Arkun walks away, frustrated by another fruitless interaction with someone at this wide spot in the road.  ((Any results from his history check on Tricklerock cave?)).  “Boy, someone woke up on the wrong side of the pickaxe.”  He nods to Rumble, walking away and hearing his thought about the strange interaction.  He turns to Sylra, saying “Really?  I thought she was just a crabby, disgruntled quarry foreman.  Wishing to be no help to us.  She’s holding something back?  Well, makes sense, I suppose.  I agree with you, going to the quarry itself is likely the best thing to do.”  Arkun walks along, waving his hands, frustrated with the behavior of the quarry foreman, and other people in general.  

ALDRIC:

"If I were wanting a wagon, how much would that cost?"

"It's no problem," Waelver says, but it's obvious he's at least somewhat unsettled by Aldric's presence. "Each of these wagons can carry upwards of four hundred pounds guaranteed, and they'll run you thirty five gold pieces for each of 'em," he answers.

Feathers drift in the air as Aldric steps into Drouth Fine Poultry. At the street end of the building nearest the door are a number of cages and casks, followed by two brick cooking hearths, long and bloodstained cutting tables, and then a plucking area in the back. Feathers are heaped in open handcarts in the back of the room. 

A human woman with long brown hair tied back in a tight ponytail wipes bloodied hands on an apron as she approaches Aldric at the front door. Her skin is tanned and her hands calloused as she shakes Aldric's, and she appears to be around thirty years of age. She doesn't seem to flinch at Aldric's appearance. "You're a new face. You here for meat or feathers?" she asks.

When Aldric tells her the reason he's here, she scrunches up her face. "Sheriff Harburk sent you here? I'm afraid I'm woefully short on information from you, unless you're looking for a list of the inns I supply across the valley," she says.

ARKUN, RUMBLE, RYLAN & SYLRA:

Albaeri Mellikho bids you an impatient farewell, assuring Sylra that she'll contact her at the Swinging Sword if she learns anything more. As you walk along the main road in town, you spot Aldric, hard to miss in the distance further south along the road, ducking into the poultry shop.

For Arkun:

Arkun walking along strains his neck looking into the distance, then points at the helmed warrior, saying to Rumble "Hey, isn't that helmed guy Sir Grumpy Grumplepot that we met before?  The one giving you all of the orders?"

"Why I say I do believe you're r-ri-right! Awww, Tyr forgive me." Said Rumble, or so he tried around a bout of chuckling over Arkun's word. Then before he knew it, a stoney hand is reach out to clap onto Arkun's shoulder and give the elf a few good hearty shakes. "That was a good one." He starts, still grinning in amusement. But then, it began to soften at the edges. "But, in all seriousness and with due respect, I'd ask ya keep that kinda talk to yourself. His demeanor might not be to... everyone's taste, but he is knight deserving a measure of respect for the goodly deeds AND thensome he's no doubt accomplished over the years."

He patted him on the shoulder one more time or attempted to do so at least. But even had Arkun jerked away or shrugged him off by then, Rumble shrugged it off and carried on towards the poultry shop as if nothing occurred at all. Even once inside and able to see the Orc, apart from holding the door open for others step in afterwards, the earth genasi would patiently wait for Aldric to complete his own business before greeting the man respectful but only slight bow of the head. 

Aldric thinks back to what the sheriff had said to him a little while ago. "I'm sorry," he says, "the sheriff said you were requesting a visit — from him — and so he thought maybe you or one of your kids had some information that might help my investigation." He looks around for any small humans.

OOC: Going out on a limb to speed this along ...

When the woman expresses confusion, Aldric ventures: "This is the Mhandyvers' poultry shop, isn't it?"

Finally understanding, the woman tells the half-orc that he has the wrong poultry shop. She points him further south.

Aldric's cheeks darken a little as he realizes his assumption has delayed his investigation. "Sorry to have bothered you." As he is leaving, he says to the woman, "I will probably be back in town in the next few tendays. If you hear anything, please hold onto it for me."

He puts his helm back on and walks south, once again opening his senses to the presence of chickens. As the sounds of poultry fade away behind him, new sounds carry him forward. He notices that the occasional gobble and quack join the fairly consistent clucking.

He finds himself outside the building he hopes is correct this time.

When he locates someone to talk to, he spits out even faster than normal: "Sir Aldric Harthstone of the Knights of Samular and marshal of Westbridge."

Taking a breath, he asks hopefully, "This is the Mhandyvver's poultry shop, correct?"

When they affirm he has the right place, he smiles. "Sheriff Harburk said you might have some information. I am investigating increased criminal activity in the valley over the last six months. I'm specifically looking for Rivergard Keep, but I'd also like to hear any other observations you might have. The sheriff said you were requesting a visit from him."

Arkun turns his head to Rumble with a smile, leaning into him and playing along with him.  “Oh, so you know of him?  Today is not your first time meeting him, or you’ve heard of him?  If there is an order to things, a hierarchy or ranks, what have you, far be it from me to disturb that.  Not my cup of tea, but I take orders, just like everyone else.  I didn’t know that you held him in high regard.  It seemed like he was ordering you around, but whatever floats your canoe…”. He stops, considering, looking at him off in the distance.  “Maybe he does have knowledge of some things that would be helpful.”  He turns back to Rumble, appraising him.  “Fine.  If you say so.  He looks like he’s ducking into that poultry shop.  Heh.  Ducking into poultry.. Perhaps he's onto something."  Arkun keeps walking along, silently for now, bending down and picking up an acorn as he's walking, then rolling it over and over in his hand.  He leans over to Sylra, saying "I hope that we are onto something.  Meeting you has been beneficial, I feel like we can definitely help each other..". He lets out a sigh and keeps walking.   

Sylra walked with a steady rhythm alongside the others, her boots scuffing lightly against the packed dirt of the Long Road. The wind tugged gently at the hem of her robe, bringing with it the familiar, dry scent of stone and sunbaked earth. Her shield rested comfortably on her back, and the weight of her pack settled with every measured step. Though the day remained warm for the season, she moved with the unbothered grace of someone used to the elements and the road alike.

When Arkun pointed out the armored figure ducking into the poultry shop ahead, Sylra turned her head slightly, catching the tail end of a familiar silhouette. The helm and posture were unmistakable. It was the same half-orc she had encountered briefly at the inn, the one who had nearly collided with her in the doorway—Sir Aldric Harthstone. She hadn’t exchanged many words with him then, but she remembered the presence he carried and the wary glance he had cast her way. Now, seeing him again and clearly pursuing his own investigation, it was hard to ignore the impression that their paths were meant to intersect once more.

She remained quiet as Arkun and Rumble exchanged jests, the air between them shifting from humor to something a touch more serious. Arkun’s light tone was met with Rumble’s respectful correction, and though the words remained friendly, Sylra could feel the undercurrent of principle in the earth genasi’s voice. She let them speak, not interrupting, but watching and listening with quiet attentiveness. In their banter, there was camaraderie forming, even if its edges hadn’t yet been worn smooth by time.

After a pause, she spoke in a calm, even voice that cut through the warmth of the moment without diminishing it. “Let’s not be too quick to dismiss those who carry weight in this town,” she said, directing the thought more to the group than to anyone in particular. “Sometimes the gruff ones are the ones with the clearest sense of what’s wrong. They just don’t share it unless they feel they must.”

Her gaze lingered in the direction of the poultry shop, where the knight had vanished moments earlier. “If he’s involved, or even just watching closely, that’s worth our attention. People like him often see more than they say, and if he’s putting effort into this, then something more is stirring beneath the surface.”

She turned slightly toward Arkun, offering him a subtle nod as her voice softened. “And you’re right, by the way. I feel the same. There’s a reason we’ve come together like this, and I believe we’ll be stronger for what lies ahead, whatever shape it takes.”

With that, she adjusted her shield strap and started walking again, her steps quiet but purposeful. “Come. Let’s see if Sir Harthstone is in a mood to talk today,” she said over her shoulder, trusting the others would follow as she made her way toward the shop.

"I'm sorry," he says, "the sheriff said you were requesting a visit — from him — and so he thought maybe you or one of your kids had some information that might help my investigation." He looks around for any small humans.

"Kids?" the woman says with no small amount of confusion, following Aldric's gaze and looking around her shop herself.

"This is the Mhandyvers' poultry shop, isn't it?"

She chuckles warmly at Aldric's question. "Ah, now you're making more sense. No sir, this is Drouth Fine Poultry, Mhandyver's is just past Dornen's quarry to the south. I'd be remiss to not add that you'll find better product here by far, but it sounds like poultry's not your goal," she says.

"Sorry to have bothered you." As he is leaving, he says to the woman, "I will probably be back in town in the next few tendays. If you hear anything, please hold onto it for me."

"It's no problem, today's been slow. I'll keep that in mind, but don't get your hopes up. I prefer not to know about the dangers of the wilderlands if I can help it," she says as he departs.

Aldric walks past the butcher's shop where he'd spoken with the sheriff, heading further south, the other adventurers that had arrived in Red Larch not far behind him. Across the street, he notes a small shop, nondescript aside from the gleam of metal off the sunlight from the products within. Further south is a plain square building coated in a gray-white shroud of rock dust. A path leads behind the building toward another quarry, where the shouts of workers and thuds of pickaxes echo from a distance.

The wooden building just past that looks like it's grown haphazardly for many years, shooting out single-story wings and annexes untidily in all directions. The interior looks more like a barn or attic, with exposed beams and posts. Pens with live chickens fill most of the odd corners and halls of the building, leaving only a narrow aisle down to the back of the complex and dominating the smells and sounds of the entire building. At the back of this room is a large open doorway to one of the annexes, leading to a workroom with cutting benches and a central hearth, and another annex past that looks like it leads to living spaces.

Four adult humans are working in this room when Aldric enters. One is roasting a chicken in the hearth while another is preserving some in casks of oil. The others are placing what looks like chicken liver inside of a pickling liquid; the oldest of them, a woman with tanned, leathery skin hunched from age, saunters over to the towering half-orc. "Well hello there, Feng, what'll it be today?" she asks.

When he locates someone to talk to, he spits out even faster than normal: "Sir Aldric Harthstone of the Knights of Samular and marshal of Westbridge."

Taking a breath, he asks hopefully, "This is the Mhandyvver's poultry shop, correct?"

The woman squints and cranes her neck to take a closer look at Aldric. "Oh, my apologies, sonny, you most certainly are not Feng. This is indeed Mhandyver's Poultry, and I'm Minny Mhandyver, pleased to make your acquaintance. We sell chickens live, roasted, or preserved in oil, take your pick."

"Sheriff Harburk said you might have some information. I am investigating increased criminal activity in the valley over the last six months. I'm specifically looking for Rivergard Keep, but I'd also like to hear any other observations you might have. The sheriff said you were requesting a visit from him."

Minny doesn't look disappointed in the slightest. "Well, I don't know anything outside of Red Larch's boundaries," she tells him, "But that's part of what I wanted Sheriff Harburk to come 'round for. My granddaughter Pell, you see, is a little too adventurous for her own good. She found this tomb of sorts not too far outside of town. The way she tells it, she had some sort of encounter with a ghost that frightened her right back home. Now, obviously she didn't see a ghost, but I do believe she saw something that right frightened her. The poor girl was shaking when she told me. I've ordered her to stay away, mind you, but I do think someone ought to make sure it's safe, whether that's our sheriff or Westbridge's."

While Aldric speaks with the woman, the others file into Mhandyver's Poultry behind him.

The warm, dusty air of the street gave way to the heavy scent of feathers, oil, and roasting meat as Sylra stepped into the narrow aisle of Mhandyver’s Poultry. The noise of clucking and scratching from the many pens pressed in from all sides, and she had to angle her shoulders more than once to avoid brushing against the wooden rails as she followed the others toward the back. The air inside was warm and close, but the smells—though strong—were clean and honest, the kind that came from steady, long-practiced work rather than neglect.

Her gray eyes swept over the room in a practiced glance, taking in the people at their tasks—the one tending the roast at the hearth, another sealing preserved birds in casks of oil, and the pair carefully lowering chicken livers into a vat of pickling liquid. The oldest among them, clearly Minny Mhandyver herself, moved with the unhurried confidence of someone who knew every inch of her space and every task that needed doing. Sylra watched the easy familiarity with which the woman greeted Aldric, the light humor in her mistake, and the lack of hesitation as she moved to business once she understood his purpose.

The mention of the granddaughter’s discovery caught Sylra’s attention immediately. At the word “tomb,” she straightened almost imperceptibly, the subtle shift in her posture betraying her interest. She listened closely as Minny recounted Pell’s tale, hearing the way the woman dismissed the idea of a ghost but didn’t discount the fact that the girl had been truly frightened. Minny’s voice softened when she spoke of Pell’s shaking, and that detail alone told Sylra that whatever the girl had seen, it had been enough to leave a lasting mark. That was the sort of fear that came from encountering something outside the ordinary, and Sylra filed the information away as something worth investigating, regardless of whether the source proved mundane or not.

When there was a natural pause in the exchange between Aldric and Minny, Sylra stepped slightly forward and inclined her head politely toward the older woman. Her voice was calm, carrying an even weight that invited consideration rather than argument. “If your granddaughter truly found such a place, it would be wise to have more than the sheriff take a look,” she said. “Even things that seem harmless at first can turn dangerous if left untended, and a frightened child’s account often contains truths that adults might overlook.” She let her words settle, her tone respectful but carrying a quiet assurance that the matter was worth taking seriously.

She turned her gaze briefly toward Aldric, acknowledging his role in leading the questioning, before returning her attention to Minny. “If you’re willing,” she continued, “once we’ve finished here, perhaps you could share exactly where Pell found this tomb. Any small detail she gave you might help us find it quickly, and that would let us make sure no one else stumbles into it unprepared.”

With that, Sylra eased back into her place at Aldric’s side, her posture relaxed but her attention still fixed on the conversation. She remained quiet, ready to listen to anything more Minny might say, while also noting the subtle undercurrents in the room—the way the workers kept their focus on their tasks but occasionally glanced toward the visitors, and the way the smells of the shop seemed to cling to the air like a tangible memory.