"Ah yes. Quite the polymath, aren't you?" This said in conversational tones as she sets the crossbow on a near to hand headstone (with unspoken apologies to Our Sweet Mother Louise Lynne Murdoch, 1751 - 1805) and hauls Bradshaw over onto his back. As if there isn't presently some kind of evil monster a measly few yards away flexing and bending at the bonds Ellis has placed upon it.
When that binding breaks, the two of them will be in all kinds of trouble if they aren't ready for it. How long do they have? A minute? Seconds?
Best to sort through the dead man's pockets quickly then.
"He'll have some kind of object of power on him. Cross your fingers that Mr Bradshaw was the type to inscribe its word of power on it." Or-- a pause. She checks the palms of the dead man's hands. No, she thought not. But still, best to check. One never knows when they'll find a telling ink smudge.
"Otherwise, we'll have to destroy it." Which would make no one happy, least of all the Guild. "Oh, where did you keep it, you--"
Fitcher opens a wallet, searches its billfold, and then tosses it aside with a frustrated sound.
no subject
When that binding breaks, the two of them will be in all kinds of trouble if they aren't ready for it. How long do they have? A minute? Seconds?
Best to sort through the dead man's pockets quickly then.
"He'll have some kind of object of power on him. Cross your fingers that Mr Bradshaw was the type to inscribe its word of power on it." Or-- a pause. She checks the palms of the dead man's hands. No, she thought not. But still, best to check. One never knows when they'll find a telling ink smudge.
"Otherwise, we'll have to destroy it." Which would make no one happy, least of all the Guild. "Oh, where did you keep it, you--"
Fitcher opens a wallet, searches its billfold, and then tosses it aside with a frustrated sound.