OOC: Merry Christmas, folks!

The service alley swallows sound as readily as it swallows light. The moment Shenua steps into it, the bustle of Tarlowe Lane dulls to a distant murmur, replaced by the creak of leather, the soft clop of hooves, and the occasional drip of water from a cracked gutter above.

You pace yourself perfectly — close enough to keep the man with the horse in sight, far enough that he has no reason to look back.

He leads the animal with familiarity, not caution. This is not his first time here.

Ahead, the alley widens just enough to reveal a rear yard shared by several courier houses. Crates are stacked neatly against one wall; a tack rack hangs from another. The man halts near a side door — unmarked, weathered, and clearly used more often than the front entrances ever are.

He checks the alley once. Then again.

You have just enough time to press yourself into shadow beside a rain barrel before he reaches into his coat and raps on the door: three quick knocks, then one slower.

The door opens only a handspan. You don’t see who answers. You do hear a voice — low and controlled.

“Late,” it says.

“Not my fault,” the man replies. “Word came down this morning.”

A pause. Then: “You weren’t followed?”

“No.”

The door opens wider. The man leads the horse inside. The door closes.

You are left alone in the alley with the certainty that whatever passed through Tarlowe’s yesterday did not stop there.

And that this place — this back way — is part of a quieter route.

Iromae, the stablehand is still there, rubbing down the flank of a chestnut mare with slow, practiced strokes. He looks up when you approach, eyes wary but not unkind.

At the mention of the red scarf, he exhales sharply through his nose.

“Hard to forget,” he says. “Too clean for this street. Didn’t smell of horse or road. Stood over there —” he nods toward a post near the lane entrance, “— like he owned the place. Watched the courier offices, then left. Didn’t say a word to anyone.”

When you ask about the jumpy courier, his grip tightens on the brush.

“That one was trouble,” he mutters. “Horse spooked easy — felt it through the reins. Courier paid extra for feed but didn’t stay. Kept pacing like he was waiting on someone who never showed. Or did.”

He glances toward the alley behind the courier houses.

“They both looked the same way, in the end.”

You thank him, and he returns to his work, clearly relieved to stop talking about it.

Vorenus, you find what you’re looking for without seeming to search.

A narrow footpath cuts behind Tarlowe & Sons, barely wide enough for two men abreast, shielded by stacked crates and a leaning fence. It feeds directly into the same service yard Shenua slipped into from the other side.

Someone who knew the area would use it.

As you scratch and mutter and wander, you catch movement at the corner of your eye. The hooded figure from earlier has changed position again. They're no longer watching the front door. They're now watching the lane itself.

Watching you. Not openly. Just enough.

Then — after a heartbeat too long — the figure turns and melts into the crowd heading north. Templeward.

Vorenus turns and sees this watcher notice him, then head Templeward.  "Shit!" he instinctively crunches down, gathering his thoughts for a second.  He turns as he sees the service yard, looking for movement.  If he sees Shenua, great.  Even if not, he points his finger in a couple of directions, thinking of her and then also of Iromae, blasting out this message, "I've been spotted, one of those watchers in the courtyard, now headed toward the temple.  Meet up in the courtyard now, we need to get out of here.  They will be back to hunt and capture us!"

Giving one last glance to the service yard to see what is here, Vorenus then turns and walks calmly but with purpose back to the main courtyard, watching for Iromae and Shenua, then finding an out-of-the-way spot that he can watch for them again.  If too much time passes, he tries to send the message again, calling for a withdrawal and retreat from the area before the Temple guards arrive.  While waiting, he finds a "mole" on his forearm that he appears to examine and comment about to himself, as well as picking his teeth, finding an imaginary piece of food lodged in between his teeth that he makes a to-do about removing, while watching for his companions.

(ooc: Merry Christmas!)

Shenua is so focused on watching the scene developing a few steps away from her that Vorenus' message catches her off guard, and she gasps a bit more loudly than she would have wished. Fortunately, this happens when the man and the horse have already disappeared behind the door, and neither he nor whoever opened it should have heard her.

Concerned by the content of the magical message, she retraces her steps back — still careful, if perhaps more rushed than before — and finds herself back on the main street, where she looks for Iromae and Vorenus. Seeing the latter first, she walks up to him.

"What happened? Why do you say they are going to capture us!?"

She waits for him to respond and then adds, "Well, in any case, I think there's nothing else for us to see here. Clearly there is some kind of network happening. The man entered a side door, and it was very clear he's used that route many times before. It seems some packages do not stop here at Tarlowe and Sons and continue on using this secret route."

The tiefling stops and paces a little, then says, "So the hooded man went Templeward? Perhaps that's where this secret route leads as well. Should we continue there?"

Having thanked the stablehand, Iromae is then surprised by Vorenus' words. Once she hears the message, she quickly makes her way back to join the others.  "Not sure I learned much. Both the man with the red scarf and the jumpy one headed off the same way. It's strange though. We're looking for what the red-scarved man was carrying. But sounds like he waited here for someone that never came. Could his bag have been intercepted before this point even?"  If that's the case, she's worried that they might have missed their target. 

Given Vorenus' urgency though, she figures they need to get moving. "Agree with Shenua, seems heading Templeward is about our only option. Let's move." 

OOC: I'm going to wait until at least Twombley replies to continue to make sure I'm not assuming his answer.

"Yes, let's head that way, to the temple.  He just... I have the feeling that he was going to report to someone.  Perhaps the guard.  Perhaps the masked one... I don't know.  I just have a feeling.  Let's head that way, but try to keep out of sight if anyone is approaching from that direction.  Keep an eye open for spots to hide.  Okay?  Let's go."  Vorenus lets Shenua and Iromae take the lead, he keeps watching ahead for any signs of coordinated movement, the guard, etc.  

The three of you peel away from the press of Tarlowe Lane and angle north, leaving behind the courier offices and service yards before anyone has reason to ask why you’re moving so quickly.

The city subtly changes as you go. Stalls thin out. The smells of stew and leather give way to incense and clean stone. Streets widen, but traffic slows — fewer carts and fewer shouted bargains. People here walk with purpose or with reverence. Some wear plain robes. Others bear small symbols at the throat or wrist, polished from habitual touch.

Behind you, nothing gives chase. Yet Vorenus’s unease doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens.

Ahead, the Temple District rises in gentle tiers, white and pale sandstone catching the daylight. Smaller shrines cluster at the lower approaches — wayside altars, charitable houses, minor chapels tucked into courtyards. Bells ring softly somewhere above, not in alarm, but in timekeeping. Order. Structure.

As you move deeper, you notice how visible everything becomes. Fewer alleys. Fewer blind corners. The spaces between buildings are deliberate, maintained: gardens, cloisters, and colonnades meant to be seen across. This is not a place built for secrecy ... which makes the idea of a hidden courier route all the more unsettling.

A pair of temple functionaries pass you, murmuring to one another. One glances at you — not suspiciously, but with the casual awareness of someone trained to notice faces. Farther up the way, a courtyard opens around a shallow reflecting pool. Beyond it, three distinct paths present themselves without announcing their importance: One climbs toward a larger complex crowned with banners and carved reliefs, its gates open, its steps busy. Another bends off through a covered walk where votive candles flicker even in daylight, attended by acolytes and petitioners. The last skirts the edge of the district, where older stone meets newer work — storehouses, records offices, places that support the holy without being holy themselves.

As they move away from Tarlowe Lane, Shenua finds that Vorenus' unease has settled into her as well, and she looks nervously to the right and left — and sometimes behind — watching for any guards about to jump on them. Even if she doesn't see anything like that, she doesn't quite calm down, and she keeps scanning the area, searching for the hooded man or even the man with the horse. He has to end up leaving his safe pasage and returning to the streets at some point, hasn't he? (Perception: lol, a natural 1) 

When the trio is faced with the three possible paths ahead, she studies them for a moment before speaking. "If I were a courier trying to go unnoticed, I think I'd prefer skirting the edge of the district," she says quietly. "It sounds like the least busy option to me. But what do you guys think?"

“Perhaps there is some path that is not obvious to stay out of sight.  Some hidden passage.  I say.. we should try not to be noticed here.”  Vorenus starts to reach for the disguise kit in his pack but thinks better of it, looking around, he uses his hands to slightly alter his appearance, putting a different look on his face, straightening his posture.  “I can use my kit, or a little magic, but nothing so obvious.  Now where would you go if you wanted to stay out of sight, run an errand while largely remaining unseen….”

Vorenus pauses for a moment, looking around, observing the ebbs and flows of people in the area..

Perception : 11

"I'm not seeing a hidden path," Iromae says to Vorenus. "Nor really anywhere that one might be located. But the path skirting the edge of the district makes sense. It is just a guess though."  

She notes those that are catching sight of them and lowers her voice a bit. "If we're worried about people having seen us, it's likely too late. These folks seem the sort to remember a person. We should just move on and not draw too much attention."  

As the group pauses, or just takes a moment here, she examines the other people in the area. Is there someone that doesn't quite fit the role of worshipper or acolyte?  Someone that might be keeping an eye out or working with these couriers. (Insight: 17)

The Temple District does not reward nervous searching.

Shenua’s eyes skim faces, corners, doorways — and find nothing that answers back. No hood turns too slowly. No horse reappears at the end of a street. No familiar silhouette breaks from cover. The city simply goes on being itself, serene and watchful in a way that offers no foothold for certainty. If someone slipped from a hidden route back into the open streets, they did so without leaving a ripple.

Vorenus’s small adjustments — posture, expression, the quiet decision to be someone else for a while — pass without comment. No one here looks twice at a man who seems to know where he’s going. That, perhaps, is the trick.

And then there is Iromae’s sense of the crowd.

It isn’t that anyone stands out blatantly. It’s subtler than that. Most people here move with the same cadence: measured steps, eyes forward or respectfully lowered, attention fixed on shrines, duties, or destinations. But not all.

Near the edge of the reflecting pool, a man in plain wool pauses as if to admire the water — yet his reflection is never what he studies. His gaze lifts instead, briefly, tracking movement along the approaches. Not furtive. Not tense. Practiced. A few moments later, a woman crosses the courtyard carrying folded linens for one of the lesser chapels. She slows — not because of fatigue, but because two paths intersect and she wishes to see who takes which. When her task resumes, her pace returns to normal.

No signals pass between them. No words. And yet the rhythm feels … shared.

Iromae quietly relays what she's heard to the other two. "That man over there," she subtly nods her head, not wanting to be obvious by pointing. "He seems to be watching for something. There was some... connection when that woman with the linens came through.  No specific sign, signal, or anything... just something. I don't know if there was some signal I didn't recognize. Or perhaps her temple is involved in the exchanges?"  

She shakes her head. It's all to tenuous. Unclear. "We can't just stand here. We're really sticking out here. We just need to move. Walk with purpose. Or everyone here is going to have their eyes on us."  She nervously steals a quick glance about. "May already have."  (Perception, just to try to spot anything more out of the ordinary or anyone interested in them: 17)

"Let's just keep walking," Shenua suggests. "Skirting the edge of the district, like we said. And see whether they're watching us, or if they start following us — or which way they go if they move off. Perhaps we'd do well to figure out where they're heading."

As they move, Shenua tries to catch a glimpse of what the two observers do, and whether there's anything on them that marks which specific temple they belong to. Otherwise, she mirrors the behavior of the people around her in the courtyard: eyes slightly lowered, posture respectful, mindful of the holy place they're crossing. (Perception: 7)

Vorenus crosses his arms, holding his hands together in the midsection.  He nods and then obtains the aspect of a pensive man of meditation.  He nods and half closes his eyes, walking in measured steps.  “Mmm hmmm.”  Vorenus nods and walks in rhythm, following Shenua and Iromae.  He turns to Iromae saying “Following your path, my child.”  He continues to walk, watching the man in plain wool, and the woman with the folded linens.  He tries to get some idea of what the signal involves, what they are watching, what the nature of this interaction would be…

Insight : 11

The Temple District absorbs you the moment you move. Purpose smooths your edges. The instant your feet fall into step — measured, unhurried, respectful — the faint pressure you’d felt eases a little. You are no longer standing out. You are simply going somewhere, which in this place is almost a kind of prayer.

Iromae’s glance catches more than it did before.

The man in plain wool does notice your movement — but not as one might clock a threat. His attention shifts the way a tide does, subtle and inevitable. When you choose the edgeward path, his gaze follows for a heartbeat … then lifts past you, as though confirming something beyond. He does not follow.

The woman with the linens does not look back at all.

She turns instead at the next shrine — one of the minor ones, little more than a carved alcove with a votive flame — and pauses just long enough to adjust her bundle. It’s an ordinary motion. Domestic. But the timing is exact. When she moves again, it is not along the route of the main foot traffic, nor fully along the district’s edge. She takes a third line: a service way that threads between chapels, half-hidden by columns and devotional statuary.

Shenua, watching closely, sees no temple colors on either of them that stand out. No obvious insignia. If they serve a specific faith, it is not worn openly. Their deference is generic. Carefully so?

Vorenus, searching for pattern rather than detail, senses something familiar in the restraint. Whatever is happening here does not rely on gestures meant to be recognized by outsiders. It relies on expectation. On people knowing when nothing needs to be done.

As you continue along the edge of the district, no one breaks stride to intercept you. No guards step from shadow. No shouted names follow.

But the city subtly rearranges itself.

Foot traffic thickens just enough behind you that looking back becomes awkward. Ahead, the path narrows between older stonework, which is less ceremonial, and more utilitarian. Bells ring somewhere deeper in the district, marking an hour, and with it comes a gentle but perceptible shift: acolytes change posts, supplicants move on, and errands resume.

Seeing the woman slip into the service way between the chapels, Shenua murmurs to the others, “We could keep going… but I'm suddenly very interested in the path that woman with the linens took. Want to check it out?"

Iromae looks at Shenua as she makes her suggestion. "You think we'll learn anything?" She feels just a touch lost, as though there is something here that she just isn't seeing. Or perhaps those two have it down to where it isn't possible for her to know - inscrutable knowledge they have that she doesn't. 'Or could it just be that there was nothing to relay? The man was watching, the woman to alert him if there was a need?' 

She then shakes her head. "Yes, you're right Shenua. Let's take that same path and see what we find. We'll just keep up our same pace. As though we always intended to go there." 

Her only worry is the man. He's not watching them because clearly that don't fit what he's looking for.  But if they change their path will that change?  She tries very hard to be subtle, but as much as she can she tries to make note of what he's doing. But just in casually looking around, without focusing on him. (Perception: 21)

"Yes, my dears.  Quite so.  Make it so."  Vorenus nods and steps in rhythm, moving in that path and following Shenua and Iromae.  Vorenus bides his time, as much as he wants to do a double take and look at those behind him, he resists, following the measured steps toward the alleyway, moving in rhythme, hands and legs in measured, pendulous movements, head bowed forward just so.  "The penitent man will pass..." he says as he walks forward, down the alleyway behind them into who knows what.  

As you angle toward the service way, Iromae, your careful awareness catches the man in plain wool one last time. He does not turn his head. He doesn’t need to. The shift registers in the set of his shoulders instead — an almost imperceptible easing, like the amen of a resolved prayer. Whatever he was watching for has either passed … or is no longer his concern.

You turn into the service way at an even pace, neither hurrying nor lingering.

The passage runs between the rear walls of two small chapels, barely wide enough for a cart. The stone here is darker, worn smooth by regular foot traffic. Melted candle wax stains the ground near iron brackets set into the walls, and the smell of incense hangs faintly in the air — old, not recent.

Behind you, the courtyard noise dulls quickly. No footsteps follow immediately.

About 20 feet ahead, you spot movement: the woman with the folded linens has already reached a shallow recess in the wall — not a door, but a narrow service alcove partially hidden by a hanging cloth. She pauses there, adjusts her bundle, and knocks once, low, on the stone itself.

A moment later, a narrow panel set into the wall slides open just enough for a face to appear. The exchange is quick and silent. The woman passes the linens through the opening. No coin changes hands. The panel closes.

She turns and continues on without looking back, exiting the service way toward a different lane that angles Templeward.

As you reach the alcove, Iromae and Shenua are clueless until Vorenus begins pointing out interesting oddities. The panel is well concealed, its seams disguised as part of the stonework. The stone around it shows scuffing at knee and shoulder height, consistent with frequent use. The ground bears overlapping footprints, many leading in and out — not hurried, but regular.

From where you stand, the service way continues in two directions. One end slopes gently upward toward the Temple District proper. The other leads down and away, toward older structures and storage yards behind the chapels.

You are not being openly watched here. No guards approach. But it is clear this passage is used intentionally, and not only by temple staff.

Shenua is starting to feel frustrated after so much following and so little real understanding of what is going on. There is clearly some kind of network at work here — even in the Temple District — but she still can't figure out what these people are watching for, or, more importantly, what has become of the two men the trio had been following.

When they reach the concealed panel where the woman stopped, she feels a strong urge to knock on it and confront whoever might be behind it. But it's obvious she doesn't have any kind of passcode or excuse that would let her gather information without causing trouble.

She looks at the others. "No sense knocking here, right? Though I would very much like to do it and drag out whoever answers and force them to give us some answers. Ugh!"

She pauses, then exhales. "But no. That wouldn't achieve anything."

With a sigh, the tiefling adds, "Shall we keep going? Maybe we'll find something more useful ahead. I think heading toward the Temple District proper might be our best move for now."