"Come on in!" Sharps' voice calls out, from within the home.

The wooden door creaks on it's hinges as you open it.  A small swirl of dust picks up in front of you as the breeze races inside.  Before you sits a rather simple but crowded cooking area.  A few pots and pans hang from hooks but the room itself is mostly filled with bottles, beakers and small glass vials of all shapes, sizes and colors.  The walls are festooned with drying flowers and herbs giving a comfy feeling to the entire room; an intoxicating aroma slowly encircles you like a fine perfume.  A table sits in the middle of the room surrounded by four stools and a tall log of wood. A fire has begun in the hearth, not long enough to warm the room much.

To the back of the right wall you can see a door and towards the front of the left wall rises a small staircase.

Sharps stands over a bucket, resting on a smaller table, his sleeves rolled up and bits of shellfish on the floor surrounding him. His armor, sword and cloak are neatly hung from pegs in the wall. He waves a knife in their general direction.

"Th' murders happened upstairs," he informs them, nodding toward the staircase.



((ooc: apologies to The Powers for adapting his descriptive text))

In reply to Sharps (msg # 48):

Having not been here before himself, Boris merely looked around and noted the decor and what Sharps was doing.

"Thank be for welcoming us. Who's abode is this?"

Sharps comes to a full stop. His brow wrinkles. "Not meanin' any offense, but... this is called the Apothecary. Murders happened here. An' now someone with a radically differn't taste in interior decorations is makin' lunch in the dusty kitchen." He returns to his work. "This is one a' them short mysteries. Meanin', easy ta solve."

He speaks again without looking up. "Those what don't want ta see the crime scene can go out that door in th' side yonder." He motions with his head while wiping his forehead on his forearm. "That room with the colored glass is somethin' ta see. Kinda wish I coulda talked to the old buzzard 'bout it, but ghosts don't carry conversation.

"And where is that wine?" he suddenly rememberes.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:50, Sun 08 Mar 2020.

OOC: That is precisely what I was going to post so no worries.

In reply to Sharps (msg # 50):

Boris looked mystified. "I don't see why you'd think I would take offence, after all, I was clear I don't know anything about this house. Other than it's an Apothecary. Which, where I come from, are not usually the scene of carnage. I take it someone died here? Who, how and why? Does anyone know?"

"Take a look upstairs," Sharps answered.

Once she had finished her breakfast Ondrea made he way along the same parth as the others in the group. She was glad to be in the light again, this place was strange and unsettling. Once she was at the building that served as the Apothecary she stood outside looking the structure over.


-

Do you often make yourself at home in the abode where one was so recently murdered?

In reply to Sharps (msg # 53):

Making the sign of the cross Boris looked up nervously at the ceiling, then back to Sharps.

"(Gulp) Begging your pardon, must I? For the love of Christ the Saviour will someone just tell me what's up there?"

In reply to Frederick (msg # 55):

Do you often make yourself at home in the abode where one was so recently murdered?



"I don't usually get the chance," Sharps replies. "But let's walk this dog about for a bit. If you're in a dungeon, and you come across three dead bodies each carrying gold, do you leave the gold and continue on? Not any adventurers I know, 'cept some paladins and one guy who is very afraid of zombies. Now, even though you didn't kill them three, you claim their gold for your own and continue on, to spend it in whatever manner yous please."

He waves to indicate the home they are currently in. "Now, this here house is the property of dead people whom I did not kill, see, and I was directed ta this place by the sergeant of the guard himself for the purpose of investigatin'. This home is just like a dead man's gold. The living take what they needs from them which ain't livin' any more. A few coins or a home, it's all the same."

He sets the pot near the fire on the hearth. "Besides, yous all saw me sleepin' at the inn. I didn't move in here, just needed a place ta study spells and have polite conversation with new folk.

"And, Mr. Underhill, what's upstairs is blood an' chaos and a murder scene like none I've ever seen afore. An' those which may have been heres before, did ya notice the secret compartment beneath the bed?" he asks, wiping his hands off on a cloth and sweeping up the pieces of shellfish from the floor.

"There is some question, if there might be heirs, that they should be allowed to inherit the properties.  We are in civilization, not in the wilds of a dungeon."

Sharps shrugs his shoulders. "Hard to argue with that," he says, "but, seein' as how we seem ta be on some island, isolated from the rest of the world, as it were, with no ships goin' in nor out, I don't see nobody comin' ta claim it. It's not like I'm paintin' the walls and hanging my shingle out in front- we are just makin' lunch."

He finishes sweeping. "Now, I'm gonna pack a pipe and have a sit in the nice room with all the colored glass. If any wish ta jaw on where we are, how we got here, an' what killed them poor people you's welcome ta join me. There's been far too much talkin' and not nearly enough figgerin' goin' on. Any body else can  either take their ease or take their leave. Jus' don't spit in my soup on yer way out." Sharps pulls out a fine handmade wooden pipe and a bag of fragrant herbs, then lights a candle. He'll disappear into the door in the back, unless someone stops him from doing so with conversation.

A chuckle from the knight.

"The food is likely to go to waste, indeed, otherwise.  Enjoy your smoke."

Frederick shrugs his shoulders and smiles.

That is a logical argument. Whiles those who wish have a bite I will go upstairs and survey the scene. DinenDal is good at ferreting out things others miss.

Frederick will move to the upstairs area where the murder occured.

The well-traveled warrior nods to Hawkmoon. "It's be better if'n you'd come out an' talk with me about our situation hereabouts."

He adds, "The boil's got a few minutes left 'fore it's ready. Browse about, come an' talk. Whatever yous wish."
This message was last edited by the player at 02:14, Wed 11 Mar 2020.

A nod to that and Hawkmoon pulls out his own pipe and stuffs it, heading into the room and finding a comfortable place to sit.

"Hmmm, if you wish sire."

He finishes stuffing it, then lights it from a scrap from the fire, handing the same to Sharps.  He puffs the pipe to life and relaxes, his apparent attention wandering.


OOC:  He never mentions the name "Albion" so you have only known him as Hawkmoon.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:54, Tue 10 Mar 2020.

When Hawkmoon agrees to join him, Sharps smiles broadly. "Bring that brand in here, we'll smoke an' talk out back."

The door gives way with ease; as it slowly swings to the side, a beautiful, vibrant image begins to unfold.  The room itself, at least at its core of construction, appears to have been just a simple sleeping chamber, perhaps, at one time.  It's current use, however, is far removed from its original intention.

The rafters are bereft of any thatch and are instead covered by panes of brilliantly colored glass.  With the sun shining brightly outside, it gives the room a very ethereal, otherworldly quality.  The room itself has been refitted to a be a greenhouse.  Pots of all shapes and sizes fill the room, each bursting with some sort of fragrant, colorful flowers and foliage.  Towards the back of the room sits what appears to be a small alter or work table of some sort.

A broom and bucket are in the corner, and it seems evident Sharps has made an effort to pick up the dead leaves and debris from the floor prior to the group's arrival. There is a light scent of smoky essence here, as if there has been some pipework here earlier in the day.

Sharps waves off the scrap, using the candle instead to light his pipe. "Sorry, no stools," Sharps says, "I rousted them to the dinner table."

As Hawkmoon takes in the scene, Sharps says, "I been here exactly one day. One minute I was on a mountain, lookin' for herbs, and the next- I'm on my ass in the sand." He takes a pull from his pipe. "How 'bout yous? Been here long?"
This message was last edited by the player at 17:04, Tue 10 Mar 2020.

Taking his cues from Sharps on when to light his pipe he leaves the brand back at the fire and avails of a candle himself, with no place to sit he stands with his arms close to his body admiring the glass for a while before speaking again.

"A few weeks myself.  I had camped in an orchard, a pleasant place overall and when I awoke I was within an inn frozen in time, a fair distance from this place, with Sire Frederick."

He lazily puffs and blue smoke curls around his head.  An odd pipe tobacco, stuffed it smelled a little of dirty feet, but had a pleasant odor when smoked.. mild and somewhat spicy.  Tabbac, certainly.. but an odd blend.

In reply to Sharps (msg # 59):

"Don't spit in your soup? I make no promises I can't keep," Joked Boris as he followed Sharps and Hawkmoon outside. Once there the Halfling lit his own pipe.

"I don't quite recall how I came to be here... wait, I recall being chased through the forest.I was taking a shortcut. Then someone started to follow me, and I know the difference between someone going my way and being hunted. I ended up at the gates of Port Strangefellow, this city, with the Saracens in pursuit! My companions here came out and fought the Saracens off, saving my life. Now, I known my home of Outremer quite well and I've travelled many a league there, from Marseilles to Tyre, but I've never heard of this Port Strangefellow. Or this island. But the Earth is a large and full of strange and wonderful places like ancient Cathay and far Afric! With monsters, magic, people without noses and sleep curled up in their gigantic ears and so forth as described by Jehan de Mandeville.

"Messier Sharps, you mentioned coming across bodies in a dungeon? And relieving them of their gold? First, what is anyone doing wandering in a dungeon? That is where prisoners are kept by the lord of the keep, the "donjon". I've been in such a place against my will and believe me the only thing you can think of once inside is escaping it. The prisoners certainly don't carry gold unless it is sewn into their clothing, and the last thing you want to do is take the time to search a body for that. Except maybe to look for a weapon, or keys. If I came across the body of a poor soul I guess I might look for kin to pass along their belongings to, if I could. Maybe save a penny for their eyes and enough to give them a Christian burial."

Sharps nods with appreciation at the scent of each man's smoke, Sharps says, "Well-told, Mr. Underhill. In all sincerity I hopes you never gets ta see what I mean when I say, dungeon. Very uncomfortable an' always cold. Plus- death, you know, 'round every corner." He shrugs, as if to say, no big deal. "But sir, what is a Saracen?"

He continues. "And Hawkmoon, two weeks? What'd ya learn as ta why we all got picked, an' what's everybodies so afraid of at night?" he asks, eager to hear any bit of news.

Hawkmoon shrugs.

"Picked?  I somehow doubt my patron had much to do with this, though maybe my devotion to her might be a factor.  This place smells of evil, the stench fills my nose."  He lets smoke leak out his nose.. to emphasize, or make light of it.

Sharps nods. "And what of th' thing that goes bump in th' night?" he queries.

Hawkmoon cocks his head at Sharps, then shrugs.

"There are certainly things out there, but they are what they are.  Pray tell, what do you mean by that?  Some things are not inherently evil that others may think, but are just by nature frightening.  What is good and pure is not always the best weapon against evils, nor does a lack of evil mean goodness.  I can have similar discussions about law, but that gets even trickier, since it is so subjective.  The bottom line is that all that goes bump in the night even means harm."

Sharps draws in and exhales. "Th' guard sarge told me whatever it is what comes in the night, that's what killed them people upstairs, and a lot of others, it seems. That's what I'm lookin' into. Th' nature of evil and such, them's wasted words on me, brother." He draws in again. "I've seen evil. I got no inklin' ta explore the whys and wherewithalls of it. No, sir."

A chuckle.

"I don't explore it, I just kill it sire Sharps.  As for what came in to kill these people, do you think it will return to the scene of the crime?"