Keeping a tight, definite schedule was not entirely Corwynn's strong point. Even in the decades past when he had been a student, timeliness had not been something he'd ever been known for. Still, the blond galdor had managed to wake and prepare for one of his two expected guests for the day—Brogan in the early hours and his employer much later in the evening.

The large, slightly isolated house that the gunman had made his home was definitely a good walking distance from the outskirts of the Harbor proper, down the southern coast and nestled rather thoughtfully between some rocks and a swath of scenic beach. There was no fence, no guard gate, no well-manicured viewing garden, and hardly a yard. There was a carriage house, a storage shed that had been converted to a work shop, a small carefully-maintained area for target practice, and the two-story mansion proper. If Corwynn had personal guards, they certainly weren't visible. Gods, if he had staff at all, they must've been very minimal (and they were).

Then again, most of the house was just as bare as the beach, but it was hard to tell that much from the exterior. The King's golly had settled himself in the practically unfurnished dining room, absently polishing the pistol he'd taken his time in crafting for the wick highwayman who was to be doing some of his dirty work very shortly. Feet on the exotic marble tabletop and some bawdy sea tune under his breath, Corwynn was content to wait for his guest before breakfast.

Wavorly, the red-headed wick who almost mockingly served as a butler, waited in the foyer as patiently as a man with a list of things to do could possibly stand to wait, hoping nothing burned in the oven before he had a chance to usher in their guest.

Brogan watched the large house for several minutes before walking towards the door. The galdori was a brother in crime and yet Brogan still knew very little about him. His trust was not whole just yet. Corwynn knew his greatest weakness however, his worship of firearms. And so Brogan swallowed his doubt and beat on the large door of the home.

The brutish wick tried to appear calm though he couldn't remember being as excited as he was. Grimacing he cracked his neck and put on the face of the criminal his "Brother" had sought out for this bloody job.

A short, broad-shouldered, but oddly well-dressed wick answered the door at Brogan's fisted persistence against its surface. His unkempt red hair, impressive collection of piercings, and sea-worn countenance would normally have given Wavorly away as a pirate, but the crisp outfit revealed he was currently serving his time as a butler. In all reality, the former first mate was more like a personal assistant, cook, and occasional physician, but he enjoyed his job and considered the galdor who employed him a friend.

The older man grinned at the other wick, stepping back to allow him entrance into the clean, practically empty foyer.

There was at least a tasteful chandelier.

"Good morning, Mister Rand. Cor's in the dining room waiting for you, as far as I know." The red-head jerked his chin down the hall as if to give directions. The sitting room that adjoined the foyer had a single couch and a small marble-topped table. Despite the dreary, rainy day, the view out of the large windows that spanned the room was rather enviable. A ship or two could be spotted in the distance, and an impressive stair case led upstairs.

"You can't miss it on the right. There'll be some breakfast if you're hungry once I'm finished." He chuckled as if the servant business still amused him, not bothering to ask for Brogan's weapons, "Can I interest you in some tea? Coffee? Beer?"

It was never too early for some folks, after all.

Brogan was taken aback to see a wick as tough looking as that one working as a servant. He looked unbearably out of place in the big fancy house. "Junta, kov!" Brogan exclaimed and gave Wavorly a friendly clap on the back. "Oh I ent never turned down a fancy meal in a big house, balach, I'll take a coffee, black. Thanks brunno."

Taking in the barely furnished nature of the home, Brogan wandered casually down the hallway. From the extravagant nature of his host, Brogan figured his home would be overflowing with expensive furniture and pricey nick-knacks.

Brogan finally arrived at the location described by the odd servant wick. He strode into the dining room and made a mockingly elaborate bow to his host. "My good friend Corwynn, fine mant house you go here, kov. Mujo ma for having me, brunno." Brogan bellowed. He was in an unusually fine mood.

Not particularly startled, the blond galdor inclined his head slowly at the loud greeting, still polishing the dark metal double-barreled weapon in his hands. Smirking slowly, he didn't bother to sit up or remove his feet from the tabletop, simply waving one hand in a sweeping motion toward one of the seats at the long, marble-topped dining table. There were less seats than expected, scattered here and there, but at least one was close enough for conversational purpose.

"I'd venture to wonder whether or not that's a Mirella-flavored grin on your mug, but I suppose that's none of my clocking business." Corwynn laughed, rolling his mischievous blue eyes, "Make yourself comfortable, Mister Rand, and I'm sure my house could be a palace if I cared enough to bother dressing it up. I don't ... I've got the important rooms furnished, at least." And by important, the gunman usually meant the bedroom.

He set the pistol on the table between them with a nod and a wry grin, "I hope you don't mind presents before the meal. Although, it's up to your approval, of course."

Brogan snorted at the Mirella comment but otherwise ignored it. He collapsed into the chair and mustered the class to keep his muddy boots off the table.



"Well Cor, I didn't exactly come here to eat now did I?" Brogan laughed. Despite himself he was beginning to take a liking to the gun smith. He always had something clever to say, which with some was infuriating, yet Corwynn always managed to dance just outside Rand's threshold. He eyed the weapons eagerly. "Mind telling me a bit about yer little friends there?"

The older man laughed, coarse and loud in the sparse dining room, shaking his sun-touched curls, "Oh please, you're quite coy for a ruthless highwayman ... I believe you'll find that weighted to your liking."

He nodded in the direction of the pistol on the table between them. It was rather hefty in size, double-barreled, longer than the standard pistol, and not overly decorated. Despite the simple design, it was clear the weapon was well-crafted.

"You'll have to adjust the sites yourself, which I'm sure we can get to before you leave. Consider that one a token of Brotherly good will; should you feel the need to further arm yourself, I'm sure we can work out a deal."

Corwynn grinned, wolfishly.

The highwayman in Brogan was nearly salivating as he held the finely crafted instrument of death in his hands. "I get it, the first one's free, you are an old toft ent ya?" Brogan chuckled.

Brogan had held a large variety of handguns, all shapes and sizes, and never had one felt so right. It was an extension of his arm. The lethal, chilling grin returned. "We're going to spill a lot of blood together."

"That's the plan!"

Rumbled the gunman in another laugh, his left hand smacking the smooth, marble tabletop for emphasis. With a roll of his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug, he jerked his blond head in the direction of the pistol in Brogan's hands, "Don't worry, Mister Rand, I've got a discount for family." He practically purred, grin broad and mischievous, "You won't have to ever worry about paying out your nose like the rest of my non-Brotherly customers—"

"Because the rest of his non-Brotherly customers are just wealthy gollies with too much money in their pockets and too much leisure time, anyway. Why the clock else would they want to play with anything illegal and expensive?" Wavorly did so wickedly enjoy interrupting his former Captain when it was most inappropriate to do so; it was a rather cheap thrill for the wick, a friendly running joke of sorts.

With a broad grin, the ex-pirate deposited a Gioran press on the table, full and steaming with black coffee. Two mugs, cream, and sugar followed wordlessly while the red-head chuckled knowingly to himself. While Wavorly would most likely knock the teeth out of any man (or woman) who'd dare accuse him of going soft after stepping off a ship to play at butler for his friend, the wick had come to enjoy cooking as some strange, undiscovered talent.

"Oh, that's observant social commentary there." Snorted Corwynn.

"I was kind enough not to go including yourself, Cor, though you're far from an exception." Smirked the butler, depositing a tray of assorted baked goods, some fresh fruit from the islands, and some well-aged Hoxian cheese, "Enjoy your brunch, gentlemen."

With a wink and a nod, Wavorly laughed his way out of the dining room.

The blond galdor finally slid his feet from the tabletop and made a move to pour the coffee, taunting with a wry grin, "It's so hard to find good help in the Harbor. It must be that no honor among thieves problem." He chuckled and passed a steaming mug in Brogan's direction, "I'm sure you enjoyed a bit of that sort of thing while living a life of banditry and such."

Brogan accepted the mug and chuckled. "Aye, most types living the life are just loads of spitch, too lazy or stupid to follow society and be upstanding citizens and all that. Think there's easy ging to be had as an outlaw, think they don't have to work for it like everything else."

Brogan paused to take a drink of the rich coffee, it was better than he'd expected and his expectations had been high. He wiped his mouth with his forearm before continuing.

"There's always those few that a murderous git can rely on though. Them's that take this life for what it is, an opportunity, a challenge. Thievin's just as much a profession and skill as a smithy, more in fact. Most of them mung laoso's don't understand or respect that and that's why they follow tsuter cotters like us." Brogan tipped the rest of the coffee into his mouth and slammed the cup back on the table.

"Good coffee."

Corwynn smirked, making some selections from the food set between them while Brogan talked. After he'd finished filling his plate, he shrugged and replied nonchalantly, "Well, unlike a blacksmith or a baker, folks in our business aren't usually given much of a second chance when they decide to stop following orders."

The older galdor's words carried a note of personal irony, well aware that he was an exception to that normal rule.

"There's more coffee where that came from." He nodded in the direction of the press, adding as almost an afterthought before munching on some grapes, "So are you familiar with the insides of a ship, Mister Rand? When you go to fetch my captain, you won't get lost, will you?"

Brogan grunted but paused to answer while he applied a large wedge of the cheese over a steaming roll. "What's to know, the captain quarters are the largest at the back of the ship. I'm not exactly hunting Hatchers here, its a clocking boat." He muttered through a mouthful of the delicious food.

"What kind of business do you have with this Captain anyway?" Brogan asked, he wasn't sure his host was willing to share the info but he seemed to be in a conversational mood.

(Sorry if I've repeated something we've already covered, its been a long move. I'm here now and all set up in Texas!)

"Well, before I watch him slowly bleed to death, it's my goal to empty him of information about who he works for and the routes he runs. I want ship names, crews, delivery times, cargo. Any new insight on the Drain and their tactics is what I'm after." The blond galdor's tone was hard-edged and distant, shifting audibly from his usual form of lazy sarcasm.

Corwynn glanced down at his own coffee, attempting not to scowl, "They've become quite a thorn in our side, and it seems as though we're always left grasping at straws to stop them. I'm hoping a few more captains and a few more informants placed aboard known ships will get us somewhere ..."

"Finally."

Brogan wiped his mouth with his sleeve and leaned back in his chair. His face settled in a deep frown.

"It's rather strange how such an upstart organization could be so new yet demand such loyalty from its members. It normally takes decades to organize and develop the reputation to keep the laoso scum it employs so quiet."

He dropped his chair back to the floor and leaned forward, brushing his empty dishes out of the way.

"I have mutilated dozens of these Drain clockers and ent got a single one to dob." Brogan seethed and pulled out a particularly nasty looking knife. "I've gotten the toughest balachs I've ever seen to spill by just the look of this one. But these Drain boys, nothing."

He slid the skinning knife back into its hiding place in his vest and crossed his arms.

"What makes you think this Captain of yours will talk?" He growled with genuine curiosity.

"I won't be doing the work this time." Corwynn waved his hand dismissively as he spoke from over the rim of his mug, blue eyes almost coy. His tone was an odd mix of compliment and sourness, as if he respected what the woman was capable of while genuinely disliking to be in her presence for long periods of time, "If there's anyone in Hawke's service that can make a body talk, it's Yulina, one of his Henchwitches."

The blond galdor grinned a little, wolfishly, "She's quite a sight in action, or so I hear. There's more to torture than sharp objects, Mister Rand, and there's more magic out there than the standard fare if one knows where to look."

"Even a few words are better than none at this point." He added with a scowl, knowing well enough the trouble the Drain had somehow managed to cause in its short existence, especially among the ranks of the Brothers themselves. As far as the gunman was concerned, there had to be something worthwhile behind it all for even some of their own to turn traitor, "I'm sure I could work out an audience to the show if everything goes well enough."

"After going through the trouble of bringing him in, I wouldn't miss it." Brogran replied. He stood and strolled around the dining room as he talked. "If we finally get some information from these bastards I want to hear it first hand."

"On a lighter note, how about we shoot the Vrunta outta something?" He said through his viper grin.

Corwynn laughed, setting his empty mug on the tabletop, hands coming to rest on his knees as he considered getting up, "Eager to give that new toy a try, are you?"

The blond taunted, "Or are you just worried my craftsmanship isn't what I say it is?" Shaking his head, he stood and hooked a thumb over his shoulder, "We'll go out to the beach. It's not raining hard enough to cause too much trouble and I'm sure a little water never did you any harm." His tone might have been a little haughty, but he wasn't entirely trying to be insulting.

The gunman led the way though the hall toward what might have been considered a sitting room if there was only furniture in it. Instead, it was empty, apparently like most of the large, impressive house. Corwynn didn't entertain much, or, if he did, he only had a few rooms he considered necessary ... The sitting room had a set of doors that opened into a covered porch with a set of wooden stairs that led straight to the beach. It was cloudy and misty outside with a dark, angry sea, but it was only sprinkling.

Down the private, well-kept beach a ways was what looked like a home-made shooting range with a booth to stand under and a bunch of abused targets at different distances. The galdor took his hobby seriously.

He pointed with his whole hand, the other missing an index finger anyway, "Should be everything we need down there. I haven't had much time to shoot at targets lately—too many of the living have been asking for bullets instead."

That struck Brogan as funny and he laughed loudly. "Their greed knows no end, they'll have to wait until I've sighted in my benny new friend here."

He began walking toward the shooting range, shielding his pistol protectively again the light rain. A mother couldn't care for her child better than he would for the beautiful piece of craftsmanship.

"I knew it was a good decision to come to Old Rose, Corwynn my brunno." Brogan said and flashed a genuine smile at the galdor.

"I'm sure there were plenty of carriages to rob on the road, but at least the sea is always changing. You never know what's going to clocking wash ashore around here, that's for sure." Laughed the older man in response, almost with a hint of what could only be called nostalgia. He didn't miss Vienda, nor his life there, even if he still had a family business to pretend to run and a legal name to play at on occasion. It was more like a mask there, not something real like he felt in the Harbor at all.

Once across the small strip of beach, the tin roof of the small booth served as a bit of shelter from the rain. The structure appeared hand-made, either by Corwynn himself or by his ex-pirate of a butler, Wavorly. It was functional and simple, with a footlocker against one side obviously for ammunition and powder and supplies.

"Sorry no moving targets today. It's a rare occasion, unfortunately." Teased the blond gunman, obviously referring to living targets. Deciding to defer to the wick so he could give his new weapon a go, he leaned against the opposite side of the booth and nodded in the direction of the locker,

"Make yourself at home. Let's see how you handle that thing."

Brogan lifted the weapon and looked down its sights. The balance was perfect. The gun's weight almost seemed too light until he pulled the first of the twin triggers and felt the concussive blast of the first barrel. The pure power of the shot caused his blood to pound in his ears. The mili-seconds it took to pull the second golden trigger were pure agony. The second blast went off. He felt the vibration through his teeth as he grinned his viper grin.

"I haven't felt this alive since...well last night. Hahaha!" Brogan laughed as he looked down range to see what damage he'd caused. Only the lovely Mirella could ever match his fierce adoration for firearms.

Corwynn snorted, rolling his mischievous blue eyes with a careless toss of blonde curls. He considered commenting, knowing he had plenty to weigh in on the subject of nocturnal activities and their rewards but unable to pick a perfect starting point to his lengthy experience. Still, he laughed, guessing the wick's reference without the need of names.

Turning and leaning against the small table, his less-whole left hand strayed to rub his chin as he glanced with only a hint of shrewd judgment at the targets scattered about his home-brewed practice range,

"Well," the blond gunman smirked, noting the accuracy of the two shots without a change in expression. The sights might not have been quite perfect yet, seeing as both were a little low and to the left. Then again, it could've just been the breeze from the ocean that sighed nearby, "It's good to know I didn't waste my time in such a gift, Mister Rand."

Grinning then, Corwyn gestured further across the pock-marked stretch of beach, "Surely, you're not finished yet ... you've got the looks of a man with a little more endurance than that."

Brogan stared over at the targets, both were a little low and to the left. He made a few clicks on the sight. "Thanks Cor, aim is a critical element of becoming a successful highwayman."

Raising the pistol to account for the distance Brogan fired off both barrels down range. The bark of the shots echoed down the beach. The recoil was extremely satisfying, it perfectly mirrored the power of the weapon.

"My name will be known throughout the Harbor once kovs start dying from this beauty."

"Everyone's got to die from something," Corwynn smirked, though by the slight coyness of his tone, he may not have entirely been continuing the conversation about guns, "so it might as well be good to look at when it happens."

The older galdor glanced at Brogan's weapon, the grin creasing his sea-weathered aristocratic features bordering on the youthfully cheeky, "If nothing else, you can break a few hearts, though I've got a feeling you shouldn't have any problems stopping them with that, either."

He didn't bother with his own pistol, though his right hand had come to rest on it's grip out of habit, either to restrain himself from feeling the need to show off or just for the sake of conversation. Given his occasional enjoyment of a bit of flair, he must have been intent on keeping his sights on business instead of pleasure, despite a strong desire to compare aim with the highwayman, "As far as I know, your ship is on time. You'll get plenty of practice making a name for yourself then."