The mouse, seeing that Caer was not going to move, finally decided to take matters into his own paws, and quickly disappeared into the darkness.


Five silver pieces were difficult to collect because of logistical reasons, but few noticed a rat in the city. A few hours later he scurried up to the stable master with a bag of five silver pieces, stole a ticket, ran up the horse's leg, stuck the ticket in the ear, and rode off.


Never has the rat had such a thrill, as he clung desperately to the backside of a charging horse. Several times he was almost thrown free, but determination preservered.


Fifteen minutes later, the rodent leapt free and rolled into pile of hay outside Cornwall Station. Disoriented, tired, and feeling somewhat out of his element, he took off down the road to arrive at the broken summoning tower past midnight.


There Albricht Whitethorne stood as lackey to the fell sorcerer Basaia. He was not concerned however, and with a bit of care and subtlety, lifted a signet ring from him -- the signet ring of Father Whitethorne.


It was a masterful success, and the rat afforded himself several minutes of dance afterwards to celebrate.


/dance

/dance

/dance


With that the night was finished, but the rat's work had only begun.

Several days later, a message arrives for Lord Benowyc. The handwriting is terrible, but it *is* sealed with the official crest of Father Whitethorne.


It reads:


"Lord Benowyc,


I am the master of the Whitethorne Estate located in Camelot, and I would be interested in providing it to your lordship for a modest price of 800 gold. The house is a magnificent structure, located immediately off of the Round Table, and is worth many dozens of times that. But because I have admired you for so long I thought I would provide you with this bargain basement price.


It would be very, very worth your time to invetigate this matter closely. You may meet with me at the Stone Inn, Octobre 12th, at dusk."


Whitethorne"

A message arrives for Albricht Whitethorne. It's handwriting is terrible, but it came by a royal courier.


It reads:


"Albricht Whitethorne,


I understand that you have come into the ownership of an estate located near the Round Table in Camelot. I am willing to offer you a great deal of platinum for the purchase of such land, if it suits my needs. I have been wanting to purchase a summer home in the city for several years now, and this sounds like the perfect opportunity.


Please meet me at the Stone Inn, Octobre 12th, at dusk.


Lord Benowyc"

Lord Benowyc was naturally intrigued with the offer, and set off to meet this Father Whitethorne (although he thought he had previously heard he had passed on already) with an entourage of a dozen knight commanders. Spirits were high, although his advisors cautioned him to investigate the identity of this Whitethorne before exchange of any land rights or gold.

/bump

 

-----signature-----

He stared out the window lost in thought. The news he had gotten was not good. Messages had arrived over the past days from Arguyle MacFadden, Moryan of the Wayward Band and from Carrington himself.


None painted a nice picture. It seemed that matters were moving in the wrong direction, and other than some cryptic statements here and there, like information had emerged, save one name, which was hard to accept for who it was. Even that was speculation, according to Jashen, Rasputyn and a few others who listened for the League throughout all of Camelot.


Crispian came to his decision and called for Tannir, his "squire" here in the Capitol city. A few curt instruction, and Tannir was leaving, while Crispian saw to a bath. When he was done, he pulled on hose of a deep blue, a silver silk tunic and a rich doublet of deep gold tones. Soft low boots matched the doublet and when he pulled on the cloak of the League, badged for the Seneschal of the Order, it made a striking look. He smoothed his hair before pulling on a soft cap.


Although there was no mistaking him for a proper courtier, Crispian did look dashing in the court attire he so despised. He almost disliked the outfit as much as what he was going to do. But, for what he had in mind, a gruff highland warrior, a disgraced Lord or a - well - Moryan - would be unsuitable.


With a finally agjustment of the belt his fastened on his hips, he left his small chamber, heading for a meeting.

 

-----signature-----

/ooc


But, for what he had in mind, a gruff highland warrior, a disgraced Lord or a - well - Moryan - would be unsuitable.


ROTFLMAO!!!

ooc, Carrington, are you going to finish this or not, man? You started it days ago and have seemingly neglected it.

/ooc


That is IF there is anything to finish. I think he may have already.


The point may just be that he is now poor.

ooc, but my mouse is on the MOVE!