Completed Entering and Breaking

[Inoadar]

OOC - continued from here.

2nd of Fall, 513

Just a subtle double-take, that's all it took. 'Had someone taken note of his presence? The fact that he wasn't dead after all?' He'd already been lured into an assassination attempt disguised as a robbery. It had failed, but he'd been able to make it look as if it had succeeded. He and the Dhani that had also been dragged into it had reciprocated with a plot of their own to flush their persecutor out of hiding.

But it had been done in such a way as to make it look like the Dhani had killed Inoadar to fence the loot from the first job. With some disguise and surveillance, he had tracked the men back to a cafe serving as a front for the group doing the dirty work for whoever was behind this. He strongly suspected a businessman named Barton. A man he'd helped with a timely betrayal of a young man attempting a coup with poison. The young man had bought the supplies for the attempt at Ino Vations, Inoadar's poison shop, and Inoadar had subsequently sold him out, thinking the businessman would feel indebted to him.

If he did, he was the sort who repaid debts with "silencing". Inoadar could respect that philosophy and did not truly take any personal offense. But that did not mean he would let it slide. This man had chosen to become a threat to him instead of a partner, and this conflict could now only end one of two ways.

Even when he was believed dead, he knew it was only a matter of time before someone saw him and reported back to Barton. It had been the better part of a season now. Inoadar had deliberately waited to respond, figuring that if something happened right after the set-up, his enemies would know he was still at large. He'd wanted time to prepare. He'd made several visits to the cafe, disguising himself in various ways, and repeating those disguises for additional visits.

He'd worn a long haired wig in conjunction with shoes that had had the soles stripped to mimic being shorter than usual. He'd walked with a sag and bent knees to compound this effect. Then there was the putty to create the illusion of a broken nose, along with the darkening powder and oil streak to fake the black eye that went with it. This was with his thick sold boots and straighter posture to be a tall man. Then, of course, there was the bearded fat man which needed no real itemized description.

Clothes were a big part of these looks as well. The short, long-haired man in soft, muted tones. The tall man with dark clothes to match his black eye. The fat man with gaudy, bright colors, his behavior as loud as his looks. Each of these three personae tended to sit in different places in the cafe, the better for surveying the locations of various paraphernalia necessary in running a cafe. It also revealed a few doors and drawers that the proprietor never seemed to access regardless of what anyone ordered, drink or meal.

Most of the cabinets were without locks, and it did not elude Inoadar's detection that the niches that the owner never opened DID have locks. This ongoing campaign of observation and surveillance had been going on since the middle of Summer, and though he'd been practicing his lockpicking with a set of locks and thieves' tools he'd purchased from Tine's Exotic Goods, he wasn't intending to be subtle now.

He wanted the knowledge of the stalemate to be immediate. If Barton didn't know that Inoadar had scandalous information to be revealed if he died, he might kill him, not realizing the potential disaster that would then befall. Inoadar wanted the man to know right away that there would be repercussions if he died.

[Inoadar]

When he wasn't casing the cafe, he was practicing on his locks. Even though he had ultimately decided that secrecy was not going to be of any benefit to him, he'd still found himself short of the very useful skill of picking locks. It was better to have the ability to steal secretly when he DID need it. There had been more than once that the need to stay quiet, compounded by his inability to pick a lock, had stymied an opportunity to get hold of something valuable.

So he'd bought a set of thieves' tools and one each of simple, average and good quality locks. Maybe when he got better he'd buy one of the superior locks as well. But for now, the 170 mizas he'd parted with already was painful enough. At least he could use them in the shop as well.

He'd found that pins inside the key channel were the primary element. Some were on individual spring posts and some were set up on pivot rockers that were then, themselves, set on spring posts. This made it so the pushing back on one pin caused the next one to protrude, blocking the clearance of the slide. Or some block would push the key itself up, so that it compressed a spring along the top of the channel. It had taken him some time to realize this obstacle.

Wedges kept what pins he'd backed up in place while he located the next spring and post set. Since he had the actual keys to the locks he was working on, he could better evaluate how many inner columns would be filled and how many left clear to begin with. Naturally the better quality a lock was, the more involved the pin array was, as well as the more expensive it was.

In the time since Inoadar had discovered the nature of the cafe, he had gotten fairly good at picking the simple lock. He could get it done in five chimes or less, learning how to wedge a slide in place to hold what pins back he'd neutralized, in order to walk away.

No passing Ebonstryfe guard was going to go checking every individual lock on every door to see if there were lock picking implements stuck inside. But if he was found loitering around, they might. So he'd found it useful to be able to walk away from a work in progress and come back when the coast was, once again, clear to finish up.

The average lock was trickier, but he was getting the hang of it. The springs were stouter, making it far more difficult to keep progress in check if he had to step away from the lock. Then there was the hazard of the pins and wedges popping out while a soldier was nearby to hear. Not a good thing. There were also more inner posts to contend with in the first place. He'd had about a fifty percent success rate with average locks now. But even that modest rate required about twenty chimes of effort.

It would be a while before he could hope to even start on the "good" lock he had bought. But in time, he would get it down. For now, he was just glad he did not need secrecy for the task at hand.

[Inoadar]

This did not, of course, mean that he intended to simply smash a window and climb inside in full view of witnesses, to spend upwards of a full bell ransacking drawers and cabinets, or tearing up flooring and walls. It was just that, come dawn, he did not want to have the break-in go undetected. Even if he found nothing, he would keep watch for the next few days in case anyone came and went, curiously removing an item or two. Any movement of personnel or materials would be another possible lead.

He wore his mail shirt and Nettle Cloak, but girded a belt to give it a look more like an overcoat. He wore his boots, even attaching an extra layer of sole to them and wearing a wig and tall hat. He made a point of closing the shop early and resting on the floor on his back for a few bells as it moved past midnight. All this served to make him appear to be taller than he was known to be when seen at night by those who knew him.

He got himself dressed and brought his glass cutter and sighting lens. He also grabbed a crowbar he picked up for a couple gold mizas at Trigol's Tools and Trade the day before. He considered the fact that there was a strong likelihood of traps, so he brought his leather gloves and, on a whim, brought a dose of every antitoxin he had in stock. With any luck, he'd be bringing them all back unused.

He made his way across town, being sure to employ his cane regularly. This was not difficult, as his leg was still affected by his past mauling by wolves and the fact that it had taken a turn into an inexplicable relapse of infection while Wrenmae had been around the previous season. He shook his head at the thought of the strange visitor. So many odd occurrences, so much peculiar behavior, much of it his own.

He got to the bridge and walked halfway across, stopping to look into the canal like many people tended to do. He took the sighting lens out and covertly scanned the nearby windows. Seeing nothing moving, he moved to the cafe and slipped to the side alley, finding an out-of-the-way window. He placed the cone of his glass cutter against the pane and turned the handle slowly. Once the tone changed from the faint hiss of the blade simply sliding across the surface, to the lower registered growl of cutting, he attached the adhesive pad to the threaded spindle and reset the depth so the circle of glass would not fall through the hole to break.

He ground his way through the remaining thickness of the glass and collected the plug. He wanted the piece to provide as proof, in case it become advantageous to establish himself as perpetrator. He slipped it into his pocket as he reached through the hole to loosen the clasps, allowing the whole assembly to slide up. He stepped in and slid the window back down in place.

[Inoadar]

Now his memory served him. There was a mirror behind the bar over the sink. While it was most likely placed there to allow the barkeep to scan the crowd behind him when his back was turned, the reverse was also true. From his various vantage points, Inoadar had seen the reflection of what was in the locked cupboards over the bar. He had already determined there was no ledger kept there. Lots of fine glassware and liqueurs, justifying the locks, but no books or folders.

The shelves over and to the side of the mirror held nothing of interest. He'd seen the man scoop ice from one of the cupboards below the bar. This was just a bucket he refilled from a cold storage locker behind a door in the back left corner. Around the right side of the sink was a small niche, kitty corner to another door. He'd seen that there were stairs behind the door, going up. They probably led to a living space for the owner, but it could be more storage. Spare furnishing items or those needing some repairs. Not everything related to running a cafe needed to be kept cold.

He checked the cold storage door. It was not locked, but it was exactly what it seemed. Inoadar was not expecting these people to go to THAT kind of trouble to conceal a ledger. He was not going to chop open blocks of frozen material to see if there was a wax-sealed bundle containing a ledger. No, everything was in order there.

He came back up and considered the pair of locked cupboards below the bar that did NOT contain the ice bucket. One of them contained plates and silverware. The other contained the metal pots, pans and various utensils. Inoadar was uncertain if there were any other items in either compartment. These were simply the things he had seen come and go from them during business hours. There was a closet with aprons and tablecloths, extra candles and lamps, blinds and other extras.

No, it was the niche by the door or nothing. He grabbed a damp towel hung on a rack by the sink and went around to the right side. The niche had a roll top affair that covered everything above the level of the main shelf. It was locked where it met the shelf.

Inoadar smirked. He wouldn't even bother with the lock. The divisions between the slats, that allowed the roll top to curl as it followed the track, were inherently weak. It was meant for style and decorative appeal, not strength. He pulled his dagger and placed the tip at one end in the thin partition between the two lowest slats and pounded it through softly with the palm of his hand. He twisted the blade to crack it open further and worked his way across in less than two chimes.

He slid the freed portion of the roll top back into its "up" position and examined the various locked compartments within. Most were too square and small to contain a book, but there were three that held promise. He leaned in, letting his senses search for any oddities that might indicate booby traps. The presence of such being both a hazard and the proof of something valuable.

The lowest of the three compartments was giving off a minty smell. 'Engeron Bane!' he smiled to himself in satisfaction. This was the same poison he suspected to be used on the blade by the assassin at the Nitrozian Estate last Spring. It made sense that the same devices were being used here as well. Inoadar had suspected it was the same group even before that attack.

This was still short of confirmation. But when he got the ledger, whoever came looking for him could be tracked back to his boss.

[Inoadar]

Inoadar pulled the roll top down again and estimated how much more to cut off so that there would be a shield between himself and the points where he figured poisoned darts would shoot out. Engeron Bane was a wound poison, so it needed to break the skin to be truly effective. Air-pressure-powered darts was a classic trap in a case like this. Gas was also used frequently used, but the towel should give some protection. Also he didn't detect any of the odors he connected to gas poisons he was familiar with.

He cut across the slats a second time, adding enough more of the roll top to block any attack. He expected the booby trap was to snare those picking the lock. He was simply going to pry the cover off the compartment by reaching over the shield with a crowbar. He forced the tip of his knife into the gap between the cabinet and the compartment door. He used the crowbar like a hammer to tap the knife far enough into the gap to allow the crowbar tip in.

The tapping brought unfortunate results though as noises stirred from behind the door leading upstairs. Inoadar did not panic. He had time. He draped the towel over the additional slats he'd brought down as his shield. He held his breath and wrenched the crowbar further into the gap, pulling forward on it to pop the compartment open with a loud cracking snap. There was also a hissing pop and three light thunks as darts impaled the impromptu shield, tacking the towel to it.

He released his breath as a shout came from upstairs. "No gas." he said to himself, smiling as he spun and crouched to jam the crowbar tip under the door to the stairway. He jammed it firmly in place, so the hook end was away and curling down to keep the main portion of its length at an upward angle, like a doorstop.

The man slammed into the door, expecting it to burst open, only to have his impact slam the door onto the crowbar with crunching force. The thump and "OOF" was lost in the sharp "BOOM" as the door cracked along a diagonal line extending from the crowbar at the bottom to the top hinge on the right. The man fell, top-heavy, into the narrow opening formed by the partially folding door as Inoadar slammed his body into the door to force it back into place.

The unfortunate man tried to pull back but only succeeded in getting his head and arm crunched in the closing gap. His shrill curses brought a smile to Inoadar's lips as he kept his weight against fully the door and drew a dart from the bracer on his arm. He was just about to jab it into the mans exposed arm when there was a loud, low, somewhat musical "Thrum" and a sharp impact drove Inoadar's breath from him.

He staggered back, immediately aware of a crossbow bolt sticking at a painful, but non-lethal angle from his side. He could only imagine that some brace inside the door, coupled with his mail shirt and the angle of impact had caused the bolt to take such a shallow and oblique angle of penetration. Plus, the man had been forced to fire it one-handed and blindly, while off-balance and in pain.

The man must have been confident now, because he simply bulled his way clumsily through the wreckage of the door, stumbling over the lower half and losing his grip on the crossbow, which still could have been used as a club. He was clearly favoring his right arm and his head had an ugly, bleeding laceration above his brow.

Inoadar grit his teeth against the pain and drove back into the man, stabbing the dart into his side as they fell back over the broken door to fall onto the staircase behind.

[Inoadar]

The two men wrestled furiously, both trying to ignore the pain of their wounds. Inoadar had a sight advantage with his Second Edict background, but he had not really maintained that regimen since coming to Ravok, and its benefit had waned considerably.

It waned considerably further when the bar owner's hand blindly struck the protruding crossbow bolt. Inoadar jerked with a gasp and lost much of his hold. He knew he only had to last long enough for the dart's poison dose to take effect. But it was taking too long, and his enemy had noticed the vulnerability. Inoadar blocked grasping hands desperately, but his enemy hit the bolt a second time.

Agony ripped across Inoadar's midsection as the man got a brief hold on the arrow and wrenched it to the side. Inoadar roared in pain and slammed his forehead into his adversary's face. His aim was off and stars spun in his spinning vision as much as his target's. He rolled sightly to get his hand on the bolt as his enemy's dizzy hands groped for it as well. But before the other man could get hold of it, Inoadar took a deep breath and screamed to divert his attention from the near disabling pain as he tore the missile from his side.

There was a side benefit that the pain brought his focus back to the present and he got to his knees, rage fueling his adrenaline as he swung the bolt like a dagger at the man's neck. The man made to block the strike, with the partial success of trading his left wrist for his neck.

There was a morbid pause as both men stared at the bolt protruding from both sides of the man's wrist. Then they both screamed, the one from the obvious pain and despair of the crippling blow, and the other from having forgotten the wound in his side as he attempted to employ the muscles of his torso, along with his legs, to stand.

Fate favored Inoadar though. As his legs buckled with the pain, he caught his right arm on the portion of the door still anchored to the hinges and found himself well positioned to kick the enemy before him right in the side of his head. He fell back over the door with the effort, scraping himself up painfully to find the bar owner moaning incoherently on the stairs.

He wanted to grab the crowbar, but it was wedged too tightly under the ruined door and the pain of the effort nearly caused him to pass out. He went instead back to the broken cupboard and grabbed the only book there. It was definitely a ledger, but Inoadar did not have time to peruse it here. The man had already gotten his knees under him and was making a shaky effort to gain his balance.

Inoadar was irritated to see that he had not gotten the poison he wanted when he dosed the man, but he knew that at the very least the man was getting weak, if not clumsy or confused. Then it struck him. The towel he had laid across his makeshift shield had absorbed the darts of Engeron Bane and a portion of it had surely soaked in to the cloth.

He tore it free of the darts, not caring about the rips in the fabric and stomped back over to the weaving bar owner to jam the towel, with his left arm, in his face where the bloody laceration was. The man grabbed at his arm and Inoadar fell forward, adding that little bit of inertia to his right arm as he slugged the man just below the ribcage. The man doubled up, leaving himself vulnerable to a series of blows to his towel-wrapped face.

When he finally lay still, Inoadar fell across him, gasping for breath and reeling with pain. The blood loss from the wound was not as bad as he feared it might be, but he clearly needed to get it treated. He staggered to his feet several chimes later and grabbed the book, opening it to find unfamiliar symbols and numbers spinning dizzily in his fuzzy field of vision.

He decided to do any deciphering later and slipped it into his pocket. He stepped unsteadily back to the window to leave, but thought better of it. Instead he rifled through the bottles of booze to find a good high-proof whiskey. He got another towel and, after going back through the other door, soaked it in the alcohol, using it to clean the wound. The enclosed cold room contained his curses as he sterilized the now freshly bleeding wound. It bled bright red, which he took as a good sign. He held the towel in place as he found another one to tie around his midsection and hold the impromptu bandage in place.

He waited a few more chimes to get his balance and focus back, then simply went to the door and stepped back out into the predawn bells, wrapping his cloak tightly around him to hide the towels.

[Inoadar]

Inoadar made his way across town to his room at Tarsin's Boarding House. He left the book there and made his weary way on to the Healing Hand to have his wound bandaged. He dropped a few suggestions of his own ineptitude with loading a crossbow to forestall any questions, though he doubted there would be any. This was confirmed by the lack of any questions about the bruises that were now fully forming in a variety of locations. He'd been ready to mention falling down the stairs at his home if he'd been asked.

He made his way back to Tarsin's, making a special effort to check for shadows that couldn't be accounted for by the corresponding cityscape. Every window was checked for following reflections, every corner provided a pause to listen for the tread of unfriendly feet, every rooftop covertly scanned against ambient light. He had no reason to believe that his enemies knew he stayed here or under what name. But he knew there was always the possibility of an agent being better at surveillance than he was at countering it. And he knew that the process of elimination through this same surveillance could quickly narrow the list of names he might be rooming under.

Back in his room, he spent some time going through the ledger. There was nothing immediately obvious, but he knew he hadn't made it obvious in his own ledger either. There were frequent entries featuring the initials "WR", that seemed always to involve very small quantities of goods. As a poison crafter, he was familiar with such entries, as most of his supplies came in small quantities too. But there were other symbols and codes that completely stumped him.

He amended his thinking, realizing that "small quantities" was not necessarily accurate. Again, because of his own experience as a poisoncrafter, he knew that a small package may still hold a hundred doses' worth of product and was not truly a small quantity, just a light weight and a small bulk. The word "doses" stuck in his mind, recalling the man at The Healing Hand using the term in conjunction with the pain killers he'd been given for his wound.

...The Healing Hand...The medicines there would come in "small quantities". As would drugs and philtering catalysts. Some of these could be highly valuable, and easy to conceal. AND, he didn't know anything about the codes that medics used to catalog such goods. Barton was a manufacturer of furniture, a product uniquely likely to contain hidden compartments ideal for smuggling "small quantities"...

Gears started to click in his mind.

[Alric Wilmot]

Grades Inoadar Brawling +3 Lockpicking +3 Disguise +2 Observation +1 Detection +1 Intelligence +1 Lores: Bolt to the side, The same poison -injury!: shallow wound to the side. Must be treated to avoid infection, will heal in 4 weeks time. Notes Secret : Another great thread, Ino. I enjoyed it. If you have questions or concerns PM me. Please edit your post in the Ravok request thread too.