Etharyn bit his lip as he watched the village burn through a spyglass from the safety of an overlooking hill and wondered where his plan had gone so spectacularly wrong. A year back, he'd heard from a fellow dealer in secrets on the mainland of someone looking for some sort of magic tome. The details of what particular tome was in demand were practically non-existent, but Etharyn was an ambitious man; he wasn't about to let a little thing like a lack of intelligence get in the way of a good scheme.
The plan had been remarkably straightforward. First, sell some passing traders and adventurers rumors of a fabled magic tome. Next, wait for them to return to the mainland and spread the rumors. Then, when someone would come to him asking about a magic tome, ask which tome they were looking for, then listen to the descriptions they give in response. Repeat as necessary to gather sufficient information to locate the tome himself, then tender that information to the Silent Watcher. The Watcher was always keen to know of lost artifacts, particularly those of great power, and would reward the faithful that offered such knowleged with knowledge of commensurate value. Who knew what secrets gleaned by the eye that watches from shadows would be revealed to him as reward for such an offering? Etharyn honestly wasn't sure, the possibilities were so great. As cons went, there's no reason it shouldn't have worked. It hadn't required specific timing, it hadn't required ironclad cover stories or characters. All it had required was Etharyn sitting back and just doing his job like always. So at what point, he wondered to himself, had psychopaths in longcoats entered the picture?
"Why does this happen to me?" he groaned as he adjusted the spyglass's focus to track the rampaging maniac as she walked out of town.
Once he was sure she wasn't coming back, and once the fires in town had mostly burned themselves out, Etharyn descended from the hill and made his way through the wreckage towards what was left of his tavern. The second floor had completely collapsed and left the main dining area of the tavern buried under a mountain of rubble. Which is why he'd had the foresight to move the area behind the bar -- and the entrance to the cellar beneath -- to the only part of the building that didn't support a second story. Using a wood axe he knicked from outside the house of one of the fishermen, which had escaped the worst of the blaze, he set to work splitting and clearing the consumed timbers of his beloved Pilgrim's Cross from the area around the hidden cellar hatch. The work went quickly, since no one had interrupted him to beg him to help dig out their aunt or their child or their dog out of the ruins of their house. In fact, no one who had fled the fire had returned to the village yet, but Etharyn wasn't going to dwell on that. He just wanted to collect his things, steal a boat from the cove, and be gone before anyone could trace the source of the rumors back to him. He'd watched what the psychopath in the longcoat had done to the rest of the villagers and he wasn't keen on partaking in the experience.
After the better part of two hours of labor, Etharyn had cut a swath through the rubble large and stable enough for him to haul open the floor hatch that led down to the cellar. He had to throw his whole weight against the handle a few times, since the fire had warped it in its frame, but it popped free with a resounding crack that echoed through the mostly-silent ruins, and he scurried down the ladder. The cellar was large, but mostly contained foodstuffs for the bar and kitchen, nothing Etharyn wanted to take with him aside from a few valuable vintages and a handful of provisions for his voyage. However, tucked away at the very back, behind the kegs of ale, racks of wine bottles, and sacks of grain and dried meats was a hidden alcove, just out of sight from the folding staircase. It was there that could be found the treasures Etharyn wanted to take with him. He kept the mostly packed in a traveling chest for this kind of eventuality -- sacks of coin, sorted by principality, coded journals and ledgers, a disguise kit, various forged documents, and the other sundries of his trade -- but some were still set up around the alcove. Most important, yes the one thing he had to take with him if he had to leave everything else behind, was the statuette in the shrine that he had made the alcove's centerpiece. Carved of a black, glossy stone Etharyn had never see before, it depicted a shrouded figure upon a high-backed throne, and it was the one thing in the entire tavern he did not know how to replace. It was his link to the Silent Watcher. Every intelligence report, every juicy overheard rumor, everything he divulged to the Watcher he did by praying before the icon in the night, and the icon would whisper back with choice selections from the Watcher's dark bounty.
Etharyn had received the icon of the Watcher from his father, along with the rest of the Pilgrim's Cross, after his fathered passed away. He did not know where or how his father had gotten on the icon, only that his father had made him promise to always keep it in his possession. Etharyn had needed no convincing. Direct access to a deity, and one of knowledge and secrets no less, was a powerful thing. Absolutely powerful, if one played their cards right, and Etharyn intended to do just that. Prerequisite to that was living long enough to draw a good hand, so he wrapped the icon in a travelling cloak, put it in the chest, then began piling the rest of his necessities in around it. He moved quickly, wanting to be out and on his way well before dawn so no one would see his escape.
