Waking on the morning following his first assignment from the Harpies, Frederick took his time getting up. It was still dark outside as he remained wrapped in the warm covers of his bed, gazing at the ceiling in thought. Memories of the day prior came flooding in. From backing down the thugs by the docks with Ronen to Elliot wildly brandishing a poker to Ikital spitting at him during his interrogation, it just seemed so bewildering now. Had he really done all that? It had been a long while since he found himself on the business end of a blade, and though things turned out well in the end, he still felt shaken.
What was he doing back in Evershoal, really? The first few days the high and nostalgia of his homecoming had possessed him, drowning out the bleak thoughts that often plagued his mind back in Teagarden. Now that it was wearing off, however, doubt, that insidious killer of the mind, was seeping back in. Maybe he should just go back to his dreary little mining town and while away his days finding missing pets and staring at the bottom of an empty whiskey glass. That would certainly be the easier option... and the less-lethal one. However, before he could continue his downward spiral of thought, a strong rapping of knuckles echoed through his room.
Opening the door, Majordomo Jaffrey poked his head in. “Mr. Krakuul, breakfast will be ready shortly. I suggest you not be tardy, as there’s little I can do to save you anything, especially with that scarred up ox of a man about”, he called, promptly closing the door after.
“Must be talking about Grummen, didn’t realize he was here too”, Frederick mumbled to himself, recalling his own meeting with the half-orc a week or so prior. Rising to his feet, he took a moment to wash his face in the basin by the door, staring at his reflection in the mirror for a long moment before donning his usual outfit. “Have some faith in yourself, Fred. You’re better at this than you think”, he mumbled before taking a deep breath and heading downstairs.
Having already made up his mind as to his activities for the day, Frederick quickly polished off his breakfast, giving a polite nod to those at the table he knew. He was thankful the supply run yesterday had gone well, as the spread prepared by the Celaeno House staff was infinitely better than anything he could muster. After finishing off his tea, he started about his first task: learning to forge documents.
In this endeavor, Majordomo Jaffrey had kindly directed him to Arrant. “Arrant here is as skilled as they come in the discipline of fabrication. I suspect you won't find anything wanting when he’s done with you” Jaffrey cheerily exclaimed, “Now, I’ll leave you two to it, as this Majordomo’s tasks are many and unceasing given the recent arrivals.”
Jaffrey having left the room, Arrant turned to Frederick with a polite smile. “The Majordomo is as busy as ever, isn’t he? Well, it’s nice to meet you, Frederick. If I may ask, where does your interest in counterfeiting come from? Call it professional curiosity.”
Frederick, after eyeing the bard for a moment, replied, “If there’re two things I’ve learned as a detective, the first is that homemade dwarven liquor is the fastest way to find yourself praying to the chamberpot, and the second is that while a good lie can get you a piece of the pie, a well-forged document can get you the whole dessert, whipped cream and all.” Looking away for a moment, Frederick continued “That all to say, if I’m gonna do my job and do it well, I’ll need more than just a clever line or two to get the info I need. I owe Ronen that much at least.”
At this, Arrant seemed to soften. “Ah yes, the Majordomo informed me of your particular pursuit. You have my condolences, it's... never easy losing an old friend.” Clapping his hands together to seemingly break the building tension, Arrant continued, “Well let's go ahead and discuss the costs. While I fancy myself an expert, and I’m willing to cut you a discount, it’s still going to take time and coin. For the first session, it’ll be 25 gold for the kit itself, and I’ll throw in the training as a free sample of sorts. After that though, it’ll be 10 gold for each week we run the routine until I deem you proficient enough not to mess up on your own, sound good?”
Having no ground upon which to negotiate, and not one to do so anyway, Frederick accepted the offer. Afterward, the two veterans swapped stories of their exploits in their younger days, whiling away time into the early afternoon. Beyond just the training, Frederick felt that he and Arrant shared similar qualities, and more importantly, anxieties. Though he put up a convincing front, Frederick could see that Arrant was more or less an antiquated bard who wanted to feel useful in a world that was rapidly changing. That, or maybe he was just projecting his own feelings. Either way, Arrant was someone whom Frederick felt the beginnings of a kinship with, a welcome comfort given his doubts earlier that morning.
His conversation with Arrant concluded, Frederick made his way to the Dour Dram in pursuit of his next task for the day. Entering and approaching the bar, he saw the same morose figure he had first met the morning prior. Turning his attention away from a mug he was cleaning at an inchmeal pace, Linthel uttered in a downcast tone, “Please tell me that uproarious thespian isn’t on your heels, I was planning on having a nice, uneventful afternoon.”
At this Frederick let out a light chuckle and replied, “Nope, just me, myself, and I today, Linthel. Also, on account of the fact that I didn’t introduce myself last time, the name’s Frederick Krakuul.”
With an expression epitomizing the notion of “who asked?”, Linthel continued, “Well, Mr. Krakuul, is there a reason you’re breaking the golden rule, or are you here simply to annoy me?”
“I just came by to see what whiskey you had in stock, my Eladrin friend”, Frederick said, a wistful expression coming over his face. “I’m visiting an old colleague that I haven’t seen in years later today, and I figured at the very least I could bring a bottle of somethin’ nice to drink, as a kind of apology for being so late.”
Linthel looked Frederick up and down for a moment, taking in the scruffy-looking Hobgoblin. "I recently came into possession of a small case of thrice-aged rye strong enough to bite back. I suspect the going rate is beyond your... means, but your face is worn by familiar lines, Mr. Krakuul. I'd be willing to part with a bottle for a mere 10 gold pieces, if you'd agree to share your tale of woe with me. I've heard it said that misery loves company, and I... rarely have much of that."
“Aye, I can agree to that” Frederick replied, dropping the agreed-upon amount on the bar, “but I’ll have to give you a rain check for now, don’t want to be late seeing my friend and all.” Faster than expected of the winter Eladrin, Linthel swiped up the coins and left standing in its place a pristine bottle of brown liquor, not another word leaving his mouth. Pocketing the bottle, Frederick gave him a nod and exited the bar into the open air of the midafternoon.
As Frederick wandered his way through the dense streets of Evershoal, he found little difficulty in navigating his way to the river flowing through the heart of the city, the Adigall. Though the avenues and alleys had changed over the years, storefronts and faces varying with the seasons, the bones of the city were still very much the same as those of his youth. Upon reaching the banks of the Adigall, he followed the railing upriver till he found himself standing on a bridge that overlooked the running waters somewhere along which Ronen’s “accident” had occurred. Taking the moment as a short reprieve before gathering info from the locals, Frederick reflected on what little information he had.
Turning his back to the railing, Frederick leaned against it as he took out his pipe and began to pack it. His first thought was of his mysterious employer, Emon. Given that she was so close to Ronen, she surely had the connections to hire someone more notable than himself. But maybe it was precisely the fact that he had been out of the loop for so long that made him of interest to her. Ultimately, he was disposable, and a fantastic scapegoat at that. If anything went awry, his background and connection to Ronen would give Emon easy plausible deniability. He was filled with unease at the thought of how little he really knew about her motives and even less so about Emon herself.
Leaning further back, resting his elbows on the guard of the railing, Fred lit his pipe and took a long drag, exhaling with a sigh of smoke. Despite his unease, he had a more important goal to attend to first: finding Ronen’s killers and bringing them to justice. His suspicions of foul play had been confirmed by the violent Staten enforcer, Ikital. But why would Ronen have been killed? He must have been on to something that some powerful individual in the city wanted to remain a secret, but what could that be? Ronen had always been on the straight and narrow, never being one to cause a big splash. Things just didn’t add up.
Frederick remained in that spot in thought until the last of his tobacco had burned to cinders. Heaving himself up from the railing, he put his pipe away, preparing to follow up with any locals in the area about a body being pulled from the river in the past few months. Though it was a shot in the dark, at the very least hitting the streets would help him pass the time while working up the nerve to head to his final destination of the day. As such, he talked to anyone who would lend him a moment or two of their time until the sun began to wane on the western horizon of the city.
As the sun descended, Frederick decided that it was finally time to find his way up to the mausoleum in the Terraces district. He had inquired about the location of Ronen’s remains with Talysen Thane, the overseer of the registration and burial rites of those laid to rest within the city, who in turn directed him to the Terraces. Despite being in the city for a little over two weeks at this point, though, he had neglected to visit the Canderspall family tomb. Whether this was the case due to guilt or some other buried apprehension, Frederick couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Regardless, his grieving process had to start somewhere, and as such he decided to finally make the trek there.
The mausoleum itself was carved into the cliff face of the city, taking much of its architectural aesthetic from the nearby temple of Moradin. The fine craftsmanship of the worshippers of the god of the forge found its way into every surface, creating hallowed ground that is as intricately beautiful as it is somber. Despite its religious affiliations, any citizen of the Terraces is by right given a place of rest within, and after Ronen's death, a tomb was set aside for his lineage. It was as such that Frederick found his way to the grave of his old friend, guided by the faint light of the eternally burning torches enchanted by those of the Moradinnic order.
Sitting down and turning to face Ronen’s coffin, Frederick produced the bottle of whiskey he had bought from Linthel earlier that day. Uncorking it, he paused for a moment and thought, “I’m sure the gods can forgive me drinking on hallowed grounds if it's in memory of a great man”, proceeding to pour a share of it on the coffin and then take a swig himself.
“So, this is where you ended up after all these years, huh?” he said, a slight break creeping into his voice. “To think, we gave some of the best years of our lives to upholding peace in this city, and look at the thanks we got. I suppose I can’t really complain though, seeing as where you are now”, afterward falling silent, unsure what to say next.
After some minutes passed, taking another drink to steady himself, he continued, “Look I’m... I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. Honestly, when I first read the letter Emon sent, I... couldn’t believe it. You were always like a knight in shining armor, I always looked up to you, y’know? I’ve seen a lot of injustices in the world, we both have, but to see you go out like this, it's almost too much to bear.” As he said this last line, the first of what was soon to be a stream of tears crept down his face.
“You were one of the good ones, truly. The world’s a worse off place without you.” At this, Frederick’s voice took on a more vindictive tone, “I’ll tell you this, though. I know I never amounted to much after I got kicked out of the Slatebearers, but at the very least I’m gonna set things right for you and your son. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m gonna pay you back for how well you treated me back then.”
With this, Frederick poured what was left of the whiskey on Ronen’s coffin and stood. He rested his hand upon its cold stone surface and whispered, “I’ll make sure you can rest in peace”, taking leave of the mausoleum after. Returning to the Celaeno House, Frederick slept peacefully for the first time in years, feeling a sense of purpose once again rise within him.