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Into the Archives (Completed)

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Eril was calm, cool and collected, as usual. "I would recommend that you gather everything you may want or need and be on your way, this is no longer the place for you. There will be investigations, Charon, and I can guarantee they will not benefit you. I should not have involved you on this."

The apparition lifted an arm and extended a finger toward Charon’s Pocket. “There’ll be folks  looking for that, both Half Orc and Centuar. It should not be found by the Orcs.”

"Then the Orcs shall not find it" whispered Charon. "Go in peace, spirit."

Charon quietly shuffled out of the crematory and ran to his room. He was glad that his things were already packed. He pulled his satchel out from under the bed and slung it over his shoulder Moving to his desk he pulled the jar of dead flies out and unstopped it. Carefully Charon used the jar and stopper to pluck Scurry out of his web, catching him in the jar. Charon said to the spider, “I promised I’d find you a nice little garden, my friend”.

Charon scooped some papers, ink, and a quill into his satchel placing the jar on top. He ran back into the hall intent on exiting the morgue by the most direct route. Charon needed to find a room in an out of the way inn somewhere in the city, somewhere that half-orcs were not typically welcome. He still had work to do before leaving the city.

There was an inn on the wester side of the city Charon remembered called "The Whisper". It was an odd name for an Inn, and even odder was the fact that there was no alcohol served on the premises. It wasn't very popular amoung the noisy crowd.

“Ah, yes” thought Charon, “The Whisper would be perfect.” If only more inns were like The Whisper maybe he’d spend more time in them. The inn was well suited to his needs. It was a quiet place with quiet people who kept to themselves and kept their distance. Unfortunately to get there he had to travel through town … in the middle of the day.

Charon cringed at the thought of all the people that would be in the streets, bumping and brushing into him. He could almost smell the stink of their breath, their sweat, and other offensive odors. The living are a retched bunch. Sure the dead stank, but at least it was an expected stink, a stink that one could get used to. The dead smelled like the dead, period. The living, however, they are another story. They create their own individual odors based on environment, diet, grooming, racial trends, and other factors. It was something that Charon just could not get used to. In fact, whenever he had to travel in such a miserable environment he did so with a handkerchief covering his nose and mouth.

Charon tied his black handkerchief around his neck. He took a moment to plan a route to The Whisper. He wanted to get there by way of least resistance. He carefully plotted a course that should avoid the most densely populated areas. He pulled up his handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose and he stepped out of the morgue and into the daylight.

The light of the sun had not yet reached it's brightest, as it was still morning. Also as fortunate, it was still fairly early, so the streets weren't all that busy.

Within a few moments, Charon was at the door of The Whisper.

The building was not very large, two stories, and only the width of perhaps a large home. The outside was a dull gray, with black trim. The front door was nondescript with a very utilitarian look to it. Plain flat wood, painted black, with a black wrought iron handle.

Charon pushed the door open. Inside there was a small room with a couple of doors, and a man sitting at a desk. The man was chubby, wearing a plain brown tunic and hunched over some papers. He peered up from his writing, and noticed Charon. "Hello," he said simply.


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