A Discreet Inquiry Deposited with Perch (NPC)

[Step_Mac]

Cillian dashed off a quick note, sufficient he hoped to get him someone with the ability to help:

Hidden: show

Need proper lock picks, preferably the solid, pointy sort. Intended for use outside Baldur's Gate, and subject to whatever limits desired. Will pay in coin or in kind.

He handed the note, unsealed, to Perch, hoping the man could find what he wanted, or find someone else who could.

With a smile and a nod, Cillian promised to check in soon.

[The Maskarran]

As Cillian delivered his note, a certain feeling would wash over, something like the feeling...he was being watched.

Perhaps eyes viewed him from the crack in a door, deeper in the merchant's room. Or through viewing holes cut in the walls. Or even it was eyes unseen yet present within the shadows. But with certainty, Cillian would know they were there.

Yet with these eyes, there did not feel any animosity. It was the feeling of observance, and interest....

As Cillian would leave having passed on his note, those eyes, or the feeling of them, seemed to stay upon him for some time as he walked away. But as Cillian moved farther away from where his inquiry was laid, the feeling would subside.

If Cillian would return someday, curious to what was watching him, most assuredly, the unseen would be waiting.

[Step_Mac]

Cillian spent the next hour walking, and wondering whether he should welcome or fear that feeling of being watched. He had not experienced it in past visits. Of course, if he were honest with himself, it's entirely possible he hadn't paid enough before either.

Finding no answers in the dust of the road, he realized that, aside from letting the whole matter go, he didn't have anything to do about it anyway. Probably could have figured that out right off, if he'd thought about it more, uh, thoughtfully.

Several days pass, tragedy distracting him from pedestrian matters of locks and unseen eyes. Only after a great deal of wandering aimlessly does he remember. And then, well, once remembered, it's difficult to get a question like that out of one's head. So long without the faintest sign something is behind all those doors, and now... Cillian shrugs mentally. A walk to Baldur's Gate would be good. Best to get out of his own head anyway.

Some hours and a few foolish bandits later, Cillian arrives in the Gate. With a friendly nod to the guard on duty, he entered the East District, meandering across the square, peeking into the Elfsong, and ultimately slipping into the all-too-familiar streets of the Harbor District. The drunks, the smells, the usual offers, the warehouses teeming with activity, the loitering men paying a bit too much attention to passing traffic, well, it's home, or could be. Funny how something no one could love can feel so comfortable. Probably a lesson somewhere in there, but who has the time to figure it out. . . .

Into the courtyard, through the unmarked, unlocked door, and he stands before Perch.

Cillian offers a negligent wave and a tired smile, and asks, "got anything new, Perch? Tools, toys, whispers. . . anything will do, really; seems I'm bored."

[The Maskarran]

As Cillian concludes his business with the dark merchant, an odd breeze crosses his back, touching whatever exposed skin it can subtlety rub, creating a pinging sensation that starts at the tips of hairs and races to the skin, with a light chill.

This minor sensation creates the possibility for Cillian to turn, and look, and wonder what it is...to then find, at his feet, rolling to a stop, a thin slip of black...thing. With focus, it becomes paper, black, like midnight, the smallest scroll, wrapped with a thinly black silk ribbon.

Waiting. It casts its own shadow upon the ground.

[Step_Mac]

Cillian exited the building, a bounce to his step he lacked when he entered. He strode forth, tapping a hand on his thigh, ruminating on the oddly philosophical conversation he had just had. Then, suddenly, he stopped with a shudder, almost involuntarily.

For a long moment, Cillian wondered why he had stopped, only to recall the sensation -- as if it were already a vague memory -- and look around, head cocked slightly. [d20 spot: 18+24=42] As if drawn there, his eyes fell to the ground, fixing on the small black tube, blinking in an attempt to focus on the object, struggling with the very absence of light within its discrete boundaries.

It took Cillian but the slightest moment of consideration -- brief enough to qualify as impulse, really -- before he leaned down, and picked up the scroll. With one more look around, he resumed his journey. He knew an empty house in the area with a cooperative lock. It would make an excellent place to examine this strange scroll.