In TransitIndex | Time Under Chaos | Game Logs | In Transit Goran retraced his steps back out of the castle, pocketing the coin bag as he went. He considered taking the shortcut early, but dismissed the idea. It would be better for all involved if the guards saw him leave the castle the normal way. He ensured that this happened, nodding a jaunty "Good morning" to the gate guards as he strode under the portcullis. When he turned the first corner of the road down the hill, Goran stepped off the road and obscured himself behind a tree. He reached into an inside pocket of his uniform and pulled forth a card which depicted a tidy little room with a brick fireplace and wooden floors with braided woolen rugs. There were bookshelves above a desk stacked with papers and a guitar laid lazily on a caned chair by the window. Goran studied the card and the room widened, exposing heavy wooden beams supporting the ceiling and more windows overlooking the busy street below. As he concentrated longer, he could hear the carts passing and merchants hawking the day's wares. Goran stepped forward, his foot landing not in the ditch but on one of those finely braided rugs. He was home. But not for long. Goran's shortcut had brought him to his rented flat in Five Corners, cutting his walk roughly in half. He still had to get back to the Queen and soon, though. Petra would be expecting a report. Goran left his flat and went down to the street. The bustling Five Corners neighborhood was the perfect place to lay down roots for one such as Goran. The constant activity created opportunities while at the same time allowing one to blend into the bustle if one wished. However, now was the time to call on one of those connections he'd worked at. He waited for a few moments until he saw one of the many fishwagons that traversed this route at all times of day, hauling the fresh catch to the restaurants in the Corners. With a grin, he hailed the driver. "Stockwell! I need a lift!" The fishmonger grinned back but barely slowed his cart. "Hop on then, ya scamp. I'm runnin' late." Goran skillfully timed his scramble up to the driver's seat so that he used the spokes of the turning wheel as a ladder. Stockwell was a ruddy-faced fellow with a bushy grey mustache and even bushier head of grey-white hair. He was one of the many teamsters that Goran had cultivated over the years to speed his passage from Five Corners to the Queen. Good conversation helped these men to pass the time on their routine trips back and forth to the docks, and a little extra coin in their pockets bought them a round at the pub that they didn't have to report to their wives. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. As usual, the ride passed quickly, with only the minor hitch of Goran having to explain his bloody shirt. ("Gah, the wench wasn't happy with the performance," he had smirked, satisfying Stockwell by leaving him laughing.) At the docks, he thanked his chauffeur and tossed him a few coppers, then settled himself into a boat for the row over to the Queen. |
