Why?"

The Doberman let out an exasperated sigh, "So they have to search you to FIND it."

It seemed foolish to Sir Umberto, but he complied yet again, moving it rest against one of the inside straps of his chest plate. "If they are going to search us for weapons, why bother hiding them?"

Brody came to a halt in the alley they were traveling through before turning back to look at the Templar as if he were a silly pup. "Because they are expecting to FIND weapons... if they search you and don't find anything either they'll keep searching you or they'll start trying to guess what you have planned."

Sir Umberto frowned, "So... you earn their trust by proving that you are untrustworthy? That makes no sense."

The Doberman smirked, taking the stiletto out from within the Wolverine's armor before stepping up close and sliding his paw down the Templar's trousers, slipping the sheathed weapon between his groin and thigh. "It makes perfect sense. There... a sheath like that belongs between your legs, Sir."

The Wolverine bit his tongue, letting a scowl chase away any indication that his body had of blushing, or something equally unacceptable. He managed a low toned growl. "I still do not like this, Brody."

The Dog was about to respond with a suitable quip but, suddenly, two men stepped into view at the end of the alley. The Curr on the left was missing his right ear and had a series of scars along the same side of his face; the Human on the right was much less marked and wore a fine traveling cloak over some ratty, threadbare, but upper-class style clothing. It was the Human who spoke. "Brody, huh?"

The Curr glanced his way before speaking aside to the Human, "Well... 'e looks like th' boss, dunnee?"

Umberto saw the Doberman's tail nub begin to wag, "Bartholomeu? He's really alive? He's here? In Vallara?"

The Human smirked, "Perhaps."

The torn-apart Dog took a step closer toward Brody, looking him up and down, "This's 'im... ain't it? Th' other one called 'im Brody, roit?"

The (somewhat) well-dressed man nodded, "Yes... although our employer did acknowledge that only his brother would remember the name of--"

Brody spoke over him. "Church Street Warrens."

The Human nodded, a carefully concealed Ilyse accent suddenly making itself known. "My name is Mortdecai, and this is my associate Horace."

Sir Umberto crossed his arms over his chest, "Pretty formal for a street gang."

Mortdecai smiled, but it didn't seem good natured. "While we're on the subject of formalities, you will have to be searched before we bring you to our employer... I'm sure you understand."

Brody glanced back at the Wolverine, "Told you."