It is nearing noon as Cashew sits in the corner of the Moonpeak Inn’s tavern area, gingerly sipping on a pint of ale and trying to appear busy. He has been watching everyone come and go for lunch (or, in the case of some, late breakfast), all the while scribbling on a stack of old parchment with an inked quill. Contrary to his furrowed brow and intense scrutiny of his work, Cashew is not performing complex equations or chronicling some grand adventure: He is in fact just doodling on the pages, drawing cartoonish, stylized versions of his companions, of the events at the manor, of the vampire they brought back, and of the “Failures.”
All the while, he keeps an eye on those that come and go. Always watching from the peripherals of his vision.
Most of the others are already gone, by this point in the day: Kaz is off playing Captain Officer Good Priest in the old, abandoned temple; Wren is down at the docks trying to con children out of a few copper; and Dahlia is probably off staring at something with the intense scrutiny that only stray cats and the psychotic can muster.
Addy on the other hand is probably asleep half-hanging off her bed, if Cashew had to guess. The odd little Elf has practically been nocturnal since the group returned from Tarn’s Manor, with the occasional frantic appearance to babble about some kind of “discovery” that is only gibberish to everyone except Felix and maybe Dahlia.
Demy, Cashew knows, is likely sleeping in. Stocking up on sleep before the big night is common for the Phyleran, and by Cashew’s estimate, the 15th is the next big night. And that will be tomorrow.
Cashew has spent his time since returning by keeping tabs on the others, wanting to know what they do in their downtime and also wanting to see them in their natural state, without pretense. To see who they really are.
He admits, all of them seem to be on the level. Everyone has secrets, of course–Cashew knows this intimately well–but based on what he has seen, in addition to the events at the Manor, the others seem to be trustworthy. Which is good, he really didn’t want to have to cut and run.
Literally.
None of the other five are his target today, though. No, today he is going to focus on someone who has been far more secretive, who has been far more careful. Someone who Cashew hasn’t had an opportunity to look into with any real depth, which is making him antsy.
“Yo, Cash,” comes a voice behind him suddenly, causing him to start in his chair and almost spill his bottle of ink over all of his doodles–er, all of his very important documents.
“Son of a fuck–” Cashew hisses, casting a wild, scathing glare back at Demy, who stands behind his chair with a stupid smile across his face. “Demy you mutt, I’m working!”
Demy cackles and takes a seat beside Cashew, a doofy smile still plastered across his face as he apologizes, “Sorry Cash, you’re real easy to tease when you’re ‘working.’ You get that tunnel vision.”
Cashew half-mutters Demy’s words back at him in a high-pitched, mocking tone as he rolls his eyes. It’s true that he hates being startled like this, caught off his guard, but the reality is that he is on guard. On high alert, to keep tabs on everyone that comes and goes.
He side-eyes Demy, who unceremoniously steals a drink from Cashew’s pint of ale.
Not just anyone could sneak up on him like this, especially not some tall, dorky, himbo of a hobo trash garbage man. Yet, despite appearances, Cashew knows that Demy is far more competent than he lets on. The disarming demeanor (or, with strangers, the stoic silence) is not an act, but it is effective.
“What are you even doing awake? I figured you’d be out until sundown, at least. Getting your schedule all sorted out ‘n stuff,” Cashew muses, swiping his much-emptier mug of ale from his large companion’s meaty grip.
“Mm, worried,” Demy mutters, his smile fading.
Cashew stares at him for a long moment before pushing his mug back over to Demy. Demy’s smile faintly returns as he takes it and downs the remainder of its contents.
“You worry too much,” Cashew says, a sense of understanding just beneath his tone of frustration. “We handled it just fine on the 10th, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, but that was Tryden. That one doesn’t make me nearly as–you know,” Demy says quietly, glancing around the tavern. There are numerous people here, some huddled into rowdy groups, which helps to hide the conversation happening between the two.
“I know, I know. Bigger moon, bigger problem,” Cashew says, letting out a sigh. “But it’s far from our first go at it. What’s got you so worried? The fact that we’re ashore?”
“I ain’t so worried about getting out,” Demy says with a shrug.
“Then?” Cashew prompts.
After hesitating, Demy finally mutters, “I think it’s time I tell everyone.”
Cashew nods slowly, able to guess the source of his friend’s anxiety even before he said it. Contrary to his usual snide tone, when he speaks, his voice is surprisingly comforting: “Are you sure you want to, Demy?”
“Yeah. It’s safer if they know, for everyone,” Demy says softly, head down. “Maybe if they know, I won’t be as stressed about it. Won’t get frustrated as easily. I’m just afraid they’ll act like other people have, you know?”
Cashew does know. He reaches out and pats Demy on the back reassuringly as he says, “Look, Miss Fun Police already knows and she’s being okay about it. She was the one I was worried about finding out the most. Pretty sure Addy will just be delighted like she always is. The Goblin, uh… it’s hard to tell with that one.”
“I think she knows, more or less. I’m mostly worried about Wren,” Demy admits.
“Yeah, they’re almost as dense as you are,” Cashew agrees.
Demy shoots Cashew a rotten look, earning a snarky chuckle out of the Halfling.
“I know you don’t wanna scare off your little enbyfriend crush, but you’re right. About probably feeling better if all of us know,” Cashew says, keeping sincere eye contact with Demy.
“I hope so. Do you think it’ll go okay?” Demy asks sheepishly, obviously still worried.
“No matter what happens, I’ve got your back. And if they don’t, then they don’t deserve you anyway, so fuck ‘em,” Cashew says, snapping his fingers for emphasis.
Demy smiles and puts an arm around Cashew’s shoulder, giving him a discreet hug. He admits, “You’re right. Thanks, Cash.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t mention it,” Cashew responds, eyes suddenly darting over Demy’s left shoulder as he sees the thing that he’s been waiting all morning, and admittedly a few other mornings, for: Felix Thorburn to make his way down the second floor staircase and stride out of the front doors of the inn.
“Shit, that’s my cue,” Cashew says after the door shuts back behind Felix. He looks at Demy and says, “G’on now, git. I gots crimes be doing.”
Demy glances over his shoulder, just catching a glimpse of Felix out of the front windows before the noble disappears around the corner. He grumbles in exasperation and says, “Cash, what are you up to? You’re playing with fire, if he’s your mark.”
“Who’s playing?” Cashew argues, getting up from his chair slowly. “Since you got nothing important to do, why don’t you keep watch for me in case he comes back early?”
“Wha–come back early from where? Wait, why do I have to keep watch?!” Demy argues.
“He’s gone to blow smoke up the sheriff’s ass, he meets with her every week,” Cashew explains. “And because you’re gonna get a bunch of food and be sitting here anyway!”
Demy whines at being called out and used as a watchdog. He grumbles, “Well, yeah, but–”
“What if I let you get all the ale you want on my tab?” Cashew asks, eyebrow raised.
“... Fine. Take your damn time,” Demy huffs, already out of his chair and heading toward the kitchen.
With wandering eyes on Demy as he stalks toward the kitchen, Cashew quietly slips up the staircase toward the rooms on the second floor.
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~~~~~~~~~~
Guess I owe Wren a drink, too, Cashew thinks to himself as he uses his thumb to smudge out the arcane rune carefully drawn on the door’s hinge, causing the magical alarm to dissipate without activating. He and the Dwarf had spent a few nights swapping stories and tricks: Cashew providing pointers on picking locks and lending Wren his old starter set of picks, and Wren explaining how magical traps function and how to break the binding runes that contain and trigger the spell.
Such information would’ve been very useful back home.
As if the alarms stopped you from sneaking out anyway, a familiar voice chides in the back of his mind.
Shut up, Princess, he mentally snaps back at the voice, irritated.
The door to Felix’s room is locked in addition to having a magical trap set on it, but this is much more mundane and familiar for Cashew to deal with. It takes less than a minute of feeling around the inside of the lock with the thin, slightly curved bits of metal to be rewarded with a soft click as the tumblers fall into place and the cylinder spins freely, retracting the deadbolt from the door’s frame.
He gently pushes the door open and quickly slips inside, before closing the door and locking it back.
Felix’s room is tidy, much like Cashew expected it to be. There are books, scroll boxes, and various arcane and writing supplies laying around, but everything is closed and neatly stowed. Whether as a quirk of an anal personality or as a precaution against prying eyes, Cashew isn’t entirely sure, but he believes it to very likely be a strong display of both.
In truth, Cashew likes to check out even the most trustworthy of individuals. As evidenced by him staking out the rest of the group over their collective downtime in town. It’s less to do with paranoia and more that Cashew likes to support his trust or distrust in people with actual evidence. In the case of the others, what he has found and seen supports that they are, on the whole, trustworthy.
Felix, though, is the opposite.
There’s something about him that seems off. While Cashew has had far less time to get a read on him, the nobleman is consistently aloof and distant, overly careful with his words and vague with the information he gives. Cashew knows that this is not uncommon for nobles and those who learn to navigate diplomatic situations and high society, but this does nothing to assuage his suspicion. If anything, it makes him more wary.
Cashew knows well that part of being noble is never tipping your hand, as having money and power requires one to be infinitely more conniving and cutthroat than the typical thieves and vagabonds at the fringe of society.
Hence, odds are good that Felix is hiding something.
He is very cautious as he flips through Felix’s belongings, peeking into containers and flipping through books. Most everything is research materials or simple supplies. Of course, it’s not like anyone with something to hide would leave it out in the open, even beyond a locked, trapped door.
Unlike the Manor, which had all kinds of tidbits and breadcrumbs to follow, there is no journal that chronicles Felix’s thoughts, no strange keys, no ancient magical baubles to point toward anything.
This is bullshit, he thinks. How am I supposed to figure this out if there aren’t any clues?
Cashew briefly considers that maybe Felix is on the level; that there are no clues to find. However, he quickly dismisses this notion by just imagining Felix’s disdainful, smug face.
Let’s see, if he’s not keeping anything tangible around, maybe he’s been communicating with home base, Cashew ponders. He goes over the trinkets and jewelry laying around, but it is all either mundane or he’s just magically inept.
Probably both, the voice in the back of his head remarks.
He ignores the sarcastic echo of his old friend and begins rummaging through the scroll cases. He knows these are magical, and he doesn’t really want to be messing with them in case he accidentally triggers something, but it’s the last thing he hasn’t checked yet.
As he opens one of the cases, he sees that instead of the usual format of arcane sigils and symbols, this page is almost entirely covered in a thin layer of ink.
“Well, what’re you?” Cashew mumbles, spreading the parchment out over the desk. As if by magic–which, it is–the entirely black page shimmers and lightens, showing a stone room full of maps and sculptures, with a large table at which a man in regal clothing is seated.
“Good to hear from you! I’ve been worried, after what happened with the expedition,” the man says.
From the page comes another voice, this one recognizable as belonging to Felix himself, which says, “Sorry to worry you, brother.”
Cashew grins widely and watches the scene unfold in front of his eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~
Demy is on his way back to the kitchen with his empty plate and dishes, intent on grabbing another pint since it’s Cashew-funded, when Felix Thorburn suddenly strides back through the front door of the Moonpeak.
He feels his stomach drop and the hair on the back of his neck prickle in surprise, eyes widening. Cashew hasn’t come back down yet, which means he’s probably still up there in Felix’s room.
His eyes scan the room as he stands frozen, trying to think of a way to signal his friend without being too painfully obvious.
I could cause a distraction, drop all these plates? But he wouldn’t care, he’s a noble douchebag. Maybe I could talk to him? He’d probably just wave me off. Maybe I can, wait–
He puts the dishes, all save for his mug, on a nearby table before making his way over to Felix, intercepting him before he reaches the staircase. Demy intentionally stumbles–okay, mostly intentionally–as he approaches, giving the biggest, stupidest smile that he can muster.
“Hey boss! ‘Chu been up-ta?” Demy asks, slurring his words a little as he pats Felix on the back, spilling what little bit of ale remained in his cup out onto the noble’s jacket.
Felix, in kind, gives Demy an annoyed glance and brushes the suds off his coat, but he does stop walking. “I was discussing business with Miss Bernadette, she’s grown fond of you all keeping the town…” He trails off, mouth twitching a bit as he stares at Demy, considering his words carefully before he finishes, “... Secure.”
“Well we do, you know, we do what we can,” Demy says, laughing loudly as if he’s just told a very funny joke.
“M’yes,” Felix mumbles. “I’m sorry Demyan, but I really must be–”
“Hey, wanna hear my wolf impression?” Demy asks. Before Felix can respond, Demy tilts his head back and gives his loudest, and most surprisingly on-point, howl, “Awooooo!”
The sound reverberates in the tavern, causing the lingering and/or late lunch crowd to turn and stare. Felix, additionally, can only stare in wide-eyed surprise.
After Demy finishes, Felix merely stands there for a few moments, looking as some strange combination of impressed, irritated, and confused. “I–that was, erm, very proficient of you, Demyan.”
“Thank ya sir,” Demy says, bowing slightly. A few scattered folks clap, though most just stare in awkward silence.
“I would love to continue our ‘discussion’ another time, but I must be going,” Felix says brusquely, giving Demy a pat on his shoulder before making his way quickly toward the stairs.
It’s on you now buddy, Demy thinks as he gathers up his dishes again and resumes his walk to the kitchen, even more eager for a drink than before.
~~~~~~~~~~
It is by sheer luck that the magical recording on the scroll ends just as Cashew hears a familiar howl coming from the tavern below. Immediately, adrenaline kicks in as he knows that this is the signal and that he only has a very short amount of time to put everything back and get out of this room.
Must go faster, must go faster, he thinks to himself as he shoves boxes back into bags back into the places that the bags full of boxes were previously in. He rearranges everything on the desk back to how it was, returning every little thing to how he remembers it being when he first came in.
Content with the placement of everything, Cashew bolts toward the door–only to hear a set of footsteps approaching from the hallway.
Shit on my father’s balls! He screams internally.
Cashew turns and surveys the room, mind racing for a new plan. Should he hide? No, Felix stays in his room for hours on end, he’d find the little Halfling sooner or later. That means the only option is the window. He runs over to shutters and pushes them open, staring down at the placid yet deceptively fast-moving water of the Moonbow River, which the back of the Moonpeak Inn goes up to the very edge of.
Jumping from the second floor into water cold and fast enough to kill in seconds is not the greatest plan. In this situation, it probably doesn’t even break into the top ten possible plans.
Cashew looks up, seeing the eaves of the roof hanging just out of reach; this part of the roof is far enough on the edge that it still has snow and ice covering it, much to his dismay.
The sound of a key entering the lock behind Cashew makes the decision for him.
He jumps, little hands grasping for the edge of the eaves. He grabs it and almost loses his grip thanks to the icy slush that is equally trying to cling to the roof’s rim, but manages to hold on. He rocks forward then back, using his momentum to kick his legs back and close the shutters before rocking forward and kicking up as hard as he can, flipping the lower half of his body up and over the eaves.
His hands finally lose their grip and he hangs there, top half still over the edge, staring upside-down at the closed shutters. From within the room, he hears the door open–and footsteps approaching the window.
Trying to keep his groaning to a minimum, Cashew uses his legs to clamp onto the roof, muscles straining as he flips himself up and onto his back, breathing heavily as he stares up at the overcast sky above.
Beneath him, the shutters open.
A bit of slushy snow and a few icicles fall from the edge of the roof where Cashew was hanging just seconds before, causing him to freeze, wide-eyed.
Felix, annoyed, mutters, “Just another couple weeks until this miserable place isn’t covered in soggy sky filth.”
Slowly, the shutters close back.
Cashew smiles up at the sky, breathing out loudly as he mutters beneath the sound, “Get fucked you soggy bitch.”
He lays there for a few minutes as the adrenaline slowly wears off and his breathing returns to normal before he flips over and scrambles across the roof, eager to gossip about the Thorburns’ machinations to his friends.