It is about 65/b/span>/span18C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Church and Lake/span>/span(Your target and their allies have been tasked with convincing a retired and burnt out faction member to come back to the fight.
)

Rinwell slides her hips backwards until the back of her knees press into the edge of the bed. Given the length of her legs, the pass of her body towards Shay is a long one, enough for her to lay back against his form, watching him pamper the larger of the two felines. After a morning of shooting at hordes of torment leeches, she feels she’s earned some time to sit and relax. “That is quite concerning. To go to such lengths for breaking in. The hand of justice within New Haven seems quite direct and even cruel,” she frowns, staring at Shay with her eyebrows furrowed. “Were they truly forced to slay him?”

“Yes, they-” Shay is suddenly cut off from the conversation by the vibrating ring-ring of his phone, causing him to sit up suddenly on the bed, reaching for it. Attracted, the two felines seem to perk up their ears and attention as well, like they’ve been alerted to something interesting. Dangerous, even? Shay clears his throat, answering the unknown number. “Yeah, hello?” There’s a couple seconds of pause before he beams with a, “Mrs. Morris! Yeah, it’s Shay, it’s Shay, you got the right number. How’ve you been?” He mouths a quick ‘EVELYN MORRIS’ to Rinwell whilst on the phone, slowly beginning to slide off the bed.

It takes a moment of him being on the phone, sat upright on the edge of the bed with a few bobs of his head, and faint ‘uh-huhs’ to acknowledge whatever’s being said on the end of the call. He looks contemplative the longer the phone call stretches, until it’s finally conluded with a, “Yes ma’am, we’ll check around the area,” and the call is finally ended. He turns to Rinwell, expression inscrutable. “Looks like rest isn’t greeting us after all. That was Evelyn Morris, you know, the lovely lady at the reception in the Botanical Gardens? She said she wanted our help with investigating a location nearby, in Killgrove. Somewhere near Castle Haven?” He mulls the thought, like trying to recall where a ‘Castle Haven’ might be.

“One of her old colleagues, an ex-Orderite, was last seen roaming nearby the place. She’s heavily caught up in something right now or else she’d go herself, so she’s asking for us to look into it if we can. Middle-aged man, salt and pepper mullet, last seen wearing a leather vest and a friendship bracelet.” Shay is already standing up to dress himself as he explains. “Do you wanna come and help look into it with me?”

Rinwell is the third of the interested parties amongst the two felines that perks up at the alert on Shay’s phone. She wastes no time, letting her actions speak for herself: She gets dressed, donning her equipment, and moving to attach the sheath of her longsword to her right hip, nodding and turning to Shay, working on clasping her cloak over her shoulders. “Has something happened to this man? He is in danger?” she asks, wishing to be appraised. “I will lend my aid, Shay, you need not worry in that regard,” she assures him, any notion for relaxation tossed aside. “Let us be away.”

Guiding Rinwell outside of the house, Shay reveals that he has more to explain to the squire as they hurry, with Shay’s brisk walk nearly breaking into a jog. He’s checking his phone in the meantime. “Castle Haven, it’s a block south from here and then straight east,” he informs her, the map he’s accessing being displayed to Rinwell. “Can access your oracle for the map yourself if you wish. But anyway, Mrs. Morris wants us to talk to this man, he goes by ‘Otis’, and convince him to return to the fold. To the Order.” His stare is almost pleading to the squire while those aviators he’s so often worn are left perching on his scalp. “We need all the people we can get to fight the good fight, love. Let’s get this done.” Once outside, he quickly climbs into his pickup truck. “You remember the description? I’ll text you it again if you need, and I’ll send you Mrs. Morris’ number as well. Bring Apple Tart with you, we’ll split, make the search easier if we look different places, yes?” Then a wave of good bye, and a kiss being blown as well. “Update me if there’s anything. Good luck!” Then he’s off, presumably driving towards their destination as indicated.

It’s a lot for Rinwell to take in, almost like she were being put on the spot without warning. She follows after Shay, her brow furrowing, struggling to keep up in her headspace, especially since Shay is in a real big hurry himself to set off and provide assistance for their fellow Orderite. By the time Shay has departed, she stands next to her stead, holding it by the bridle, absently stroking its head. “Ex-Orderite. Last Seen roaming the Castle of Killgrove,” she recites what was provided of her, frowning. “Middle-aged man. Salt and pepper mullet?” The last identifier puzzles her greatly. She clambers onto her horse and draws the reigns, setting off on a path towards the castle she’s quite familiar with, intent on circling the perimeter. “A mullet…” she puzzles aloud to Apple Tart.

That question shall hopefully be answered soon! As Rinwell makes her way towards the Castle Haven’s surrounding neighborhood within Killgrove, it becomes a little more obvious that the task probably won’t be as easy as it’s sounded. Or maybe, it’s just as difficult as she thought? It won’t be a trivial task, that’s for sure, as the passing crowd here in the mid-day will make it quite a challenge to spot the specific person among them. However, there’re no signs of Shay’s being or his pickup truck nearby, so she knows that they’re not searching around the same spot, at the very least. When the mist isn’t actively harrying the citizens away from the neighborhood, Killgrove proves to be pretty lively. And, when considering the signature indigenous structures and medieval European architecture of the borough, the squire may as well fit right in on her fiery-maned courser looking about the place.

Rinwell has the small advantage of being mounted on her trusty steed, Apple Tart. She scans the area on that lofty perch, cantering past the crowd that probably gives her courser a respectable perch while she searches for anyone fitting the man’s description. “Otis… where are you!?” she calls out into the crowd, holding her phone out as a guide. She’s not very discrete here.

There, at the mouth of the alley nearest to where she is, there’s a middle-aged man clad in a leather vest with graying hair looking out into the street- which, after hearing that name called, has his attention set on Rinwell. Almost too quickly. He’s holding onto a half-burnt cigarette, which, after another smoke, he just casts the damned thing away and begins to turn, heading deeper into the alleyway. An educated guess would probably be that he’s suddenly alert when his name was called out. But at least Rinwell’s spotted him, and although he may not be carrying a fish, all the other tell-tales point to him as being her target. She would’ve spotted him wearing a bracelet too whilst he smokes, even if she may not be so familiar with a ‘friendship’ kind, but it’s a bracelet still.

“Otis!” Rinwell calls out loudly, her light, pitched voice resounding across the crowd, perhaps drawing even more attention to her. She wrinkles her nose and squeezes her steed’s flanks, urging it forward at a spirited canter. Balancing her phone in one hand, she provides a status update to Shay. “I have found Otis. His fish is missing but he looks to be otherwise unharmed,” she reads her text aloud. The iPhone beeps, and since she and Shay are mutual contacts, her partner might be able to pinpoint her location in real-time. “Forwards, Apple Tart. Do not let him stray any further!” The horse veers into that same alley, surging forward in hot pursuit.

No return texts or calls from Shay just yet, but Apple Tart is at least more than responsive to Rinwell’s urges! The magnificent courser surges, causing the people around them to give as much berth as they can for the squire and her steed to continue their noble task. Although… upon reaching only a few meters into the alleyway, there poses a problem for them. There’s a dead end, and though it’s daytime, which provides the squire an easy enough line of sight towards the smaller pathway – hidden behind an almost cleverly placed dumpster – that presumably connects to the other end of the alley, she will unfortunately have to dismount if she does decide to take that route. But Otis shouldn’t be far, right?

Rinwell pats at Apple Tart’s head and swings a leg over, promptly dismounting her horse and tying it near a railing. “Stay here, Apple tart. I must give chase on foot.” Hand at her sword, ready to draw it on a moment’s notice, she shoulders past her horse and into the alleyway, scanning the narrow opening warily. Armed with the information that her target doesn’t want to be found, she stops calling out for the man’s name. Stopping by the dumpster, she notes the potential avenue of escape – perhaps the only one and rounds behind the dumpster, looking for any signs of her target.

It reeks here in the alleyway, as it probably should, with the whiff of whatever organic and non-organic junk filling up the dumpster nearly to the brink. And if she’s keen enough to find more notes of the foul air in here, she’s likely to notice… is that the faint smell of a rotting corpse? The aroma is definitely not unlike the smell of a dead rat, if she’s ever been unfortunate enough to scent one of those before. Anyway, the whiff that hits her face is foul enough to maybe distract her from the fact that the silhouette of a figure is hiding behind the dumpster, who lunges immediately upon the clueless squire as she draws closer!

He smells like cheap cologne and cheaper booze, the man. It’s Otis, judging by the friendship bracelet worn around his gun-wielding hand that he has pointed right against Rinwell’s jaw, the cold steel promising maybe not a quick, but definitely painful death if the trigger is pulled. Struggle as Rinwell may, too, but the older man has a tight grip around her already. He’s skilled, he is, definitely – one could see how he was an Orderite, at least in terms of capability, before whatever it was that befell him. “And just who the fuck might you be, young lady?”

The horrid smells bother her, but Rinwell is not one to shy very much over something mildly unpleasant. She’s faced far worse, including giant, three foot leeches just today. She strays no further into the alley, instead keeping a watchful gaze for any movement beyond her line of sight. Perhaps too watchful, considering she let Otis get the jump on her. A hushed gasp precedes the arms that wrap around her, reacting too slowly to turn and confront her assailant. She squirms and wriggles in his grasp, trying to use all her strength to break out, even if she has the gun pressed to her jaw. “Squire Rinwell!” she blurts out in alarm. “I mean you no harm, good sir,” she grunts, kicking her feet uselessly. “Lady Morris has sought your safety – word has reached us you were about!”

“Start squirming too hard, and I might pop one in the foot ‘fore I pistol-whip you in the face,” Otis warns her, the gruff in his slightly Tidewater-accented voice indicating the grave seriousness within his words. But then that familiar name is mentioned, which, somehow, only makes the tautness of his wrapping arm around Rinwell to grow. “I’ve TOLD her, time and time again, to just leave. me. alone!” Although, eventually, it seems to take some effect- the good kind, judging by how the near-suffocatingly strong grapple begins to relax, and the shove of the gun isn’t too overbearing against the line of Rinwell’s jaw. “So you’re with them? The Order?” He grimaces, the decision being weighed in his mind, although the squire won’t be able to quite notice it in her current unfortunate circumstance. “Chased me all the way down to New Haven, did she? Tell me one good reason why I shouldn’t tell her what I’ve been telling her. To fuck off. Hells, maybe I’ll even leave you slept in this alley here for her to pick up, as a warning.”

knows when she’s been beaten, as much as it pains her, and stops struggling, breathing out her discontent. For her troubles, Otis relaxes his grip on her throat, allowing her more freedom to breath. Catching her breath, she hears someone out with a grimace. Her heart is beating, she’s actually a little fearful. Tense, but firm, she wrinkles her nose, having been thrust in these circumstances without any aid – or information other than she needed to find Otis. “You can tell her that – but it’s like that she won’t stop caring. You’re here in New Haven. The Order has need of every able-bodied sort that it can muster. There’s great EVIL afoot, Otis,” she grits her teeth, incensed enough with her passion to bring evil down that she starts to kick and squirm again. “She must think quite highly of you, Otis. She must think you’d listen to someone who believes in you.” Perhaps cliche, Rinwell is very earnest. “I believe in you Otis! You were part of a congregation that seeks to do good.” One little kick forward, just because and she stops squirming around. “Would you at least do lady Evelyn a boon and come speak to her, at the very least?”

knows when she’s been beaten, as much as it pains her, and stops struggling, breathing out her discontent. For her troubles, Otis relaxes his grip on her throat, allowing her more freedom to breath. Catching her breath, she hears Otis out with a grimace. Her heart is beating, she’s actually a little fearful. Tense, but firm, she wrinkles her nose, having been thrust in these circumstances without any aid – or information other than she needed to find Otis. “You can tell her that – but it’s like that she won’t stop caring. You’re here in New Haven. The Order has need of every able-bodied sort that it can muster. There’s great EVIL afoot, Otis,” she grits her teeth, incensed enough with her passion to bring evil down that she starts to kick and squirm again. “She must think quite highly of you, Otis. She must think you’d listen to someone who believes in you.” Perhaps cliche, Rinwell is very earnest. “I believe in you Otis! You were part of a congregation that seeks to do good.” One little kick forward, just because and she stops squirming around. “Would you at least do lady Evelyn a boon and come speak to her, at the very least?”

“What HAVE I not done for The Order? I’ve done everything I could! I’ve lost,” Otis begins to break. A moment of weakness. The muzzle of the gun lowers from her jaw to her clavicle, although Rinwell knows it can be raised any time. Maybe she’s familiar enough with how guns work to know that it can be shot at any time, as well, the danger of these weapons. “I have- lost…” A broken man, maybe a drunk one, too? A little more than just a little drunk? She’s not facing him at least, to be spared his heady breath if he is.

However, as the man’s quiet sobbing begins, that seems to have drawn… a less savory figure, to stalk out of the narrow pathway. A man, pale and sickly, his bloodshot eyes ringed with dark circles that seem to sink them further into his face. His brunette hair is cut short, revealing the stitch scar along his temple and the row of dark piercings adorning one of his ears – among the jewelry, inked on the earlobe, a tattoo of thorns enveloping it.

He appraises Rinwell at first, the look on his face twisting into annoyance at the sight of the squire, like she doesn’t belong here. And perhaps to her relief, the pistol is quickly directed away from her towards this unknown figure. “Old Otis brought a friend…” the pale man hisses those words, spiteful.

Rinwell draws back, stepping away from Otis, grown far more alert and wary with this new figure. Her left hand reaches for her blade, but she doesn’t draw it, instead, staring at the newcomer with a squint. “Who is this?” she turns to Otis, perplexed. She’s already got bad vibes about this, and holds her hand out warily, as if to shield Otis from the potential threat. “We should go,” she urges, nodding towards Otis. “Come see Evelyn. You can find respite, and your mind there.” He was close enough to her in their initial struggle that she can identify him as being drunk. “Stay where you are,” she warns the figure before them.

“Are you the guy? No, you’re not the guy,” Otis decides, being snapped out of his near-cry suddenly with tension building in his voice and his posture, slowly drawing back from the pale stalker with a few steps. And it seems that their unwelcome guest here may make his move, gaining those few steps to lunge, to attack, if the hate in his eyes- maybe even hunger in there, too? Is any indication. But he notices the weapon on Rinwell, and turns his gaze towards the entrance of the alleyway instead, giving a quick snap of his head to the side like a signal. That prompts Otis to turn his back towards the wall, to afford him a better angle on both ends of the alley. There, at the entrance? Two hoodied figures have prepared themselves, yet the message for them is obvious: clear out of the area. Which they quickly do, and when Rinwell turns to look at the other man, he’s already gone.

“An ambush,” Otis supposes, clearing his throat almost immediately, and spitting the phlegm to his side. “Did you see that? He had the Conclave marked on him. Oh, shit…” It’s clear, whatever deal Otis was hoping to gain here? It definitely was not in his favor.

Rinwell stares at her phone fruitlessly, glaring at it while staring at one of her contacts: Shay. She even prettied up his contact card with a picture of him she snapped while he was sleeping in their old apartment. It’s probably the most unflattering picture of him that could ever be conceived, but she thinks it’s just grand. She stares at the picture as if chiding him, then glances towards where they came came from, watching the two odd figures scurry off. “It’s best not to linger here,” she tells Otis, bringing a hand to his shoulder and nudging him along. “Come. I shall bring you to the Order. The Botanical Gardens,” she tells Otis, her tone suggesting she won’t take no for an answer, shouldering past the man. “You owe lady Morris an explanation – a discussion, at the very least. Then what you choose to do afterwards is yours to make,” she assures him. “You’ll be safe there. The Hand has been seeking out Orderites. You may be one of their targets. By my honour of the 21st, you must come with me, Otis.”

And it’s by this time that the sleeping man in Rinwell’s contact card seems to pull up in front of the alley way, unmistakably so with that shitty little pickup truck of his, further causing any notions of trouble-making from the hoodied men to go away potentially. Shay is waving his hand at them, perhaps having deigned to ask somebody to trace her phone down instead of, you know, texting her and asking where she is. “Rinwell! Over here!” He shouts for them. A little than just fearful of his life now, Otis is more than agreeable to Rinwell’s idea, although he does ask her as he looks upon the car. “Your friend?” And follows her along anyway, whether towards her horse, or for the pickup truck.

“My friend,” Rinwell confirms, grabbing Otis by his arm, she brusquely leads him along the alley, her strides hastened with some small urgency. She stares at Shay with a furrowed brow, but her irritation for him doesn’t last very long. The more she stares at him, the more she feels a little elated, and even bites on her lower lip to suppress a silly grin. “I have found Otis. We shan’t linger here. We’re to bring him to lady Evelyn so she may discuss matters with him.” She stops before Shay and releases Otis, looking like she has much to say.

“Yes, ma’am! Er, sorry,” Shay smiles fondly to Rinwell, and unlocks the passenger door for Otis over there, who at first stares at him rather gruffly – suspicion bound – but he’d rather trust some Orderites than people who are potentially of the Conclave. It helps that Shay is wearing his brown sword & scroll jacket, too – now that’s a more than clear indication of his allegiance. “Alright, see you at the Gardens. Great job, love,” he tells Rinwell with a cheeky little smile, reversing from the alley way with Otis in the passenger seat.

“I’ll meet you back at the K-” Rinwell holds a hand to her mouth, suddenly realizing she shouldn’t out where they’re currently staying. Not with their current predicament and a certain crew gunning to take something dear from them. “I’ll follow along and meet you at the Gardens with Apple Tart,” she promises Shay, briefly taking his hands. On the verge of being lovey dovey with him on the spot, she exercises great restraint and instead elects to press a quick and chaste kiss on his cheek. “Be safe, Shay.”