PM to join Collateral Damage (BASIL!)

[Richard Blow]

8th of Winter, 515AV Long Don Johnson was not a happy man. When he stabbed his way to the top of the family business- undertaking, as it happened- he was not particularly happy about it. After all, his poor Da only made the mistake of taking too long to die for his liking. When he burned down the competition's premises (and the owner's grandmother with it) he was rather upset, as it meant he had to offer his condolences instead of mooning the bastard. When his wife left him because he was an asshole he was downright livid, as he was a man of large appetites but little patience, and this left his home in a state of minor privation, and when his dear friend Jacko Quombi was found dead with a dozen witnesses saying it was two bumbling darkie bozos who did it, he was furious. Now here he was, aging, bald, with a physique that somewhat resembled a beanbag chair, smoothing out the wrinkles on an old man's corpse so he wouldn't look quite so much as a prune during the funeral, when he head a knock on the door. Turning around, he saw his nephew, a mousy little lad with sandy brown hair and big staring eyes. He looked more nervous than usual today, so he set down his tools and turned to face the boy in the doorway. "Yes?" "So Uncle, y'know how you asked to be told if any of us saw a dark fellow poking around?" "Yes?.." Johnson said slowly, his eyes narrowing. "W-well... There was a musty-looking black guy with dreadlocks in yesterday asking about lye soap." "And what did you say?" Johnson growled, striding towards the quaking kid. "I-I didn't say nothin'! I told him I didn't know anything about how much lye you bought!" "How much I bought?" "Yeah! He asked about that, when you normally did, about how often you were out in your yard, after he heard you were out all the time he looked around an-" "And you let him?!" Long Don barked, grabbing the boy's collar. "I-I didn't want to! He just sorta pushed past me muttering something about Quombi!" "Quombi?" Johnson paused for a moment, then his grip tightened around the lad as realization bloomed on his face. "What did he say his name was?!" "Blow! Richard Blow!" The undertaker froze, gaze drifting past the boy in a thousand yard stare. "It's him..." he said absently. His grip loosened something, and the lad gingerly tried to back away, but before he could Don returned to reality with fresh fury. "You! Why didn't you do anything?! He and that amazon bitch of his killed Jacko, and we're next!" "I didn't know!" Johnson's nephew pleaded. "I'm sorry! Please-" his begging was cut short as Johnson threw him out the door, the boy landing on his bottom. "Find them!" he roared. "That whore ripped Quombi's head clean off. I'm not waiting for the same to happen to me. No... You and the boys find them, you kill Blow, and you bring the girl to me." "Erm... Uncle..." the boy said hesitantly as he got onto his feet. "Why not kill them both?" "She could have... Uses." Johnson said with a slow nod and a grim smile that slowly stretched across his flabby face. "And I want to have the pleasure of seeing Quombi's killer beg." Meanwhile, in a merry little pub called the Pig's Foot, unbeknownst a minor gaggle was out looking for him, a moderately inebriated Spiritist was debating whether or not a widow could cheat on her deceased husband's ghost. "So he should be gone n' off to... Wherever souls go, yeah? So really, he's the one cheating. Cheatin' the Givetaker, I mean..." Richard asserted to a spectral prostitute with bobbed hair and a sharp black dress hovering on the other side of his table, leaning forward and jabbing his finger on table for emphasis. "Yes, but he still has a heart, you know!" the ghost pouted, folding her arms. "I'd be devastated to see my husband between some slut's legs when I'm right here!" "Aren't you a slut though?" "I didn't have a say in the matter!" she said lividly. "Besides, that shouldn't matter! I'm talking about my hypothetical husband here!" "N' I say you shoul' get over it n' maybe find y'r own slut." "You just don't understand because you've never been in love!" Richard shook his head in disbelief, nearly falling out of his chair from the motion as he threw his mug back... Only to find that it was empty. The Spiritist frowned and searched with unevenly blinking eyes for one of those fine purveyors of booze known as waitresses. After three ticks of hunting, he spotted a fine young lady in black passing his table and grabbed clumsily at the back of her dress. "Oi!" he said a touch louder than he meant to. "Me n' my friend here need you t'help settle an argument, n' also more booze. If someone's widow goes n' petches someone else in front of their old husband's ghost, is that cheating? Also, can we get more booze?"

[Basil]

¤

It was nearly two hours into her shift and she was cleaning off a table with a rather dirty dish rag.
'They never petching clean these things.' The table hardly looked any better than it did before, there was just less food scraps on it. Really, she was just getting into the swing of things here, at the Pig's Foot. All the usual crew had shown up but today her man was Jerry, a old man with a rather impressive beard grown all the way to his stomach.
“Miss Stillsong, getcher ass back over here, I weren’t done talkin’ to ya.”
“Jerry I have shyke to do other than chat with your soggy beard all day!”
And it was soggy, he had drank nearly three pitchers of ale in the two hours she’d been here. But, her cleaning was done so she tucked the rag in her working apron and took her time going over to the table where Jerry was seated.
“Now I was TELLIN’ ya about this one lady I petched. Big knockers. Out t’here.” He held his hands a good ways in front of his chest.
“I’d stay over there and she used t’cook me this soup and I thought, ‘My, my. Now here’s a woman I could live with.’ So I did. And we was good for a while until she started gettin’ on my nerves. Weh-weh-weh-weh-weh,” Jerry mocked the woman, “All she ever did was petchin’ talk and I told her ‘If you ain’t shut up my ears are gonna run off with out ya.’ And I swear to the gods they did, I just would zone out man, when she started talkin’ but the cooking was great..” Jerry went on like this for another five or so chimes. Basil sat and half listened, and she made it seem like she was intensely tuned in but really she was watching the door, keeping an eye on the other customers as they ate and drank, sizing up who would need a refill and who was leaving.
“Finally, I told her, I said, ‘Look Daisy we gotta take some time apart my ears are just killin’ me.’ And I left and never looked back. After that I was out driving trade caravans between here ‘nd Ravok... “
“Listen Jerry I gotta talk to some of the other customers, but I’ll be back. Okay?” She patted him on the shoulder and refilled his mug for him.
“Well, alright.” He acted grumpy, moving his shoulders up and down like he was giving up, but threw her that twinkle in his eye that showed he was just joking.

She moved around the bar with ease, this was her home away from home. Some might call her a workaholic but this was all she did with her life, so she figured she better enjoy it. It wasn’t a half bad life either. Once you’d been somewhere long enough the usual faces became like friends to you and what more could you ask for. Sure, the usual bar fight would break out, one had not thirty minutes after she got here, but they were pretty common and the waitresses were told to just “keep your distance”. As if anybody would really run to break it up anyway.

As she made her way back to the bar she noticed a ghost talking to her dreadlocked companion. They seemed to be arguing. But Basil really didn’t care, he hadn’t waver her over and ghosts don’t eat or drink. She made her way past the man but he grabbed the back of her dress.
“Hey!” She shouted, as he loudly said, “Oi!” She tugged the fabric out of his hands and gave him a dirty look. The handsy one’s were always the worst. He wanted her attention though, and said something she barely caught.
“You what? I don’t know anything about ghosts petching people’s husbands but I DO know about booze. What do you want?” She stood with her hands on her hips and looked at him with her eyebrows raised.

[Konrad Venger]

You can get used to the sight of anything in the big city. It's all just a matter of repetition. The food, the smells, the screams, the same old predictable pleas from men on their knees (well, yes, of course you have a family, most people do; what makes you so special?), the fact that sleeping with a dagger under your pillow, caltrops on the floor and a dresser pressed against the door was was considered "same and reasonable precautions"... all these things were concepts that became instinctive after enough decades and occasions.

But Konrad hadn't quite reached the point where watching the dead chat with the living was The Norm for him. It made him blink and squint and wonder if years of snorting and smoking had finally beaten his mind into a puddle.

Then he'd realize what it was and sigh. Honestly. There should be a rule.

The scarred-n-serious 'ssassin sighed and tore another hunk out of the thick "pork" sandwich in his hands. Wasn't any call to lose his appetite, after all. The Pig's Foot may have had a generous definition of what "pork" was, but it was always dripping with fat and grease and came with a loaf and some stew, which was a fine deal for a gold coin slapped onto the table.

Konrad appreciated the fact that no-one was stupid or crazy enough to try and sneakily slide that off the table before his waitress got back. Not with him there. Because it was him.

Yeah, and yet...?

Another sigh, for different reasons. He stared of as his jaw worked, eyes roving over the potpourri of scum and street denizens that packed into the Foot, hustling and scamming and flirting and gaming... but mostly just eating and drinking, of course. Waitresses bustled back and forth and he could spy the cook in the back flinging out dishes and the barmaid filling mugs by the handful, practically sliding them down the bar into eager hands.

"Should've opened a tavern," he mused quietly to himself, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Been a good earner. Coulda' had some other sod run it, though. Woulda' bored the shite outta me."

Gods, he really did need the coal-face to sort him out once he was finished eating. Talking to himself, now? Petching pathetic. He needed a taper or two of Temper to get him nice and buzzy, then a full bowl of Apple Sauce to keep him steady on the high. He figured that would keep him busy for an hour or two and that would be long enough for the Warp he'd neck first to dig into his brain and start doing a jig-

Easy, he told himself, having to remind his lips not to move. Ain't got much for the season. Just get a couple of doses of Temper off the darkie, ride it out back in your apartment and then find something at The Establishment tomorrow. Your purse has to last, remember?

A quick glance out the window was enough to remind him. Half the panes were already freezing over, intricate and inscrutable patterns of frosted ice spreading across the glass. Beyond them were swaddled massed yearning to breathe warm, and those that weren't, well...

"Oi?!" Someone that resembled a tree trunk with smaller tree trunks for arms, that had been obscurely dressed in an apron that barely covered it's barrel chest, stomped its foot and shooed a shivering clutch of barely-clothed street trash out the door. "You ain't got coin, you ain't comin' in, f'petch's sake! How many soddin' times've I gotta tell ya?!"

Konrad watched with glassy eyes and finished his cup of warm mead. Stuff wasn't bad. As soon as the waitress was done with Richard and his... dinner partner, he'd raise it up high for him to see. He had the coin for another mug to warm his cockles. Then it was just a matter of continuing to wait for the darkie to finish his business.

He glanced over and grimaced out of instinct. Ghosts. Spirits. Reeked of magic, of djed, and that meant one thing: mages. Which Richard had to be, by his thinking... but, he also had the best nose Konrad knew for cheap, potent shyke to be ingested for fun, so Konrad had gone out looking for him.

Just hurry it up, coal-face, he thought, returning to savage his sandwich. Ain't got all bloody day.

[Richard Blow]

Richard opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he mumbled got drowned out by a shrill man shouting "That's them! That's who we want!" from the bar entrance. Richard frowned and looked over (along with a few other tables) to see three men silhouetted in the doorway pointing at him. Two of them toted woodcutter's axes and one of them had a sledgehammer slung over his shoulder. "It's ghost man and Lois the Ripper!" cried the one in the middle. "They's conspiring together! Quick, get 'em!" And without further preamble, they rushed Richard's table. Richard for his part stared at the trio for a took with the same bemused expression one wears when watching a mentally challenged dog attempt to navigate a flight of stairs, then uttered a single crystal clear word: "Petch." Now, one did not reach the ripe old age of thirty in Sunberth by freezing up in times of crisis. In a single suspiciously smooth motion (given his drunkenness) Richard surged to his feet and grabbed the back of his chair with his off hand, hurling his mug at the fellow with the sledgehammer. Sadly, his aim wasn't brilliant and his assailant wasn't interested in being an easy target. The man bobbed out of the way, slowing to laugh at his prey's attempts to defend itself. This laughter lasted until a flying chair smashed into his face, causing him to drop his weapon and clutch his nose in a storm of curses. Richard, now out of chairs, moved on to phase two of his brilliant plan: grab the waitress's wrist and make a break for the nearest exit, overturning any empty chairs along the way. He wasn't entirely sure what step three was, but he had no doubts he would figure something out. Back in the bar, one of the would-be assailant's axe-wielding compatriots had stopped and bent over to examine his injured comrade while the final axe-man continued to give chase. "Damn noshe is busted..." hissed the victim of the chair. His fellow ground his teeth, exhaled slowly, then straightened up and faced the bar. "Listen up!" he barked. "A hundred mizas for whoever gets those darkies!" Meanwhile, Richard was doing his best headless chicken impression, darting from alley to street with little pattern, his booze-addled brain struggling to formulate some sort of plan. After a couple chimes of what could charitably be called "evasive maneuvering," the Spiritist slowly came to a panting stop, taking a few ticks to regain his composure before turning around to face the poor waittress he'd dragged along. "Sorry 'bout that. I think they might've mistook you for someone else." A few awkward moments passed. The Spiritist pursed his lips uncomfortably. "So uh... Y'think we lost 'em?"

[Basil]

¤

And then, on a Sunberthian cue, the bar erupted and all Hai broke loose. Men with axes, men with sledgehammers. What was next? This was going to end in a mess she didn’t want to clean up.
“Quick, get em!”
‘Wait you mean me?’ Basil started counting her blessings and began to sidestep the dreadlocked man in front of her. She wanted no part of this shyke. Long enough she’d lived in Sunberth, born and raised here, and she attributed her longevity to knowing when NOT to get involved. When the man picked up the chair and chucked it at the assailants she watched with a transfixed fascination. Ordinarily she would be cheering, but these men seemed to be after her too. What the petch? She’d never even met the man before.

Then, he grabbed her wrist and started dragging her along his path, pushing over chairs and running for his life. Their life. “There’s a service door in the back.” She whispered as he rounded behind the bar. For all intents and purposes, he seemed to know where he was going. Fear does that to a person, kind of guides you along. As they made it to the door she threw a glance back to under the bar, thinking she had brought her bow and quiver.
“Petch.” She had forgotten it at home today.

Once out of the bar she twisted out of his grip on her wrist. Petch that. Who the hai was this guy, anyway? Not sure what else to do, she followed him. Something told her she would be safer if she ditched him, somehow she’d gotten caught up in HIS petching mess and really, truly, she didn’t want to be there to clean it up. But still, she followed him as he lead her through alleys and streets, darting from left to right. Finally, they stopped and she doubled over with her hands on her knees trying to catch her breath. He spoke first.

“You’re SORRY they mistook me for, who? Who’s Lois the Ripper? What the petch is going on here? Who the petch are you? I shouldn’t be here!” Her voice was raised in a high pitched tone. She stuck her hand in her apron pocket, hoping if worse came to worse and this was some ruse she could try to talk her way out of it by threatening she had a knife. Though, what good that would do without actually having a knife she didn’t know, but time would tell what this man and his assailants were up to. She had to come to grips by getting some semblance of protection.

“Look, I don’t know if we lost them. Lets hope so.” She was thinking up a plan, should she go home and wait them out? Or… If they had mistaken her for someone they would probably be back to the bar. They had weapons and wanted him and some Lois woman dead. ‘Oh, what am I going to doooo?’ She internally whined. And there went her money for the day. How was she going to eat?

[Konrad Venger]

Oh, for fuck's sake?!

Only Richard, only that coal-faced darkie bastard could turn a strange situation into a perilous one without even raising a finger. Konrad's jaw froze in mid-chew as three toughs swaggered in from the streets, brawny arms filled with long... well, arms, and ones they clearly didn't mind using.

Konrad didn't pay much attention until they mentioned the ghost man, and someone called... wait, didn't he know a Lois once? But before he'd had time to swallow, an ale mug was flying through the air with horrendous accuracy-

-quickly followed by a chair. Something that big, accuracy didn't matter much.

Konrad was up with the snarled curse but Richard was faster, as befitted a man with hulking, armed, angry and now wounded men after him. Before Konrad had even got his hat on his head, the spiritist had vanished out the back door, leaving nothing but trailing dreadlocks, and confused ghost and a likely-unimpressed waitress.

Why'd he take her for? Petch it, doesn't matter-

What did matter was that he was on a budget and he needed Richard around to get him some cheap narco-tickles. He watched Monkey 2 stoop down and help cursing, spluttering, blood-dripping Monkey 1; Monkey 3 was picking over and around the swamp of chairs that Richard had left behind.

Get after 'im, Konrad told himself, going to that cold, simple place where he made his decisions. Don't need to catch Richard; just catch the guy trying to catch him. Cut his throat, get whatever Richard can supply, then-

"Listen up! A hundred mizas for whoever gets those darkies!"

... fine, new plan.

Konrad leaped over the bar without bothering to navigate the same morass of chairs and tables Richard had left behind. The woman behind it squawked with outrage and Konrad pointedly ignored her, bursting through the swinging doors still creaking on their hinges after Monkey 3 had been through-

-just vanishing out into the street.

Gotcha!

The man wasn't too hard to follow: big, broad, bulky, he was taller than most of the street trash around him, parting the crowd like a thick-prowed ship through ice. Konrad followed in his wake, eyes dancing with promised mizas, enough for the good stuff, not just the cheap stuff.

Shame about Richard, but hey, a century was a century and his purse was damn-near empty.

The big Monkey was slowing. His head jerked around, confused, unsure. Konrad stopped his pursuit and slid to his side, next to a cart selling something unidentifiable but quite savory-smelling. He willed the lummox to make a decision and make the right one. It'd be much easier to follow him to Richard rather than trawl his haunts himself all night.

Cursing in desperation, shifting his grip on the ax at his side, the man made a choice, lumbering off down and alley and Konrad resumed his secondary pursuit, licking his lips with a grin.

Lead on, bloodhound. Just do me a favor and don't look behind you when you find what you're looking for.

[Richard Blow]

A poorly repressed chuckle seeped from Richard as he let the young lady finish panicking. Once she was done, the Spiritist dusted off his jacket and straightened up with a sleepy smile. "Me? I'm Richard Blow, ghost detective! I also do monsters." he added casually. "Lois was my old partner, and my word was she something." he said with a wistful laugh. "She was one o' them snake people who can turn twenty feet tall- y'ever hear of 'em? 'Dha-nee" they call 'emselves. Boy, she was a man eater. Literally! 'N fact, she got fired from the job you have now..." The Spiritist almost drifted off into a nostalgic stupor, but managed to shake off the urge like a dreadlocked horse bothered by flies. "Anyways! I got a hunch who those jokers were. Y'got a house? Those idiots couldn't tell you n' Lois apart even though she was 'bout twice your height so I don't think they'd know where you live." Once they'd started walking, Richard got to talking again. "So I've been investigating some murdered whores from the Muted Maiden, and I think I'm getting real close to one of the murderers. Th'man who killed Diamond- that was th'ghost you saw me talking to.- was a Mister Long Johnson. Now, as it turns out, there's no less than four Long Johnsons in Sunberth, so figuring out which one did it's been tough. Odds are I've spooked th'culprit an' they've sent that there goon squad after me. Y'kinda look like Lois if she was way wimpier, so that's how we're in this situation. So uh... Nice t'meet you, Miss..?"

[Basil]

¤

Snake people? The idea made her skin crawl. The Dhani, if he was remembering correctly. Yes, she had heard a story or two about this waitress.
“Funny you should know her,” Basil said, speaking her train of thought. She still didn’t trust this man, he seemed slithery. Similar to his former snake counterpart. His words rolled off of his tongue and something about his eyes screamed either ‘not all there’ or maybe ‘too much there’. “But yeah, I have a house.” Should she take him? She was going there anyway and he might follow her even if she told him no. Well, they were in the same boat now, she supposed. And it would be better to have someone with her to help fight the goons off rather than just her and her bow. Time was wasting as she sat and pondered. They needed to move, those men were probably on their trail this moment, his chair flinging buying them little time. Shaking her head, half at herself and half at the situation, she waved her arm broadly in a “come with me” motion.
“Let’s go, it’s not far.” Long had she given up on her knife holding ruse.

They walked quickly, side stepping people and she lead them as he did, weaving in and out of the streets and alleys. For some time they continued on in silence, until the man broke it. Talking about about why her day was turned upside down.
“Never thought anyone would give a petch about some whore’s murders,” she mused, not missing the fact he dealt with ghosts. “Also wimpy? You don’t even know me. I’m Stillsong, to you.” Though if Lois was a Dhani she supposed she would be ‘wimpier’ than she, not being able to change into a snake-freak and all.
“Look, we’re not far from my house. You can hide out here for a bit. But I live in a tent, if my shyke gets ruined I’ll have your head myself.” At least she would be with her arms.

Finally, they made it to the Tent City. It would be easy for the pursuers to get lost here, a sea of tents, tapestries, and vagabonds. But Basil knew the way to her tent by heart, it was on the outskirts on the clear on the other side of the Tent City. They made their way through the maze of bums and their homes until they got to Basil’s pavilion. A cooing could be heard from inside the tent. Basil walked ahead of the man with her and proceeded inside, not inviting him in but assuming he would follow. Her fire pit was nothing but ash and she threw a couple of logs in the pit. It was breezy in here and would offer little respite from the cold outside. A brown speckled owl was in a frenzy, excited his master was home. He was tethered to his perch by his ankle by a thick leather rope. She patted him to soothe him and he nibbled on her hand with his beak, head twisted around in an unnatural way.

[Konrad Venger]

Shyke. Headed for the tents.

If Konrad was annoyed (which he was), he didn't let it show. He kept his focus on the no-neck waving about an ax, both of them rats in a maze after the same chunks of cheese.

He never understood that one. Since when did rats each cheese? Bread and beer were always much more available.

The city began to thin out, buildings becoming more sparse and shorter until they were past the rim of Sunberth. But whoever this mook was, he wasn't giving up. After both heads of bobbing black hair had vanished and stayed that way, he was still powering through civilians like born bullies everywhere. Konrad resisted another urge, this time to shake his head.

Fucking idiot.

Though, he soon realized, it did make things a little simpler for him. Ax-Man probably wouldn't have the wit to navigate the Tent City. It may have been cobbled together and with barely one piece of stone or brick per hundred dwellings, but it was a perfect place to get lost in. The tents and shacks were tall and close, streets more like alleys, bereft of anything resembling sane grid planning. Konrad knew from experience that a man could easily lose someone who didn't know they were following him and had no reason to suspect otherwise.

Unless you have a guide.

"Hey," he growled to one of Sunberth's legion of upright rats, a ragged specimen that hadn't seen soap in days. "You see black guy go past?"

The boy tried the whole "tough" nonchalance thing for a few ticks, then took a good, long look at Konrad's face, and decided it wasn't worth it.

"Wh-Who?"

"Black guy. Hair like furry snakes. Woman with black hair. Movin' pretty quick. See 'em?"

Konrad had, as he knew, something of a reputation. Street kids knew it, too. But they also knew that any chance to squeeze some coin out of anyone was a chance they couldn't afford to pass up. Venger remembered that mentality: you never really lost it in Sunberth. The coins just got more numerous and the chances simply carried greater consequences.

This, fortunately, was a cheap and universal one.

"Well... 'm might 'ave." Konrad made a coin appear. Silver. "Yeah, I saw 'em."

"Oi! We saw 'em, too!"

"Shaddup, Hex! Yeah, I saw 'em. 'im an' a girl't lives 'ere."

Konrad's eyes widened a fraction. Oh. This just got much easier. The silver vanished and when it appeared again, the assorted miniature human detritus almost gasped in sacrosanct awe. Gold. Actual, mythical gold. In coin form.

"Take me to where she lives, and you get another one, just like it."

The kid was off like a Tskanna with a toothache, only turning back now and then to beckon Konrad to follow faster, his eyes as wide as that coin and pretty much all he could see. The sellsword turned over his options in his head and decided that paying would be a smarter move. For the long-term, anyway. Once word got around - and in Sunberth, it always did - that you promised coin but delivered death for fair service, the world and his wife would turn his back on you, and there's only so much you can accomplish with torture and intimidation.

Un-bloody-fortunately.

They were four streets over when Ax-Man crossed their paths and Konrad nearly ran into the slack-jawed behemoth. He got a scowl in return and instead of looking away meekly like the thug was used to, Konrad scrutinized him. Analyzed.

Hmm. Not this one, though.

"Watch where yer-"

"Still lookin' for the darkie?"

"How... How did-"

"Save it. Follow the kid and follow me."

A bit of back up always helped, after all. Soon the odd trio was winding through the alleys and the rude little streets with waste trickling through their centers. They rounded a corner and Konrad was sure he heard... was that hooting?

The kid pointed at the far tent and grinned like he'd just re-discovered some ancient Taloba temple: "There."

[Richard Blow]

Richard frowned at Basil's brushing off the dead hooker, interjecting with a jab of his finger "Hey, ghosthood's as bad a place as a person can be, an' they were hurting people before." he said gravely, "Would be wrong t'just leave 'em. 'Sides, the brothel's owner paid good money t'get rid of 'em." The minute they entered Basil's house Richard took a couple steps toward the log pile, then paused at the sight of the bird losing its marbles inside the tent. "You have an owl." he said blankly. After a couple ticks, his eyes and lips narrowed in dark satisfaction and he asked. "Mind if I borrow him? Think he might come in useful." Immediately after Richard trotted over to the logs and grabbed one in each hand, weighing them with a contemplative look before dropping the shorter one back among its fellows with a clatter and hefting the other with a grim smile as he turned back to face her. "Hide? No ma'am, I'm goin' back in. Still got evidence to gather! I'm an inch away from nailing the petcher who did it, n' once I do me n' the girls're gonna have a bit of a chat... N' maybe feed him to owls or something. You're welcome t'come along if y'want." he added amiably.