(Co-written, Mason & Jon)
Rolen ambles into the Dour Dram, looks around and, seeing Frederick already there, heads to his table. “Heya Fred. You were looking for me?”
Having waved down Mari to place an order for two stouts, Frederick turns his attention to his half-elf companion taking a seat across the table. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me, Rolen. I’ve been working on gathering some intel regarding the death of an old friend and I need a skilled set of hands to fabricate a document or two for me, if you’re willing. I would usually bother Arant with this kind of thing, but from what I understand he’s preoccupied with some intelligence gathering of his own.”
As Mari starts towards the bar, Rolen calls after her, “Hey Mari, can you make mine a coffee instead? Thanks!” He sits, fidgets for a moment, and nods towards his bespectacled hobgoblin companion.
“Happy to help Fred. To tell the truth, I appreciate you asking. Nice to have a job where I don’t have to run through the sewers…my clothes have gotten ratty enough lately, and almost drowning once this week was one time too many” Rolen offers a lopsided smile and picks at his collar. “Anyway, who will these very legitimate forgeries ostensibly belong to?”
After taking a long sip of his beer, Frederick replies, “It’s good to hear that it’s just your clothes that got torn up. Last thing we need is more people dying or disappearing.” Leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, Frederick continues, “The guy I’m after is Captain Meles, a Slatebearer who runs the show down by the docks. If you recall, Ikital brought him up, along with the fact that he might have some info about a cover up. Well… that cover up was the murder of Ronen Canderspall, a retired Slatebearer I knew from my younger days.”
“Oh, yeah, I’d kinda forgotten, to tell the truth, there was a lot going on that night. And Fred, I’m sorry to hear about your friend.” Rolen looks, for a moment, unbearably sad, then shakes his head, runs his hands through his hair, twitches his shoulders, and continues before Frederick can respond, “Wait, tall Aasimar, mean lookin’?” Rolen nurses his coffee like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Frederick nods in response.
“We saw him outside that warehouse Dondé had us bring him to…the not-so-safehouse,” Rolen runs his hands through his hair and gives Frederick a knowing look, “Bossing around Slatebearers and some goons from the Red Knells…hmm, well, you know more about this city and its factions than I do, I’ll let you figure it out. So what kind of documents has this Captain Meles…misplaced?”, he chuckles and grins mischievously, then starts flipping a coin across his knuckles. “What do you need? What’s the goal here?”
Unfolding his arms and reaching into his coat, Frederick produces several scraps of paper, tossing them onto the table. “These all document different smuggled shipments that Meles himself signed off on. I figured we could use these to manufacture a partial ledger of sorts, something that I could use to light a fire under his ass. And these,” said Frederick, producing a stack of additional papers, “are a gift from an old colleague. It’s a few pages from an older smuggling ledger he managed to get his hands on. They’re definitely a bit outdated, but I figured a reference would make the process easier for ya.”
“Hmmmm, I think I’m beginning to understand what you need…” Rolen goes to sip his coffee and looks crestfallen when he realizes it’s empty. Putting the cup down, he looks across the table at Frederick, “So, I don’t want to pry, and don’t feel compelled to answer…but what do you think this asshat is up to, anyway? What’s his game? Why did he off your friend?” A complicated look, equal parts rage and concern, crosses Rolen’s face at the last question, and the coin disappears. “Why are they hurting people we care about…what the hell is going on here Fred?”
Frederick nurses his drink for a second, brooding. After a moment or two of contemplation, he responds, “I’m not too sure Meles himself is up to anything on his own. Considering the info we got from Ikital, I’d say it’s reasonable to assume he’s one of the Statens’ lackeys.” Setting his empty glass down, he clasps his hands and rests his elbows on the table. “From what we’ve experienced so far, the Statens seem to be aiming for a full hostile takeover of the docks, buying out or extorting whoever they can and simply killing the rest. What their intention is beyond that, I can’t say for sure, but being able to import anything they want into the city unopposed would make them that much more dangerous.”
Furrowing his eyebrows and staring at the scratches and grooves of the table, he continues, “As for what happened to Ronen, I can only assume he found out something about their operations or maybe evidence of corruption in the Slatebearers at the Statens’ expense. ‘Cause of that, they probably sicced that bastard Meles on him. Taking a bribe or turning a blind eye to smuggling I can understand, but killing a retired Slatebearer, especially one as upstanding as Ronen, is simply unforgivable.” Looking up, he meets Ronen’s gaze, a hint of cold indignation in his eyes. “We’ll find out why they’re doing this, and we’ll make sure they get their recompense.”
After finishing their drinks and dropping an array of silver and copper coins on their table, Rolen and Frederick make the short trip back to Celaeno House. Passing through the foyer, the two acknowledge the various tenants lounging away their time as they enter the heart and subsequently climb the winding staircase to the second floor.
- - - - - - -
After entering his small room in the Celaeno House, Rolen pulls his pack from the corner and rifles through it. After a few moments he pulls out a box bursting with different types of paper and parchment, pens, inks, waxes, as-yet-uncarved seals; pretty much everything a self-respecting forger needs to practice their craft. “Funny, I learned how to do this from my father…I always complained, told him Beia was the one fated to manage our house…she was ten minutes older, after all”, Rolen laughs half-heartedly, “dunno if he’d be pleased or aghast at how I’m putting those skills to use now.” A frown, quickly replaced with a reserved smile, “Maybe I’ll get to tell him about it, someday…”
Overhearing Rolen, yet unsure of what to do, Frederick lets the silence rest for a moment before knocking on the door and entering. Pulling up a chair next to Rolen, Frederick begins laying out the scraps of paper and the reference ledger. “So like I said earlier, the general plan is to put together a few pages of a smuggling ledger that incriminates Meles. Since I’m gonna use it to blackmail his boss, it doesn’t need to look brand new, but definitely as if it’s from the past few months if possible so as to not rouse too much scrutiny.”
Rolen gently takes the old, water-damaged pages Frederick hands him and begins reading them. “Huh, are these really only a year and a half old? They look ten times that.”
For a moment Frederick can’t place what looks so odd about the scene, until he realizes this is the first time he’s ever seen Rolen sit truly still. As if studying the documents Frederick has given him is a less physically twitchy outlet for all the gaunt half-elf’s nervous energy. After a few minutes, Rolen grabs one of the cheaper pieces of paper out of the box, along with a long, thin, rounded piece of charcoal sharpened to a point, and begins copying the page slowly, repeating each character, over and over, then the word, before moving on to the first character of the next word. And again. And again.
Rolen glances at Frederick, “Sooo yeah, this part is gonna be pretty boring. Not that I mind if you stick around, but it’s mostly going to be me copying what you’ve given me, over and over, for at least a few hours before I can start actually making what you’ve asked for”.
Watching the methodical movements of Rolen’s hands, a feeling of confidence fills Frederick. Though he had his own misgivings about Rolen’s ability to make a decent forgery given the half-elf’s seemingly jittery nature, his juxtaposing focus towards the task in front of him washes away any doubt. “Huh, so you actually can sit still, can’t you?” Frederick chimes in playfully. “Well, at this point I suppose there’s not much else I can offer you than good luck and my thanks for your help so far. I’m gonna go catch up with Arrant and see if he’s available for some forgery practice of my own, so I’ll check back in with ya in a few hours”, Frederick says, taking his leave of the bedroom.
Rolen nods, clearly distracted “Good luck to you out there too ol’ man. I’ll see you later.” Another letter, and again, and again, and again…
A few hours pass, and the building facades across from Rolen’s window take on a vermillion sheen as the sun gradually descends towards the western horizon.
- - - - - - -
“Oh yeah…now I remember why I don’t like keeping ledgers”, Rolen drops the pen and shakes his cramping hand. Moments after pushing back his chair and standing from the desk, there is a knock at the door. “That you Fred?”
Frederick opens the door with one hand and enters, balancing a tray filled with various cuisines from the kitchen precariously on his other. “Yeah it’s me. I figured the least I could do was bring you a bite to eat. Ylena had the staff prepare a fantastic spread of fried goby spiced with black pepper and coriander seeds paired with baked parmesan eggplant, and I didn’t wantcha to miss out.” Clearing space on Rolen’s desk and setting the tray down, he pulls over a chair for himself. “I think it might be a good time for a break anyway considering you’ve been at this for the better half of the afternoon.”
“Huh? What? Oh wow, yes! I’m famished, thank you!” Rolen looks up and blinks, looking half dazed, then begins eating with gusto.
A wistful expression comes over Frederick’s face as Rolen digs into the spread laid out before him. “I don’t mean to be too forward, but I overheard you talking about your old man earlier. Not trying to overstep, but…I think that at the end of the day he’d be proud of what you’re doing here.” Gazing out the window to avoid making eye contact, he continues, “Most folks would’ve called it quits if they’d been through what you have. Accepted their lot in life and moved on. But you’re here, and you’re doing somethin’ about it.”
The candlelight of the room casts a heavy shadow over Frederick, accentuating the hobgoblin’s aging features. “I just mean to say that I’m proud of you. I’m proud of everyone here at Celaeno House. Making right the injustices of the world can only be achieved through steady labor and determination, and we have an abundance of both here. I was doubtful about why I had come back to Evershoal and whether I should even be here, but seeing the resolution of everyone else has done wonders in cementing my own.”
Realizing he’s beginning to monologue, Frederick catches himself. “Well, I’m sure I’ve taken up a lot of your time. I appreciate you letting me prattle on for a bit, and I appreciate you helping me out with this ledger even more. Any idea when you might be finished up, and any way I can give you a hand?”
Rolen puts the tray aside and wipes his mouth, then looks Frederick in his eyes, “Thanks Fred…for the kind words and the food. You’re a good man, and I’m glad to know you. We’re going to figure this whole mess out…” Rolen looks away for a moment, dashes the back of his hand across his eyes, and pulls the page he had been working back in front of himself, “So yeah, I think I can have it ready for you by tomorrow morning. Uhhh, by the way, any chance you can bring me another cup of coffee?”
Rising from his seat, Frederick makes his way towards the door.. “Yeah I think Linthel’s still open at this time of night, so I’ll see if he’s willing to whip up something to go for ya. If not, I’ll risk my hide and see if Ylena might have the kitchen staff put something together.” Finishing his statement, Frederick exits the bedroom, leaving Rolen to his work.
- - - - - - -
The next morning, Frederick opens the door to Rolen’s room. On the table is a jumble of pens, multiple stoppered inkpots, several congealed puddles of wax, and several thick sheets of ledger paper, a sheathed dagger laid diagonally across the pages to keep them flat, and, of course, an almost empty cup of coffee. His gaze travels past the cluttered desk to Rolen, sprawled across the small bed, who looks far more guileless and innocent asleep than Frederick would have believed possible.
Taking in the scene, Frederick mumbles to himself amusedly, “Kid must’ve been up most of the night. What it must be like to still be young.” Doing his best to avoid waking Ronen, he makes his way to the desk and begins inspecting the completed ledger. Scanning the pages, he can’t help but appreciate the care imbued in each line and craftsmanship of each page, all coming together to give the document an air of legitimacy. In his concentration, however, Frederick clips a vial of ink with his elbow, sending it plunging to the floor with a loud crash.
Rolen startles awake and springs from the bed. His hands shimmer with an almost imperceptible lavender light as he makes a gesture similar to throwing daggers, which he cuts short as he catches sight of Frederick. “Oh man oh man, Fred! You…”, Rolen glances at his hands, back at Frederick, grimaces, and then gives a crooked grin, “you should try to be more careful friend. I don’t do so well these days with being startled awake”. He shrugs and winks at his companion, “But no harm, no foul. Hope that ink doesn’t stain too badly. Let’s see if my work is up to snuff for ya.”
The two sit down and begin looking through the forged pages. “So I decided to split the difference. The pages you gave me had the authenticity of age…but they were pretty far gone and hard to read. Too easy to claim ignorance,” Rolen waggles his eyebrows, pulls a face, and pitches his voice an octave lower, “‘that could be from anywhere’, ‘no way to know for sure this was mine”’, blah blah blah”. Rolen shrugs, “Too new looking though, and they’re an obvious forgery.” Rolen gestures to the pages: darkened and well-thumbed around the edges; an inkblot at a corner, curling at another edge where it got wet and wasn’t given enough time to dry before the ledger was closed; a drop of wine on one page; a seal half torn away on another, obviously pressed down with a thumb to reaffix it; yet easy to read. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s pretty incredible, and frankly I doubt there’s much of a chance that Meles or his will see through it. I try not to make too many assumptions about a person’s character, but he feels like he’s more brawn than brains, which’ll hopefully hold true.” As he spoke, Frederick continued his admiration of the forgery. In particular, he noted that each page had a jagged edge on one face.
“Like how I made them look like they were torn from a larger book in a rush? Figure it adds that extra touch of authenticity, plus a little misdirection. Make people think you stole it, and they’re so angry at that they don’t bother to think that you might be faking the whole thing!”, laughs Rolen, clearly pleased with his work.
Lifting the pages from the table, Frederick carefully folded them and placed them in the interior pocket of his trenchcoat. “I appreciate all your help here, Rolen, truly. Here’s to hoping this gets the job done, and if so, our next round of drinks at the Dour Dram is on me.” Before leaving, Frederick extends a palm in Rolen’s direction, offering up a handshake to his new partner in crime. Rolen grins, grasps Frederick’s hand, and gives it a firm shake, “To new friends and new cons. So, how ‘bout we pop over to the Dram and grab some breakfast, huh?”.