Twelve

"Golden Arch Speedy Fried Fish?" Kerak asked before deciding he really didn't want to know.

Moving slightly to inspect the building, the Werewolf nodded. "I can see why you're fond of it. So what building work needs doing?"

Weft said: "I've worked for them. Believe me, they're evil."

Suitov unrolled the plans that had been concealed in his "Accountants: The Reckoning" sourcebook.

"The foundation is solid," he said, "but the timbering is dangerously rotten and some of the stonework has suffered. We're going to extend it a little way, too - here" (he pointed).

"The builders should be here in the morning. The furniture still needs shifting outside." He eyed Kerak speculatively again. "There's a standing offer of free drinks and food for anyone willing to drag tables around and sand them down."

"You want me to get the furniture outside?" Kerak considered that for a moment. "Fair enough, I don't mind giving you a hand." And with that the Werewolf headed inside the inn. When he remerged, he wasn't dragging a table. Instead, he was carrying it. It looked like a struggle, but he was coping well. In the Warform, it would be a lot easier but Kerak wasn't about to show that off to total strangers.

Baskerville stared, a grin slowly spreading across his face like butter. Those tables were huge and very heavy; he'd expected it to take the three of them to shift one.

He and Suitov shrugged at each other, then wandered inside. They man- (and pseudo-man-)handled another one between them. It wasn't easy.

Weft watched this continue for a while, then went and fetched out a single chair. And sat on it.

Kerak, if he observed Baskerville staring, didn't comment. He did, however, decide it was a good thing he hadn't shown off what he was really capable of just yet.

The Werewolf continues to shift tables, taking small breaks in between each one. They weren't necessary, but it did look better. Kerak wanted to fit in, or at least be accepted, as much as a Werewolf can fit in anyway.

Weft observed all this for a while. Then he tucked his feet under and seemed to fall asleep. Or meditate, which was more likely. His breathing was deep and regular, as befit rest pattern number one, conducive to light-to-medium trance.

"Sure you don't want to move these the easy way?" Baskerville growled.

"Could do, but I've been sitting around all day. Watch it - use your knees, not your back."

Baskerville put the table down, rubbed a sleeve across his forehead, and regarded Weft with sly mischief.

"Later," Iceheart said.

Kerak paused after hauling another table out, looking over to Baskerville and Iceheart thoughtfully after hearing their conversation.

"Tell me." He asked. "How many more are there?"

In the warform, he could carry out two at a time. That would be the easy way.

"Just five," said Baskerville, stretching. In human form he was different again from the tall, scholarly noble and Weft's compact sleekness. He had opted for a no-nonsense street dog's physique; his face might have looked a little too pretty to be badass originally, but the edges had been knocked off by now. Baskerville too exuded energy, though whether it was sexual, mischievous, malign or just plain daftness was very much open to interpretation. Most likely a mixture of the four.

For someone with Suitov's curiosity, perhaps nothing less than Suitov's legendary self-control would stop him from taking advantage of Weft's meditation state. Letting one's mental guard down around mindreaders is not a wise move, and is excusable only by the fact that Weft didn't know he did it. Suitov had never thought to tell him.

Baskerville's impulses were more direct, and involved either incendiary devices or somebody getting chased up a tree.

Consequently, after casting a long glare at Weft Baskerville reluctantly followed his boss back inside to reclaim the pentultimate table.


Two reddish-brown creatures in the background went largely unnoticed. The larger one was watching the smaller, staggering one with avuncular, almost proprietory interest. He also had a rather beautiful ringed tail, but that really has no pandabearing on matters.

Kerak, since Baskerville and Suitov were handling the penultimate table, took the last one himself.

Once he was back outside, and the other two had got their table outside, he turned to Suitov.

"I understand you have a dog." He remarked, trying to find some conversation to make. "I havn't seen a dog about. What sort is it?"

"Large and black," Skerv butted in, "and incredibly good-looking."

"He's a big mongrel with no earthly use," Suitov amended.

("Geek."

"Bimbo.")

Kerak laughed "So a large, black, incredibly good-looking mongrel, with no earthly use." He repeated. "I'll be sure to keep an eye out for him."

The Werewolf then turned his attention to the tables for a moment thoughtfully.

"Fetch," Iceheart said firmly before Baskerville could comment. The hellhound, grumbling under his breath, disappeared and returned with sandpaper. He began to give the nearest table a rubdown.

There was a smashing noise from withinn the building. "Wasn't me," said Baskerville automatically.

Kerak, about to ask Baskerville for some sandpaper, frozen. The smashing sounded louder to him, the result of his heightened senses.

"What was that?" He looked between Suitov and the building worridly.

"I don't know." There was a hint of a groan in Suitov's voice. "Considering the stability of the structure, could have been a light fixture working loose, a window..."

"Or a bottle." Baskerville crouched atop one of the big tables to reach the opposite edge. "Wonder if anybody's drunk all the wood varnish yet," he said.

"I don't want to know."

"Shouldn't we go in and see?" Kerak frowns slightly, looking at the inn thoughtfully.

"I mean, arn't there people in there it could fall on?"

Agueda had silently been watching the parade of muscle-flexing men and heavy wooden furniture, taking the oportunity to eye-up the newcomer from afar. He was a little taller than she, she guessed, with that wonderful dark hair crowning his summit and falling about his face as he lifted the tables so effortlessly.

She sighed inwardly and, after quickly dodging behind a tree and converting her long white skirt into a bias-cut mini, showing a full five inches of long, slender thigh above the top of her boots, approached the stranger.

''I wouldn't worry about the people in there'', she said, placing herself in the line of his gaze, ''They're all more than capable of looking after themselves. Big girls and boys, you know. Even the angel.''

She looked straight into his eyes.

''I'm Agueda'' she cooed, and held out her hand expectantly.

Bowman was following her at full speed, secondary processes blurring beneath him like a watery-blue fog.

''Puhpuhpuhpuhpuhpuh!'' He was heading towards the bottom of Basky's trousers.

Kerak blinked once. Twice, and a third time just to make sure.

There was definetly a rather attractive woman in his line of sight, cooing at him. He wasn't sure what to do about this, other than get a little flustered and nervous. "I'm Kerak." He took her hand, shaking it firmly but remembering to be gentle.

"There's an angel in there? And they might be capable of looking after themselves, but if it suddenly collapsed or something..." Exactly why he thinks he'd be able to do anything in that situation likely isn't clear, but he has his reasons.

''Until recently, my dear sir'' - the last three words had practically oozed out of her beautifully full lips - ''there were gamblers on the roof. They seemed to think it safer up there...''

She glanced over at Weft and, sensing his guard was down, mentally blew him a little kiss.

''...although it withstood the extra weight very well. I find no reason to think it unsafe.''

She might have asked Baskerville's opinion, if she had a thought spare for him, which she didn't. Not right now.

She had been expecting a very gentlemanly sort of kiss on the hand from Kerak, and had been surprised at the informal handshake she had recieved instead. However, she quickly thought of a new approach.

''But if you are determined to go inside, allow me to show you around.''

She held out her other hand for Kerak to take, the silver Molvidr ring glinting as it caught the pale light surrounding them.

Unfortunately, said "angel" had no idea he was being called an angel. On the other hand, he was already preoccupied with matters similar to what would have resulted in someone making him a religious figure.

"No! Old chum!"

"Old chum?! I'll show you old chum, you nancy peacock!"

"Err, can we not talk about thiiiiiiiiiiis!"

Bonk.

Tinkle.

"I don't think so."

"O, blood! Blood!"

"And there'll be more of it in a... what the-"

Thump.

"Now, didn't see that coming, did you, you lumbering brute? Er... zounds!"

Sebastian barely dodged the piece of chimney, but at the same he also managed to drop his blowpipe. "Honestly! All I said was..."

But then Serpentine was already back on his feet, despite the paralysing poison in his blood stream.

The half-elf (still dressed in a jester's uniform) gawked as the winged brute began to sail in the air at him. Before he even realised he was going to do it, Sebatian simply ducked, allowing the short, winged mountain of muscle to glide over him with a stupefied look.

Serpentine hit the wall, and might have possibly gone through it if he hadn't realised he couldn't move his body all of the sudden.

Smash.

That had sounded like brickwork.

Suitov flicked his hands, a semi-automatic gesture. To those in the know, a mage's wrist-flip was as much of a danger sign as a gunman cocking her firearm or a fencer loosening his sword. To anyone else, it just looked as though he was trying to shake loose from long sleeves.

"I shall be back," he said lowly, and strode into the building. Cautious but unafraid.