The farther south you travel, the more the air changes — less perfume from market stalls, more dust from the road; less chatter from clustered vendors, more the rising hum of wagons queuing to enter the city. The slope of the street dips gently before leveling out near the broad avenue that feeds into the gate itself.
Ahead, you can see the stone arch of the South Gate rising above rooftops, sunlight glinting off the helms of the Purple Dragons stationed there. The line of travelers has already begun to form: merchants with laden carts, drovers on muleback, a pair of pilgrims in pale cloaks, and a handful of riders waiting to show papers before passing through.
OOC: All three of you would know that the guards on duty wear the deep-purple mantles and silver gorgets of the Purple Dragons, Cormyr’s crown-sworn soldiery. Suzail rarely posts anyone else at its main gates — no city watch here, no civilian wardens — just the king’s disciplined soldiers, spearpoints gleaming and eyes trained on the morning flow of travelers.
Closer at hand, though, the city before the gate is just as lively. There's a stablehouse with wide doors thrown open, stablehands leading horses to water as a tired-looking courier dismounts and stretches his back; a cooper rolling barrels into a wagon, muttering at a helper who seems more interested in watching the street than working; a cluster of boys running messages for coin, shouting names and destinations as they dart between carts; and a food vendor stirring a pot of morning stew over a brass brazier, the smell wafting warmly through the dust.
This is the kind of place where a courier coming in from the road might pause — either to rest his horse, adjust his gear, or gather himself if he were already on edge.
Here, no one is watching you too closely. People are busy, distracted, preoccupied with the business of starting their day. But they are also observant in the mundane ways that matter. Somewhere along this stretch — between the stablehouse, the tool shops, the open street, and the gate itself — the courier you’re seeking may have left ripples.
Arriving at the south gate, Iromae isn't sure who she ought to be looking for. The one the young woman described was tall, wiry, dark hair pulled back, and wearing a leather throat-guard. But Merienne had described a person with close cropped hair and a red scarf. Or should she be looking for the distinctive courier bag? 'Hmm, guess I could just keep an eye out for any of those,' she thinks. (Perception: 7)
"Do we just hope we run into whoever we're looking for here?" she asks the others. "Or should we maybe ask somebody?" She starts to consider her own question, looking about at the activity here near the gate. "Maybe one of the stablehands? Or that food vendor over there?"
Vorenus is distracted by all of the comings and goings, but still walks closer, hoping to spot someone who fits the description of the courier. (Perception : 5) “I think you are right, Iromae. He may have stopped here for a nice bowl of stew before heading on. That’s the first place I’d ask. We can spread out if that is unrevealing. Perhaps one of these messenger boys may have spotted him. Now, what shall our story be… I do believe that you had a valuable packet of my writings and homespun handkerchief that was dear to me.. in a packet. And someone took the wrong packet, we are here to try to track them down. Not really valuable to anyone else, but very valuable to me, you see. It has been passed down, a family heirloom. It has wiped the noses of 6 generations of ancestors, mind you! So, we must track down this courier that took the wrong package, and pronto! Let’s begin there…”. Vorenus slows and waits to hear any other suggestions to their story or any other thoughts of where to look from Iromae or Shenua, then he proceeds to walk up to the food vendor and describe the courier they are looking for and the mislaid messenger bag with manuscripts and the homespun hanky that is so near and dear to him. “Have you seen him, this man carrying such a package?”
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to.
Shenua gives a short laugh at Vorenus' story. Somehow he always manages to invent an even crazier tale than the one before.
She also keeps her mind on the task at hand, scanning the crowd for anyone who matches the descriptions the young woman at the Pale Fountain gave Iromae, or the one Merienne shared at her store. She doesn't follow Vorenus too closely — he has that part covered — but instead decides to stretch her legs a little, walking casually as if she's simply taking in the morning air.
The artificer buys an apple from the food vendor, taking small bites as she moves and stretches. Her pointed ears stay open for anything that might sound interesting: snippets of conversation, shouted names, or announcements from the messenger boys darting between carts.
Especially when she approaches the boys, she listens carefully. Are any of the names or destinations familiar? Anything that might hint at a courier traveling from the South Gate toward the Temple District, or anything matching the unusual package they're trying to trace?
The morning just beyond the South Gate is a small world unto itself — its own tide, its own rhythms, its own little hierarchy of who sees what and who actually notices it. Today, that world is alive with motion: wheels groaning under crates, guards checking papers, horses stamping dust into the air.
Iromae, unfortunately, sees none of the faces she’s hoping to catch. There are couriers, yes — half a dozen of them — but none match either description: no red scarf, no close-cropped hair, no wiry man with a pulled-back tail and a leather throat-guard. Not yet.
Still, the idea of asking around is sound. The stablehands are sharp-eyed out of necessity, and the stew vendor sees every face that comes through hungry.
Vorenus strides toward the vendor first, posture and voice slipping instantly into his newest character: a frazzled, sentimental man on a mission to reclaim six generations’ worth of nasal history. The vendor — a broad-shouldered woman with a pot of bubbling barley-and-root stew — blinks twice, trying to process the story as Vorenus gestures earnestly. When he finishes, she wipes her ladle off on a cloth and squints toward the line of wagons.
“Tall courier? Dark hair? Pulled back? Leather guard?” She shakes her head. “Not this morning. But yesterday — aye. One like that came through just after sunup. Didn’t stop to eat. You could smell road dust on him two paces away.”
She leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “Jumpiest courier I’ve seen in weeks. Looked over his shoulder every time someone walked behind him. Didn’t even water his horse — just paced, like he was waiting for someone.”
She straightens and jerks her chin toward the street. “Went that way — not to the gate. Into the city. Toward the inner stables near Tarlowe Lane.”
Shenua, drifting casually among the noise, is the one who catches something important. The messenger boys are running assignments in their usual half-chaotic chorus, but one voice stands out — a boy of maybe 11, skinny, breathless, shouting as he runs past her: “Message for Old Tarlowe! Old Tarlowe, courier office — priority from the South Gate!”
The name repeats twice more as he dodges a mule cart and breaks into a sprint up a side street. The direction matches the one the stew vendor just pointed out.
And then another piece: two stablehands arguing nearby — one says, “The wiry fellow yesterday? He near tore that poor gelding’s mouth yanking the reins. Paid for a fresh feed, though. Didn’t stay long.”
You gather up again near the corner where the vendor’s stall meets the street.
Iromae stayed back and let Vorenus put on his act and ask the food vendor about the dark-haired courier and his imaginary lost handkerchief. Once his question has been answered and others step in to provide information, she approaches the vendor herself. She slightly shakes her head, speaking in a quieter voice. "Um, you can probably see my master there is quite excitable. I'm not so sure he's got the right courier in mind though. I saw someone with close cropped hair and a red scarf. I kinda think that's who we really ought to look for. Anyone like that been about?"
Shenua's eyebrows shoot up immediately at the two new pieces of information. She finishes what's left of her apple in two hurried bites and steps up beside Vorenus and Iromae, excitement rising fast enough that she has to swallow the fruit a bit awkwardly as Iromae finishes her question.
Once they're all gathered, she lifts a clawed finger and points in the direction the messenger boy ran.
"That boy's heading toward Old Tarlowe! That's exactly where the courier went. If we follow him, he'll lead us straight in the right direction!"
Vorenus loves the bustling activity, everyone playing their role, everyone doing their own task. He stops for just a second just to appreciate it. Funny, how life changes, and perspective changes when you've nearly had your soul pulled into an extremely powerful magical artifact. Everyone is just doing their own thing, just a normal day.... oh well. Let's see how this goes.
He is delighted in the soup woman's story, adding in and encouraging further exposition with her description. "Jumpy, eh? Wouldn't water his horse? To Tarlowe Lane? I wonder what business he had, in such a hurry. Carrying the wrong package. My package! With my family's heirloom hand-ker-chief! Hrrrmmph!" He gives the meaty woman a nod and a smile, handing her an extra steel coin, thanking her for the information.
Once he hears another message being sent to that area and the word from Shenua, Vorenus nods quickly and says, "Right, after him! Let's go, the game's afoot!" No hitch in his giddyup, no hobble in his wobble, Vorenus starts heading that way to follow the messenger boy post-haste.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to.
The stew vendor’s eyes flick from Vorenus’s theatrics to Iromae’s quiet correction, and the shift in her expression is almost comical — relief that someone among you is sensible.
She leans her elbows onto the counter, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“Close-cropped hair and a red scarf? Now that I’ve seen. Not today, mind, but yesterday morning just before the tall jumpy fellow showed up.”
She nods toward the gate. “Came through calm as you please. Not a courier — no horse, no messenger’s satchel. Walked in on foot. Looked local. Scarves don’t mean much this time of year, but his was a bright red thing. Hard to miss.”
She taps her ladle against the rim of her pot.
“He stopped right over there —” she gestures to a shade of wall where a half-cracked water barrel sits, “— waited a minute or two, then headed deeper into the city. Same direction as the wiry one later did, funny enough. Tarlowe Lane area.”
Her brows lift as if piecing it together for the first time. “Maybe they knew each other. Maybe they didn’t. But both went the same way.”
Just as she says this —
A blur of motion rushes past your group: the messenger boy Shenua overheard, weaving between carts like a fish darting through reeds. His small satchel bounces with every step as he barrels up the side street.
“Old Tarlowe! Priority message for Old Tarlowe!”
The name rings out again as he sprints.
Once you break from the stew vendor’s stall, the noise of the gate fades into a thrum behind you. The side street the boy took is narrower, hemmed by tall shuttered buildings that funnel sound upward. Wagons give way to handcarts; guards give way to apprentices; the smell of stew and dust gives way to parchment, ink, and the sharp tang of horse tack.
Ahead of you, the messenger boy darts around a corner and disappears into the bustle.
The street rises slightly toward a district lined with courier offices — old facades marked by carved quills, stylized scrolls, and horse-head plaques. This is where Suzail’s message routes converge: couriers swapping assignments, horses being exchanged, papers being logged, and deliveries spoken of openly when routine ... and whispered when not.
A place where comings and goings are noticed ... and remembered.
Vorenus surges forward, losing the last traces of his earlier disguise as he slips into a purposeful stride. Iromae and Shenua move beside him, the three of you crossing into the flow of courier traffic.
Somewhere up ahead, the boy calls again: “Old Tarlowe! Where are you?”
You’ve entered the right neighborhood. Eyes are watching. Stories will be circulating. And whatever passed through here yesterday — jumpy courier, red-scarfed stranger, or something stranger still — will have left a mark.
The trail is warm.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
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The farther south you travel, the more the air changes — less perfume from market stalls, more dust from the road; less chatter from clustered vendors, more the rising hum of wagons queuing to enter the city. The slope of the street dips gently before leveling out near the broad avenue that feeds into the gate itself.
Ahead, you can see the stone arch of the South Gate rising above rooftops, sunlight glinting off the helms of the Purple Dragons stationed there. The line of travelers has already begun to form: merchants with laden carts, drovers on muleback, a pair of pilgrims in pale cloaks, and a handful of riders waiting to show papers before passing through.
OOC: All three of you would know that the guards on duty wear the deep-purple mantles and silver gorgets of the Purple Dragons, Cormyr’s crown-sworn soldiery. Suzail rarely posts anyone else at its main gates — no city watch here, no civilian wardens — just the king’s disciplined soldiers, spearpoints gleaming and eyes trained on the morning flow of travelers.
Closer at hand, though, the city before the gate is just as lively. There's a stablehouse with wide doors thrown open, stablehands leading horses to water as a tired-looking courier dismounts and stretches his back; a cooper rolling barrels into a wagon, muttering at a helper who seems more interested in watching the street than working; a cluster of boys running messages for coin, shouting names and destinations as they dart between carts; and a food vendor stirring a pot of morning stew over a brass brazier, the smell wafting warmly through the dust.
This is the kind of place where a courier coming in from the road might pause — either to rest his horse, adjust his gear, or gather himself if he were already on edge.
Here, no one is watching you too closely. People are busy, distracted, preoccupied with the business of starting their day. But they are also observant in the mundane ways that matter. Somewhere along this stretch — between the stablehouse, the tool shops, the open street, and the gate itself — the courier you’re seeking may have left ripples.
Arriving at the south gate, Iromae isn't sure who she ought to be looking for. The one the young woman described was tall, wiry, dark hair pulled back, and wearing a leather throat-guard. But Merienne had described a person with close cropped hair and a red scarf. Or should she be looking for the distinctive courier bag? 'Hmm, guess I could just keep an eye out for any of those,' she thinks. (Perception: 7)
"Do we just hope we run into whoever we're looking for here?" she asks the others. "Or should we maybe ask somebody?" She starts to consider her own question, looking about at the activity here near the gate. "Maybe one of the stablehands? Or that food vendor over there?"
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi || Neital Rhessil, Wizard || Iromae Quinaea, Cleric
Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer || Bronnryn Hethgar, Cleric
Vorenus is distracted by all of the comings and goings, but still walks closer, hoping to spot someone who fits the description of the courier. (Perception : 5) “I think you are right, Iromae. He may have stopped here for a nice bowl of stew before heading on. That’s the first place I’d ask. We can spread out if that is unrevealing. Perhaps one of these messenger boys may have spotted him. Now, what shall our story be… I do believe that you had a valuable packet of my writings and homespun handkerchief that was dear to me.. in a packet. And someone took the wrong packet, we are here to try to track them down. Not really valuable to anyone else, but very valuable to me, you see. It has been passed down, a family heirloom. It has wiped the noses of 6 generations of ancestors, mind you! So, we must track down this courier that took the wrong package, and pronto! Let’s begin there…”. Vorenus slows and waits to hear any other suggestions to their story or any other thoughts of where to look from Iromae or Shenua, then he proceeds to walk up to the food vendor and describe the courier they are looking for and the mislaid messenger bag with manuscripts and the homespun hanky that is so near and dear to him. “Have you seen him, this man carrying such a package?”
A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to.
Shenua gives a short laugh at Vorenus' story. Somehow he always manages to invent an even crazier tale than the one before.
She also keeps her mind on the task at hand, scanning the crowd for anyone who matches the descriptions the young woman at the Pale Fountain gave Iromae, or the one Merienne shared at her store. She doesn't follow Vorenus too closely — he has that part covered — but instead decides to stretch her legs a little, walking casually as if she's simply taking in the morning air.
The artificer buys an apple from the food vendor, taking small bites as she moves and stretches. Her pointed ears stay open for anything that might sound interesting: snippets of conversation, shouted names, or announcements from the messenger boys darting between carts.
Especially when she approaches the boys, she listens carefully. Are any of the names or destinations familiar? Anything that might hint at a courier traveling from the South Gate toward the Temple District, or anything matching the unusual package they're trying to trace?
(Perception: 19)
Peindre l'amour, peindre la vie, pleurer en couleur ♫
Auriel | Shenua | Arren
The morning just beyond the South Gate is a small world unto itself — its own tide, its own rhythms, its own little hierarchy of who sees what and who actually notices it. Today, that world is alive with motion: wheels groaning under crates, guards checking papers, horses stamping dust into the air.
Iromae, unfortunately, sees none of the faces she’s hoping to catch. There are couriers, yes — half a dozen of them — but none match either description: no red scarf, no close-cropped hair, no wiry man with a pulled-back tail and a leather throat-guard. Not yet.
Still, the idea of asking around is sound. The stablehands are sharp-eyed out of necessity, and the stew vendor sees every face that comes through hungry.
Vorenus strides toward the vendor first, posture and voice slipping instantly into his newest character: a frazzled, sentimental man on a mission to reclaim six generations’ worth of nasal history. The vendor — a broad-shouldered woman with a pot of bubbling barley-and-root stew — blinks twice, trying to process the story as Vorenus gestures earnestly. When he finishes, she wipes her ladle off on a cloth and squints toward the line of wagons.
“Tall courier? Dark hair? Pulled back? Leather guard?” She shakes her head. “Not this morning. But yesterday — aye. One like that came through just after sunup. Didn’t stop to eat. You could smell road dust on him two paces away.”
She leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “Jumpiest courier I’ve seen in weeks. Looked over his shoulder every time someone walked behind him. Didn’t even water his horse — just paced, like he was waiting for someone.”
She straightens and jerks her chin toward the street. “Went that way — not to the gate. Into the city. Toward the inner stables near Tarlowe Lane.”
Shenua, drifting casually among the noise, is the one who catches something important. The messenger boys are running assignments in their usual half-chaotic chorus, but one voice stands out — a boy of maybe 11, skinny, breathless, shouting as he runs past her: “Message for Old Tarlowe! Old Tarlowe, courier office — priority from the South Gate!”
The name repeats twice more as he dodges a mule cart and breaks into a sprint up a side street. The direction matches the one the stew vendor just pointed out.
And then another piece: two stablehands arguing nearby — one says, “The wiry fellow yesterday? He near tore that poor gelding’s mouth yanking the reins. Paid for a fresh feed, though. Didn’t stay long.”
You gather up again near the corner where the vendor’s stall meets the street.
Iromae stayed back and let Vorenus put on his act and ask the food vendor about the dark-haired courier and his imaginary lost handkerchief. Once his question has been answered and others step in to provide information, she approaches the vendor herself. She slightly shakes her head, speaking in a quieter voice. "Um, you can probably see my master there is quite excitable. I'm not so sure he's got the right courier in mind though. I saw someone with close cropped hair and a red scarf. I kinda think that's who we really ought to look for. Anyone like that been about?"
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi || Neital Rhessil, Wizard || Iromae Quinaea, Cleric
Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer || Bronnryn Hethgar, Cleric
(ooc: Sorry for the wait!)
Shenua's eyebrows shoot up immediately at the two new pieces of information. She finishes what's left of her apple in two hurried bites and steps up beside Vorenus and Iromae, excitement rising fast enough that she has to swallow the fruit a bit awkwardly as Iromae finishes her question.
Once they're all gathered, she lifts a clawed finger and points in the direction the messenger boy ran.
"That boy's heading toward Old Tarlowe! That's exactly where the courier went. If we follow him, he'll lead us straight in the right direction!"
Peindre l'amour, peindre la vie, pleurer en couleur ♫
Auriel | Shenua | Arren
Vorenus loves the bustling activity, everyone playing their role, everyone doing their own task. He stops for just a second just to appreciate it. Funny, how life changes, and perspective changes when you've nearly had your soul pulled into an extremely powerful magical artifact. Everyone is just doing their own thing, just a normal day.... oh well. Let's see how this goes.
He is delighted in the soup woman's story, adding in and encouraging further exposition with her description. "Jumpy, eh? Wouldn't water his horse? To Tarlowe Lane? I wonder what business he had, in such a hurry. Carrying the wrong package. My package! With my family's heirloom hand-ker-chief! Hrrrmmph!" He gives the meaty woman a nod and a smile, handing her an extra steel coin, thanking her for the information.
Once he hears another message being sent to that area and the word from Shenua, Vorenus nods quickly and says, "Right, after him! Let's go, the game's afoot!" No hitch in his giddyup, no hobble in his wobble, Vorenus starts heading that way to follow the messenger boy post-haste.
A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to.
The stew vendor’s eyes flick from Vorenus’s theatrics to Iromae’s quiet correction, and the shift in her expression is almost comical — relief that someone among you is sensible.
She leans her elbows onto the counter, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“Close-cropped hair and a red scarf? Now that I’ve seen. Not today, mind, but yesterday morning just before the tall jumpy fellow showed up.”
She nods toward the gate. “Came through calm as you please. Not a courier — no horse, no messenger’s satchel. Walked in on foot. Looked local. Scarves don’t mean much this time of year, but his was a bright red thing. Hard to miss.”
She taps her ladle against the rim of her pot.
“He stopped right over there —” she gestures to a shade of wall where a half-cracked water barrel sits, “— waited a minute or two, then headed deeper into the city. Same direction as the wiry one later did, funny enough. Tarlowe Lane area.”
Her brows lift as if piecing it together for the first time. “Maybe they knew each other. Maybe they didn’t. But both went the same way.”
Just as she says this —
A blur of motion rushes past your group: the messenger boy Shenua overheard, weaving between carts like a fish darting through reeds. His small satchel bounces with every step as he barrels up the side street.
“Old Tarlowe! Priority message for Old Tarlowe!”
The name rings out again as he sprints.
Once you break from the stew vendor’s stall, the noise of the gate fades into a thrum behind you. The side street the boy took is narrower, hemmed by tall shuttered buildings that funnel sound upward. Wagons give way to handcarts; guards give way to apprentices; the smell of stew and dust gives way to parchment, ink, and the sharp tang of horse tack.
Ahead of you, the messenger boy darts around a corner and disappears into the bustle.
The street rises slightly toward a district lined with courier offices — old facades marked by carved quills, stylized scrolls, and horse-head plaques. This is where Suzail’s message routes converge: couriers swapping assignments, horses being exchanged, papers being logged, and deliveries spoken of openly when routine ... and whispered when not.
A place where comings and goings are noticed ... and remembered.
Vorenus surges forward, losing the last traces of his earlier disguise as he slips into a purposeful stride. Iromae and Shenua move beside him, the three of you crossing into the flow of courier traffic.
Somewhere up ahead, the boy calls again: “Old Tarlowe! Where are you?”
You’ve entered the right neighborhood. Eyes are watching. Stories will be circulating. And whatever passed through here yesterday — jumpy courier, red-scarfed stranger, or something stranger still — will have left a mark.
The trail is warm.