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?”

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)

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?" 

(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!"

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.  

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.

"Damn," Shenua whispers between breaths, "that boy is fast." The run has her nearly panting, and she adds, "...and I'm not used to running this much!”

Even so, the turquoise-haired tiefling pushes herself to keep the boy in sight — never losing him, but never closing the distance enough for him to notice he's being followed.

If possible, Shenua looks for a safe spot where they can watch the boy meet the recipient without being seen themselves. She also scans the surroundings carefully, trying to notice whether anyone else might be paying too much attention to the exchange. (Perception: nat20, total 21)

Iromae is thrilled to hear that the red-scarved man had gone the same way as the tall jumpy one Vorenus had rushed after. "Thank you so much," she says sincerely to the food vendor. "I've got to run."  She hurried to catch up with the others. 

She too is a little winded, as she agrees with Shenua. "You aren't kidding." As they seemed to approach Tarlow Lane, her attention was not so much on the messenger boy but on seeing if there were someone about that might have been here yesterday. And might be willing to chat about those who had passed through.  Probably not someone directly tied to the messages themselves, but in a position to watch and see.  Maybe a maidservant, only there to tidy up. Or someone handling the stables.  (Perception: 15)

Iromae doesn't let herself lose sight of her two friends. But she meanders about a bit, trying to find someone to chat with. 

Vorenus is breathing a little heavy, he slows a bit to catch his wind.  "We're onto something.  I can sense it... just can't see it."  He looks over at Iromae and gets distracted, just for a moment.  A faint smile comes to his face, he looks down, then up, then rapidly keeps looking, scanning the many faces, trying to stay focused.  C'mon man.  Remember what you're doing.  Don't get distracted by her pretty shape..  He shakes his head, then keeps looking and listening, looking for a clue.  

Perception : 9

The messenger boy is fast — but he’s running a route he knows well, not trying to shake a tail.

Shenua’s instincts serve her perfectly.

Shenua:

With practiced ease, you keep just enough distance to blend into the rhythm of the street. When the boy darts down a narrower cut between two courier houses, you spot it instantly: a recessed doorway half-hidden by a hanging sign carved like a running horse. From there, you have a clear sightline without standing out.

The boy skids to a stop at a low, wide-fronted building with peeling paint and a carved lintel that reads TARLOWE & SONS — COURIERS.

He doesn’t knock. He knows this place. Slips straight inside.

A moment later, a door opens just enough for a hand to emerge — thick fingers, ink-stained, a signet ring bearing a worn quill crest. The boy passes over the message. No pleasantries. No delay.

But you catch something else.

Across the street, half in shadow beneath a projecting balcony, a man pauses in his work of tightening a saddle strap. He isn’t watching the boy openly — but his attention sharpens the instant the message changes hands. His eyes flick to the office door, then away again, casual as you please.

That man was not there a moment ago.

And further down the lane — barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it — you spot a second figure leaning in the doorway of a closed scribener’s shop. Hood up. Still. Waiting.

This isn’t a casual delivery.

Iromae:

While Shenua tracks the exchange, your eyes move differently — less focused on motion, more on memory. And here, the street remembers.

You spot a woman sweeping the stoop of a courier house two doors down, her movements slow and methodical. She’s been here a while — long enough to have opinions. Nearby, a stablehand leads a horse out to be watered, the animal still restless despite the early hour.

Both have the look of people who saw something yesterday and have already told themselves it wasn’t important. Yet.

You also notice something subtle but telling: scuffed cobbles near the Tarlowe office, where someone paced back and forth. Fresh yesterday. Faded now. But still there if you know how to look.

Vorenus:

You don’t see what Shenua sees. You don’t catch the small details Iromae does. But you feel it.

This lane hums with restrained tension — the kind that comes not from panic, but from anticipation. Too many people watching without appearing to watch. Too many pauses that don’t quite line up.

This is not just a courier office on a busy morning. This is a crossroads.

The moment crystallizes:

The messenger boy reappears, already jogging back the way he came, job done. The office door closes firmly behind him.

The man with the saddle strap finishes his work and leads the horse away — toward the back alley behind the courier houses.

The hooded figure across the lane remains where they are, still waiting.

As soon as Shenua spots the half-hidden doorway beneath the sign of the running horse, she slows abruptly, catching Iromae and Vorenus with a light touch and a quick gesture toward it. A silent suggestion to stop and take cover.

From there, she watches the street for a breath, then subtly points first toward the man tightening the saddle strap, and then toward the hooded figure farther down the lane.

"Could that be the one the woman at the stall mentioned?" she murmurs. "The collector. The one who moved like someone used to armor, but not wearing it. I know… anyone can wear a hood. Still, the timing feels is just too coincidental."

Her eyes linger on the hooded figure, waiting to see if he moves, or reacts. After a moment, she suggests, "I could perhaps try to follow the man with the horse. See where that alley leads, maybe get closer without being noticed." She glances between the others. "Do you want to come? Or do you prefer to keep an eye on the hooded one? Or ask around?"

Without waiting for an answer, the tiefling starts scanning the street again, looking for another way into the same back alley. Is there a side cut, a yard ... anything that would let her approach from a different angle?

Iromae takes a moment to add in the details that Shenua pointed out. She adds her own information, "There's scuff marks on the cobbles near the Tarlowe office.  Starting to fade now, as though someone had been pacing back and forth there yesterday. Perhaps a missed delivery?"  She nods at the tiefling's comment on the hooded man. "It certainly could be him. Or the one you pointed to with the horse. They both speak of those who might intercept a package. And that is exactly what we need to find."  

She hesitates a moment as she suggests following. "You should. But there's some here that might have seen something more. You do that, while I talk to a couple of folks. We can meet..."  She glances about the square, the realizes there's no telling where Shenua's path might lead. "Well, I guess we'll have to find you." 

For her part, she hesitates just enough to give Vorenus a glance, to see what he might do.  It felt like they'd been chasing after him to this point.  But if nothing more is said she will make her way towards the woman sweeping the stoop of a different courier shop.  She will go first to ask her about their red-scarved delivery person.  

Vorenus nods and says to Shenua, "Go, follow and see what you can find out."  He then hears Iromae's observations and plans.  "If we speak to someone as a group, it is suspicious.  As much as I like to stay together with both of you if at all possible, for this issue we must split up.  Individually, someone may be more willing to share information.  I'm going to speak to the messenger boy, and then find an out-of-the-way place here to stay in the shadows and watch the doorway, see if there is anything else I can learn here."  Vorenus pauses for a tick, saying "Let's meet back here in what, say an hour?  Send a signal or a sign if you can.  Be careful!  And stick to the plan, no heroics, please."  

After that, Vorenus takes off after the messenger boy that visited Tarlowe and Sons, back into character.  

"Sonny!  Sonny boy!  Hold up a minute, I have a coin for you if you have information for me!  A courier the other day mistakenly took a package of mine with some thread and a family heirloom, a special *ahem* item that has been passed down in my family for generations.  And I think it was mistakenly delivered to a man named Tarlowe.  Can you tell me about him?  About what he is involved in perhaps?  And if it would be possible to track down this package and retrieve it?  What sort of things do you deliver and where might they end up, do you know?"  Couriers see and hear much, he wants to see what the boy knows... he holds a steel coin out as an offering if the boy will volunteer what he knows.  

The half-hidden doorway beneath the running-horse sign swallows you just enough to blur your outlines. From the street, you’re a knot of bodies pausing mid-errand — nothing more ... you hope.

Shenua, your eyes trace the lane with surgical precision. The man with the horse is already moving — leading the animal with practiced ease toward a narrow cut between two buildings. You spot it immediately: a service alley barely wide enough for a cart, half-shadowed even in full daylight. There’s a second access point too: a low yard gate farther down the street, its latch tied with twine instead of locked. Both would lead to the same back stretch behind the courier houses.

As you’re mapping routes, the hooded figure shifts for the first time. Not leaving. Not approaching. Just adjusting position to keep the Tarlowe & Sons door in view.

That stillness is deliberate.

When you peel away — quiet, unremarkable, just another passerby — you do so cleanly. The man with the horse doesn’t look back. He turns into the alley, boots crunching softly on gravel and old straw.

You slip after him, choosing your angle.

Iromae, you step toward the woman sweeping the stoop, your approach gentle, your posture open. She gives you a sideways glance — measuring, wary — but doesn’t stop sweeping.

At your mention of a red scarf, her broom hesitates. “Yesterday?” she asks, not looking at you. “Aye. I remember him.” She taps ash from the broom’s bristles against the stone. “Didn’t belong here. Too clean. Watched the courier office like he was waiting for a play to start. Red scarf tucked into his collar. Kept touching it when he thought no one was looking.”

Her eyes finally lift to meet yours sharp and curious. “He left before the courier came out. Didn’t see them speak. But when the jumpy one arrived later? That man was already gone.”

She snorts softly. “Funny how people miss each other by minutes and still change the whole day.”

She resumes sweeping, conversation clearly at an end. You got what she was willing to give. Was it enough?

Vorenus, the messenger boy slows when he hears the promise of coin. He turns, eyes flicking immediately to your hand.

At your story — handkerchiefs, heirlooms, and lost packages — he nods along eagerly. Too eagerly.

“Old Tarlowe?” he asks, a cunning beyond his years appearing. “Oh, everyone knows Old Tarlowe. Not for what he delivers, mind.”

He takes the proffered coin with a practiced motion and lowers his voice.

“Yesterday was odd. There was a lot of whispering after that parcel came through. People saying it wasn’t logged right away. That someone came with papers, but no seal anyone recognized. I didn’t carry that one, but I heard about it.”

He leans closer. “They say Tarlowe doesn’t keep things like that in his office. He passes them along quiet-like. Through the back.”

The boy jerks his chin vaguely toward the alley behind the courier houses.

“And if you’re asking where things like that end up, sometimes Temple District. Sometimes … elsewhere.” He grins, suddenly all boy again. “Depends who’s paying.”

He darts off before you can ask more, vanishing into the crowd with the ease of someone who knows when a conversation has gone far enough.

You glance back and notice the hooded figure has shifted again. Not following. Just watching the lane where Shenua disappeared.

Shenua nods to her friends, draws a short, steadying breath, and then heads toward the back alley, choosing the nearest access point — the half-shadowed service alley. The dimness and the proximity suits what she's about to do.

"An hour max. No heroics," she murmurs — a reminder more to herself than anyone else — and sets off.

She forces herself to keep moving so she doesn't lose the man with the horse, but deliberately slows her pace. Arriving too quickly would give her away. Every few steps — and at each corner — she pauses, listening before moving on. She's looking for the right place to stop: somewhere she can see or hear him without stepping into his line of sight...

"An hour?" Iromae says to Vorenus. She's pretty sure it won't take her that long, but she doesn't disagree. "And definitely no heroics."  

She walks off, talking first to the woman sweeping the stoop. She listens politely to what she has to say. "Thank you so much," she says as it seems obvious the woman has said as much as she is willing to. "My friend lost a family heirloom of his. Wrong package got picked up. I hope we can figure out what happened to it."  As she heads off she adds, "Thank you again," then moves on. 

While mulling over what she learned, she figures she has plenty of time left before the hour is up.  She heads for the stable where she had seen the stablehand watering a horse.  Assuming he's still there, she would ask him first if he had seen a red-scarved man yesterday. And then follow up with asking about the jumpy man. 

Vorenus nods and thanks the boy as he scurries off, then he turns round and heads back to where Old Tarlowe’s is located.  He finds an out of the way spot and an appropriate stone to hoist his leg up onto, starting to scratch and make like there is something there itching him to death.  As he does so, he turns and looks, glancing down any adjacent alleyway, wondering how he could access the back of Old Tarlowe’s without going through it.  

If he sees a passageway, after satisfying the troublesome itch, he will start wandering in that direction, looking to see where it leads, and if he can peer toward the back of Tarlowe’s establishment.  If not, he will meander about, then return to the crossroads and watch for any other suspicious couriers or folks waiting to receive a package.  He looks for Shenua and Iromae to return, sidling up to them and asking about results if they do.  To himself, he says “This seems to be a tough nut to crack, I don’t know that we are going to find the answer that Thestrel wants.”