The egg can only be purchased, of course, if it can be caught and brought to the counter, since the Sheep is in no shape to go chasing vainly after it herself. So far, it eludes even casual observation. It is always just in the corner of one's eye, or a little off-center at best, but seems to shift to the next shelf, then the next. Even trying to "trap" it by observing it all the way up to the ceiling is no proof. If it cannot even be looked squarely at, it's a wonder as to how it might actually be obtained.

"You know, if we can't look at the egg, I bet we could use mirrors," Harrison points out. "It's not looking at it that way..."

*** Note to GW: Please edit in following description of Griffin taking the picture *** Even with talons instead of fingers, Griffin can handle the tintype camera like riding a bicycle. The device is removed from the case, unfolded, mounted and cowled in a matter of minutes. The flash bar is set, image focused and the prepped dry emulsion plate slotted in. "Say 'periwinkle!'" the photographer tells the Sheep. POOF goes the flash! Tiny trays and set under the cowl on a small shelf, metal flasks are opened and the plate is developed, rinsed and lacquered quickly, all by touch and habit. A few minutes later, and the Sheep has a photograph of herself (or rather a negative on black lacquer, which looks like a

Achilles looks inspired. "Of course! Genius, old chap." He checks about for something that could be used as a mirror. Maybe something highly polished... Like a silver serving tray, perhaps.

*** (continued) *** positive), all for just a Guinea. Five minutes later, and the camera and equipment are all packed away again. "You learn to be quick when you're trying to photograph fairies," Griffin notes.

"Oh!" the Sheep Shopkeeper says suddenly. "I almost forgot!" She sets down her knitting yarns and needles, and gets up from her chair to rummage around under the counter. "Some lad dropped this off. Thought it belonged to you. What luck that you actually dropped by to pick it up!" And then she comes back up with a large travel bag that she sets on the counter top.

"Mind if we borrow a mirror or two for a bit, dear lady?" Harrison asks of the shopkeeper. "They won't leave the shop. We have to be sure we look our best on our journeys, after all. I'm sure you understand the need to always look your best as you have always looked your best when we've visited!"

"What sort of lad?" Griffin asks the Sheep, and eyes the bag for anything familiar.

"Aha!" Achilles collects the bag and opens it up to reveal... Several changes of clothes, a toothbrush, a bottle of Phillipe's Patent Pending Purifying Tooth Powder (not made with actual teeth), a small shaving razor, a jar of shaving cream, and... A shaving mirror! "My old bag! Thank you, Sheepkeeper, that's simply providential!"

"Oh, hoo hoo hoo, you flatterer!" the Sheep giggles, distracted by Harrison. "Oh yes, please, feel free to look around. There's no charge to look, and certainly no charge to look at yourself."

Harrison bows, his ears flopping forward in time. "You are most kind; thank you again. You are still our favorite shop!" he says.

The Sheep blushes some more, but then to Griffin, she offers, "Oh, a lad, you know. About yeah tall." She holds out her hoof(?) so vaguely that it's of little help at all. "A very typical sort of youth."

"Absolutely our most favoritest sheep!" says Achilles. He uses a coat sleeve to burnish the mirror a bit, then tries to use it to catch sight of the Egg.

A glimpse is what he catches. The egg is just on that shelf yonder, by the little brass knobs ... but, no, he looks too directly at it, and it is on the NEXT shelf instead. Apparently, looking at the reflection of the egg is much like attempting to look straight at it (only reversed, of course).

Harrison, meanwhile goes to find a small mirror for himself to use ... as well as find a good hiding spot in which to ambush the egg.

The gryphon eyes Ace, but doesn't speculate on the identity of the lad, not while Integra is present certainly. "The egg always stays on a shelf then?" he asks instead.

The card-carrying reporter reports this to the others, "It seems as if the mirror isn't quite indirect enough for our purposes. Hmm..." A thought seems to be teasing at the corner of his mind, but not quite close enough to be caught yet.

"Oh, you young fellows are after the egg again, are you?" the Sheep says with a chuckle. "Oh yes, it's always on a shelf, but just out of reach at best."

"I don't suppose you have.. a small shelf?" Griffin asks the Sheep, and holds his hands apart. "Perhaps one small enough to fit inside of Achilles' travel bag?"

"Ooo hoo!" the Sheep giggles. "Now that's thinking outside the box! Or inside the bag." She rummages around, and produces a little wooden knickknack shelf. "I don't know right for certain whether it will work. Oh, but DO be careful. You know, the shop is so much larger on the inside than the out, and as oft as not, if you focus too much on the egg and ignore everything else, you might chase it right into another square entirely."

"We might be able to! Or... perhaps we could engage a different sense than sight, if it only responds to directly looking at it, it might be more amenable to, say, being smelled, by those with exceptional shnozzes." The flat reporter grins at Harrison.

"Smell the egg?" the Shopkeeper asks, sounding a little scandalized. "You're not suggesting it has gone BAD, are you?"

Holding the small shelf on top of the counter (since perhaps the counter will also hold the egg still), Griffin says, "Well, the egg is shy, so if we look at anything but the counter and this shelf, it may decide to appear on it."

The reporter laughs. "Oh, no. But if it winds up on a shelf in the middle of something odoriferous, well, some of the smell might rub off. And then if we detect that smell anywhere else... We might be close to it!"

Achilles lays out the plan. If we can put out something sufficiently scented, we can try to chase the egg through that shelf, then toward the shelf in the bag. When it's close enough that Harrison can smell it... Pop! goes our trap.

"It appears our reporter friend has been sampling the booze without telling us," Harrison remarks. "Wince when do I have an exceptional nose?"

"Your NOSE," Integra offers back to her uncle. "Maybe YOU can smell things better with a bigger nose? Mr. Harrison's is very small and bunny-like."

The reporter hmfs at the rabbit. "Perhaps I'm just noticing your nose more because it's... so cute, pink, and prominent! In any case, perhaps some scented soap might do the trick?"

Paisley strokes his beak. "It's not a proper nose, you know," he comments, and then tries sniffing the air to see if he can pick up anything more than the usual scents.

It's musty and dusty and here and there rusty, but this no revelation to Mr. Griffin, whether or not his nose is large or small.

"Well, we could try constructing a nest," Griffin suggests. "Eggs might like nests."

A howling gust blusters down the street, rattling the front doors and jingling the stringed bells. A chill draft scoots along the floor. Fortunately, the warmth of the fireplace keeps the winter cold at bay -- though the Sheep still habitually returns to her chair and settles in while the "youngsters" puzzle about the egg.

"We could reorganize the shelves so that the only place it can go is that small one," Harrison suggests.

Achilles nods wisely. "An eggs-cellent idea! Why don't you arrange my bag with the cute little shelf the Sheepkeeper has gotten us and whatever might make a reasonable nest? Harrison, if you could suggest just how we might reorganize the shelves, I think between the two of us we should be able to get the job done."

"Reorganize?" Griffin asks, clicking his tongue against the top of his beak. He looks about for.. nest-building materials.

"I don't see the need for a nest," Harrison notes, "It just moves shelf to shelf, so we should make it the only shelf it can move to."

"Still, there is that straw hat, we could return a little of the rope I have in favor of purchasing it if you want to make a cute little nest," Achilles suggests to Griffin.

"Hjckrrh," Griffin comments. "Rope could be a nest as well. But if we all turn our backs to the counter, and look into the corners and back of the shop so that our fields of vision overlap, that may be sufficient to force the egg to the counter shelf."

"Well, I'd go with the straw hat. Perhaps you should set Integra to making the nest?" suggests Achilles.

"Or, we could use a real bird's nest," Griffin suggests, and scans the back of the shop. "I know I glimpsed one.."

Achilles looks mock-shocked at the rabbit. "Such a pinchpenny! Well, I think we have a suitable plan then. After Integra makes the nest, Harrison can wait in ambush, while the rest of us sweep the shop, squeezing the egg into the only place left for it to go, as Griffin suggests. Once it's suitably nested, Harrison can entrap it, then we pay for it and we can go and have some breakfast!"

"Lets do something. The longer we stay in one place, the more dangerous it gets," Harrison comments rabbitly.

Integra entertains herself, flipping through some children's books. The books are in very sorry condition, with heavily-worn or entirely missing covers, torn pages, and childish scrawlings, but they have curious pictures. None of it appears to be particularly enlightening or relevant to the current situation, however.

"AhaWWWK!" Griffin squawks, and goes to a back corner of the shop, shifting strange items about to reach the old nest he spotted. "Here!" he declares, bringing the construction back to the counter.

Or, rather, Griffin would. However, when he turns back to where he thinks the counter is ... it isn't there.

The others, however, can still hear his declaration. It's just that "Here!" doesn't appear to be here, from their point of view.

"Harrison rubs his long face. "Birdbrain," he mutters to himself. "The griffin has gone and gotten himself lost!"

"Now where did Griffin go?" wonders Achilles as he looks over to see the others puttering about in the corner.

"Oh, the adventures you youngsters would go on in the shop!" the Sheep reminisces. "It's just like old times!"

"Hmmm," Griffin ponders, and looks down at the nest in his claws. He tries returning it to a shelf.. if there are any left.

"Lost?" Integra cries out. She sets down a coloring book (sadly missing the watercolor set it was supposed to have accompany, and the colors rather messily applied) and calls out, "Uncle Paisley!" Her voice carries through the shop, past all the knickknacks.

"I appear to be.. in a different room," Griffin calls out. Is that a bed against one wall? A bathtub next to the table? "If it is the Sheep's bedroom, please accept my apology for the intrusion!"

In Griffin's part of the store, the nest goes back on the shelf just where he found it. The tricky part, however, is in trying to re-trace his steps. Vague memories flit back about the nature of the shop. Once, someone bought a sailing vessel in the shop, and at another time, a small CASTLE. By convention, of course, it had to be a rather larger shop on the inside than on the outside, with a very curious sort of geometry.

Achilles looks bemused. "How odd! I can hear you, but I can't see you," he says, looking about. Well, maybe it will become clearer if he can track the bird down.

"Harrison, I think I've found Griffin's trail," the reporter says, motioning the rabbit over to observe some odd markings in the dust. "It's... It's..."

Achilles wobbles a bit dizzily. "Focus, old chap," he tells himself. "Just concentrate on the trail. Everything else will sort itself out." He steadies, then nods to the rabbit. "I think I've got it, just stay close and don't look around."

Back at the shelf, Griffin considers the items he had to move about to reach the nest. So.. he takes the nest again, and tries to move everything else back the way he vaguely remembers it being.

"Hey, eyes on me, tenderfoot!" the reporter tells the rabbit. "This place is tricksy, if you let your eyes stray, you're going to go places you didn't mean to, and that'll be mean to you!"

Despite Achilles's instructions, Harrison seems to be very perceptive at the worst possible time. The tracks in the dust head in directions that should not be possible. It can't even be described by something so simple and senseless as the tracks leading into a wall or up it or upside down or right side out. The further one heads back into the shop, the less it seems to cleave to SENSIBLE rules of geometry. Achilles seems to be adjusting for this by doggedly paying attention JUST to the tracks and NOT to his surroundings. But poor Harrison. Those EARS. That BUNNY SENSE. He just can't help but NOTICE.

"Just follow the tracks, ignore everything else, just foll ..erk," Harrison complains and has to rub at the side of his head.

GM Note: Poor March has gone loopy! Non-Euclidean Geometry! The horrors! He loses one point of Sensibility, and gains (due to a Critical Failure) a psychological hang-up. He shall have dreams of non-Euclidean Geometry whenever he tries to rest, requiring him to make a Vigor roll at -2 to get a good night's sleep (rather than waking up screaming gibberish about tea time and buttering clockwork and un-birthdays and such), until cured.

"Mr. Harrison? Mr. Johnson?" Integra cries out, as she loses sight of them. She can be heard frantically chasing after them, but appears to have bumbled into some shelves of knickknacks. There is a clatter and a crash.

"It's all right, we're just going to get Griffin and bring him back," Achilles says soothingly.

"Oh dearie! Don't run like that in the store!" the Shopkeeper gently chides. "Don't worry. They're just playing around in the back of shop. This is old hat for them. Here, you can have another candy."

"Old hats, old hats, old hats," Griffin echoes. "We need a hatter to pulls us back out through one."

"Screw the bird. Lets just get out of here," Harrison says as he holds the side of his throbbing head.

The reporter's mouth waters a bit. Ah, the Sheepkeeper's candy was always the best. But no, he's got a job to do first. "Hey! There you are," he says. "Are you done here, or did you want to look around some more?"

Achilles's tracking appears to pay off. In short order, once it seems safe enough to look around again, he finds none other than Griffin. This part of the shop seems so much like any other, except there's no sign of the entrance or the main counter or Integra or the Sheep.

Out of the corner of his eye, Griffin catches a glimpse of something shiny. The egg? Oh, it's gone again, but that was most assuredly a shelf it was on, at least. So far, it doesn't seem to be breaking that particular rule.

"Aha, the quarry is afoot. If it has feet, anyway," Griffin notes, and sets the nest on the shelf before.. pointedly looking away and trying to whistle.

"Ace, whistle something," Griffin requests. "And watch the birdy, not the shelf."

Harrison looks for a pot to just smash Griffin over the head with. "Can we leave now?" he asks.

Harrison grabs said pot and heads towards the Griffin. He has the sort of expression that clearly says he intends to inflict bodily harm.

Achilles looks perplexed, but does as Griffin requests, whistling the first bars of "God Save the Queen". Perhaps the Griffin has gone a bit mad, but it's a bit mad of a place.

From somewhere else in the store, Integra starts whistling, "Rock-a-bye Baby." Apparently the sound still carries well here.

"Hmm. You seem to be going somewhere with this," replies the flattened reporter as the rabbit stalks off to prepare bodily mayhem. He considers, then whistles along with Integra. Why not? Trust a child to know the best lullabyes.

"Since you want to act potted, perhaps it's time that you are potted," Harrison says. The rabbit then makes a swing for Griffin's head with the pot!

Something about that pot looks vaguely familiar, almost as if it looks perfectly NATURAL in the Hare's hands. Well, except for the part of it being used violently, that is.

"Really Harrison, it's hardly tea-time," Griffin notes. "Can't you see I'm trying to catch the egg?"

Breaking off his whistling, the reporter calls out, "Hey! That's--" He pauses. Something seems to be joggling his memory. "Perhaps we should have a spot of the very best kind of tea and relax before we move on?"

"Just hold still and I'll help you catch stars," Harrison says and makes another swing for Griffin's head.

KABONG! The teapot is surprisingly durable, despite its delicate and nostalgic appearance. It clocks the poor Griffin something good on the head. There is a curious shlorping noise he hears in the brief moment of impact, but he instinctively pulls away before whatever can happen to add insult to injury. Fortunately, the injury seems to be fairly mild, though it has put the gryphon rather off balance, and that's bound to leave a lump.

In a sudden teapot-induced burst of inspiration, Griffin sing-chants, "Rock-a-bye eggy, in the Sheep's Shop. If the nest beckons, your hiding should stop.."

"When the egg wakes, it'll be a sight for us all," Griffin continues, "And out of this Shop, we will finally ... fall.."

The bird sits down and rubs the side of his head then. "Owww. Really Harrison.."

The reporter tries to calm them down. "Perhaps we'd best leave off on this wild egg hunt," he suggests. "A nice cup of tea will sooth those jangled nerves, Harrison."

The Griffin ALMOST sits down on something. What, he's not sure, but when he readjusts himself and looks, it isn't there.

"You almost got it there, Griffin!" Achilles says excitedly. He almost looks at the nest to see if it's there, but recollects himself in time. "My God, we just need a blanket or napkin, then we throw it over the nest once it's in place, and we're done!"

On a nearby shelf, there is a very conveniently-located clock. Why, exactly, that might be considered convenient, could be a matter of question for most of those present.

Meanwhile, Achilles's gaze just happens to fall upon a large handkerchief that is just the RIGHT size for throwing over the nest (or the egg) at the right moment. How convenient!

The reporter catches the handkerchief up. "Keep singing," he advises Integra. "Let's try this again." He braces himself and gets ready to leap for something he's not allowed to look directly at.

"Just hold still, Griffin, this is only supposed to hurt a lot," Harrison says as he raises the teapot again to bludgeon him through the floor. Only instead he tries to pour whatever contents might be in the pot over Griffin's head instead.

March ever-so-PRECISELY pours tea over the poor Gryphon's head, despite the bird being an unwilling participant in this bizarre exchange.

The tea is hot, but it is not infernally so. From what trickles down onto Griffin's beak, he can taste that it is the very best tea.

Meanwhile, Integra, oblivious to the particulars of the madness running rampant in the back of the store, keeps on whistling the lullaby. No one seems to have fallen asleep yet, so she'll just have to keep at it.

"Are you quite done, sir, or do I need to dig up a recipe for rabbit stew?" Griffin asks damply.

It's right next to a book of lullabies. The bookmark, oddly enough, appears to mark the place for a stew recipe. Three guesses as to what sort of stew, and the first two don't count.

"Ah, perfect!" Griffin says.. and tries to bap the hare on the head with the cookbook.

"That's it! This is the Convenient Corner of the shop," Achilles realizes as his eyes light upon the book. "Whatever we want will be convenient to us. So it would be terribly convenient if, when I were to drop this handkerchief, it would land right over... the... E. G. G. In the nest." He sweeps his gaze across the rest of the shop and lets the handkerchief go.

Of course the reporter spells that out, because everyone knows eggs can't spell.

Ah yes. That convenient corner of the shop. Memories swim back. When the children would visit the Real-World shop as a sort of appendix to their adventures, sharing their adventures with the kindly (human) shopkeeper and bargain for "magical relics," there were times when they would get into play-acting and someone would want to buy something that was not conveniently represented by a piece of junk at hand. At times like those, through a bit of narrative convenience, someone would "go into the back" and just happen to find whatever convenient thing was desired. Now, of course, this wasn't a TANGIBLE thing, and it was paid for in imaginary coin, but at least while they were playing there, it was real enough for their purposes.

Of course, it would be unthinkable to go to that part of the store and come back empty-handed. So it is therefore probably not much of a surprise that a casual corner-of-the-eye glance toward the nest reports that the handkerchief is resting upon a very smooth, ovoid shape that is in turn resting in a nest. Why, that seemed like a surprisingly logical way to go about catching something. It hardly seems like much of a puzzle or an impossibility after all!

"Well, I think we're ready to go," the reporter says with an innocent smile to the others. "Are you?"

"That.. seems a bit too easy," Griffin notes, ruffling his head feathers to try and dry them a bit. "I assume to get out we just close our eyes and conveniently take three steps in any direction to get to the front of the shop.." He holds onto the cookbook like a shield, in case the hare is still mad.

The reporter grins. "See you in the front then!" He takes the nest, not looking down at it, and walks three steps back the way he came.

"Huh, it worked," Griffin notes. "I'll.. uh.. see you out front March!" The bird closes his eyes and takes three steps in a random direction.

"You have to sleep sometime," Harrison calls out, then turns, closes his eyes, and walks three steps in the direction they came.

"So, that'll be one E. G. G. to go, and my friend the rabbit has the money," the reporter says at the counter to the sheepkeeper, depositing the nest and handkerchief (and its oddly ovoid content) before her, with a trademark smile. He winks.

And, in a surprising twist, for once things happen more-or-less as expected -- and the lot of them are back in the "front" of the store (although to casual observers, it would seem sensible to call this the "back" of the store, but it has the advantage of a clear view of the counter, the register, the Sheep Shopkeeper, Integra, and the front doors.)

Conveniently, the reporter finds that he has EXACTLY the right amount of money already in hand for the egg, nest, and handkerchief.

"Oh! My mistake," Achilles says as he finds a checker in hand. He hands this over. He must have held onto it when they were making up their sheeping list.

The Sheep kindly takes the checker, winking, as she goes through the motions and deposits the payment in the register. "I hope you enjoy it!"

Oddly, the little tag that pops up in the glass window-box atop the register reads "NO SALE," rather than listing the amount of the Guinea, as would normally happen when making a transaction.

Harrison also finds that he has just the right amount in hand to pay for the teapot.

After a bit of thought, the reporter decides not to inquire into the matter too deeply. He tucks the nest, handkerchief, and egg into his travel bag and scruffles Integra's hair up. "You can stop whistling now, dear," the one-eyed reporter says. "Though you do carry a tune nicely."

"They're all imaginary items, which take imaginary money," Harrison remarks a bit dryly. "Which means they'll likely disappear soon, too."

"Oh! You're back!" Integra exclaims. She hops off the stool. "Does that mean we're all done here?"

"Hmm," Griffin mutters, but decides not to question the convenience of having just enough money to purchase the cookbook and lullaby book. So he puts them on the counter.

"Oh, don't call things imaginary!" the Sheep Shopkeeper chides. "That spoils it." She tsks.

"I believe so, but we might want to have a..." Achilles glances over to the rabbit. "Soothing cup..." He shakes his head. "Well, we might need to find a teapot and some tea first."

"Indeed," Harrison says. "You two can go have all the tea you want. I'm leaving." And with that, the rabbit heads for the door out.

The bell jingles. The door opens, revealing the blustery wintry street outside. Barely visible underneath the powdery, well-trodden snow, the cobbles can be seen to alternate slightly in hue, giving an ever-so-faint hint of checkered squares of white and red.

The reporter looks over at Griffin. "He seems rather put out," Achilles whispers to the bird. "Maybe you'd better sooth his ruffled hackles." He makes sure he's packed everything he needs into his travel bag and gets ready to head out!

"I've no idea what set him off," Griffin notes, and makes sure Integra puts the cold-weather clothes over her regular ones.

"Best to find out then," Achilles advises. "Did you want me to interview him on the subject?" He adjusts his bowler hat, tucks his umbrella under his arm, and bids the Sheepkeeper farewell before following the rest.

Integra gets properly bundled up, muffler and mittens and all, ready to brave the street. "We must be in the Netherlands! It's so terribly cold here, so early in the year!" Her voice is muffled by the muffler, naturally, but Griffin at least can make it out.

The reporter's teeth chatters. It seems as if Griffin's advice about heavier clothing was spot on the mark.

The sharp chill seems oddly soothing, even with the unseasonable weather. Once they're out of the shop -- which seems so much smaller and squeezed-in on the outside -- while the outdoors surroundings aren't exactly familiar (they seem only vaguely London-ish, yet decidedly NOT truly London), they seem somehow very solid by comparison.

"Harrison! Are you cooled off a bit?" calls Achilles as he exits the shop after the rabbit. He peers left and right.

Any getting-lost that might happen in these streets seems to be by virtue of bad city planning and poor visibility in the snowfall, rather than non-Euclidean geometry. The air, for what it's worth, is one of the clear telling-points that this can't be London: It's just too CLEAR. The sky is a nearly uniform dreary winter grey, with occasional puffs of lower-hanging clouds whisking by amidst the scattered flurries.

The rabbit doesn't answer. He just has his hands shoved in his pockets and his cane tucked in his armpit.

If memory serves (as the layout of the streets is SIMILAR to certain parts of London, if not the same), down the street and round about should lead the way to the massive "river" that is just behind the block that the shop is settled in. (Of course, that would indicate that their bearings have gotten a bit off. What SEEMED to be north would actually be south, and what SEEMED to be east would actually be west, but at least it's easily-enough adjusted to, without any of that crazy "mirror-switch" nonsense in the pub.)

The reporter shakes his head. "Weren't we wanting to look up that Miss Lucky? The Sheepkeeper suggested we might ask at the local blacksmith after her. She was having a hook made, wasn't she?"

"Well, if there's a blacksmith in town, he must have a chimney," Griffin reasons, and looks into the unnaturally clear sky for any telltale smoke plumes. At least, plumes that might be larger than the regular sort.

Achilles shrugs, opening up his umbrella against the flurries of snow. "Unless he's not working today."

"We just need to ask someone then," the gryphon suggests, putting an arm around Integra's shoulders.

A small flock of birds flies overhead in V formation, heavily bundled-up, carrying satchels and carpetbags. The lady bird can be heard loudly berating her husband in bird-squawk -- possibly chiding him for being so late at migrating south for the winter.

A wagon clatters down the road, pulled by a bored-looking mule with a beat-up derby perched atop its head (but otherwise evidencing no sign of sapience). The wagon's sideboards advertise "Dr. Bronson's Cure-All Wonder Elixir." A heavily bundled-up snake is at the reins (best not one worry too much about how he handles them), flanked by crates full of rattling bottles. In the other direction, a few children shuffle along, giggling and peering into the display window of a toy store. A couple of them look human, while the others look like animated chesspieces (Pawns, that is).

The reporter, spying the snake (who seems much less awkward to hold a conversation with than birds in a rush), waves a hand to him. "Doctor Bronson, I presume? Might you happen to know where the smith is?" he calls out.

"Whoaaaaa, Ssssebassstian!" the brown snake calls out from his bundles. The reins tug back, and the mule, already moving at a very leisurely pace, comes to a halt. "The Black Sssssmith?" the serpent inquires. "Right in the middle of Cassssstling Way. Can't misssss it!" He gestures with his tail-tip further down the road, implying that Castling Way must join this road at some point yonder.

"Does that elixir actually do anything? Such as at the very least stop squeaks?" Harrison asks the snake.

The reporter calls back, "It does what it says on the tin, cures 'all'! Why, have you got a case of 'all'?"

"Hmmm, do you suppose it might actually work?" Griffin asks March while moving closer to examine the bottles.

"Leatherworker's friend! Curessss all manner of hidesssss and ssssskinssss in a ssssnap!" the snake responds. "It'ssss about time for me to sssssshed. I could give you a demonsssstration, if you'd like!"

Achilles pauses, realizing the others have stopped to inspect the snake's wares. Hm. Which of them had the guineas left over from their sheeping?

"What about hides and skins that are still attached to their original owners?" Griffin asks.

Integra looks horrified at the thought, but she's polite enough to keep it to herself. The muffler helps.

"I accssssept no resssssponssssibility for any sssssside effectsssss if the elixsssser is not usssssed according to the directionsssss on the flassssk," the serpent kind-of-sort-of answers.

"Well, if it's just about time for you to shed," the reporter says coming back. "Madam Sheepkeeper might pay you a pretty price for a freshly cured snake skin." He nods to the shop they so recently exited.

"Potential cusssstomersssss!" the snake gleefully hisses. He brings his cart around to the side of the street, with Sebastian's help, and taps the sideboard with a cane. In short order, the side panels pop open, and he's got a portable stage setup.

The reporter tucks the handle of his Paragon Imperial brolly under one arm and gets out a notepad, taking notes. "The illustrious Dr. Bronson prepared to demonstrate the excellence of his Cure-All Wonder Elixir by shedding his skin," he scribbles in nigh-unreadable shorthand. "To what do you attribute the potency of your potion? All-natural ingredients? Unspeakable magic? A hereditary recipe handed down by your forebears?"

A few curiosity-seekers gather around, as the snake, in ssssibilant -- er, ahem, pardon -- sibilant speech expounds upon the wonders of this elixir, showing off some very shiny scaly leather belts, some tanned hides, and assorted leatherworks. He goes behind a curtain, and after a bit of squirming (his shadow clearly visible behind the gauzy divide -- eww!), he at last re-emerges with a freshly-shed scale. With a quick application of a bottle of the Cure-All, the dried-out skin becomes a shiny leathery wonder, suitable for making a new pair of boots, belt, or handbag. He has some of those for sale, too.

The snake is very rapid when it comes to the part of listing all the dire things that might happen if a living creature were to come into skin contact with the bottle, but the general idea is that this is VERY effective at curing leather, and quickly. The bottles sell for the low LOW price of ... 1 pound each. (All right, so perhaps not that low after all.)

"All this tells me is don't drink the herbal teal, because it probably made from someone named Herb," Harrison remarks. He also eyes a bottle, then Griffin but seems to decide against what he thought of.

The reporter applauds. "Amazing!" He tries to worm out a few more details for the story, such as whether Dr. Bronson's been in business for long, where he can best be found for those seeking Cure-All Wonder Elixir, and of course, a hint about the secret that makes his elixir so efficacious.

Griffin briefly considers the weapon potential of the elixir, but balks at the cost, thinking the snake isn't about to take an imaginary book in trade.

"Thank you sir, but we have no need of it today," Harrison says and doffs his hat to the snake. "But should we discover a need for it, we know just who to come look for."

Fortunately for the snake, it seems that all he needed was to have a good "seed" crowd to show some sporting interest in his wares. Whether or not anyone really has a need for it or even understands the proper use of it, the snake manages to sell several bottles before closing up shop again. It's just as well, because the snow has picked up, and the crowds are thinning out.

Achilles finishes up taking notes for his story on 'Shops and Vendors of Wonderland' and tips his hat to the good Dr. Bronson. "Shall we move on?" he asks.

"At least he wasn't selling apples," Harrison remarks. "But then that would be too obvious of a trap."

"Don't be silly, doctors don't sell apples, they're frightened of them," Achilles quips.

"At least he was lively and believed in his product," Griffin notes. "Not so cold-blooded as some hawkers I've encountered."

Castling Way
This major street winds its way through the city of Riverside from east to west, curving along the banks of the river where it widens into a large lake before continuing its eastward journey. Buildings of varied styles crowd the road on each side, alternating between London-town shop-fronts and more distinctly medieval-looking structures of daub and waddle, with only the occasional structure that looks as if it might be fashioned of cards. One of the more prominent store-fronts is a smithy, right in the middle of town, with a large furnace out back, and a sign out front that bears the sign of a black knight chess-piece in profile, framed by a horseshoe.

"Judging from the chimney and furnace, I'd hazard a guess we've found the smithy," the reporter observes to the others. He peers beneath his umbrella at the sign. "If it's run by a Black Knight, I wonder if he'll be the jumpy sort?"

What looks at first like a living castle tower -- small as castle towers go, but still very large compared to any of the explorers -- shuffles its way out of the front door of the blacksmith shop. The gleaming Rook sports a polearm that looks as if it's fashioned entirely out of heavily-white-lacquered wood, yet it shines with a very sharp-looking and metallic edge. The Rook, somehow looking quite pleased with itself despite lacking an obvious face, makes a straight line right down the street and into the drifting snowflakes.

The flat reporter, lacking any desire to be folded, bent, spindled, or otherwise mutilated, gives the rook a respectful amount of space.

Out in front of the shop is a Chessman Pawn, lingering and occasionally peering (?) into the window. He (?) seems distinct from most of the other Chessmen in these parts, however, in that he's lacquered a bright fiery red, as opposed to the shiny snowy white that seems prevalent for these parts. There's another bright red individual out front, but she appears to be a Rose, heavily bundled up in luxurious-looking furs against the chill.

"That chap looked the straightforward sort," Griffin comments on the leaving Rook.

Harrison watches the Tower shuffle down the street, polearm in 'hand' as it were. "Right. no offending anyone in this part of town," he remarks, then heads for the door.

Across the street, a White Pawn shopkeeper in a baker's hat and apron stands out front of his shop. "Fresh muffins! Piping hot!" he calls. Like other Pawns, he has no evident eyes or mouth to shout -- nor, presumably, to devour muffins -- but that seems to hinder him none.

"Very straight as he goes forward," agrees Achilles as he follows the rabbit. He tightens his grip on his umbrella as he notices the Rose.

"We're all Wonderlanders here," Griffin says quietly. "No reason for the locals to suspect us.."

The reporter mutters to Harrison, trying to pitch his whisper loud enough for the rabbit to here, "She might be here looking out for a certain bunny miss."

"The red pawn likely works for the red queen," Harrison notes to himself as he continues on. He pulls his cane out from under his arm, glad he swapped it to the revolver fittings.

The baker Pawn, having put in a token hawking of his wares, returns to the business of hauling in some bags of flour that have been dropped off at his front door. He shuffles back inside, with a jingle of door-bells.

Griffin follows behind the others, rifle resting against his shoulder and trying to look like Integra's bodyguard.

The Red Rose turns about from the window as Harrison approaches, her petal-hair framed in white-mink fur. Despite the flowery texture of the petals, she has a surprisingly human-like face. She smiles demurely at Harrison, in a way evocative of how, back in London, many of the young ladies might shyly admire his good looks (and where he would not normally be a rabbit).

Despite the civilized veneer of the city, one thing Griffin notices is that carrying arms in public appears to be quite common. His rifle doesn't especially seem to stand out at all.

Harrison doffs his hat as he passes the Rose. "Ma'am," he says politely and even smiles. "Bit of a chilly day for a rose of such beauty to be out and about, is it not? You should not have to endure such harsh weather."

The flat reporter waggles his eyebrows to Griffin. Harrison was always better than him at this sort of business. He tips his hat to the lady politely, moving past Harrison toward the door.

The Rose giggles and raises a muff to hide her mouth politely. "It is only a stroll for the constitution, and for what little sun there is."

"Alas, the sun of today is not near enough as one of your beauty deserves. Such a cruel, gray, sky," Harrison says as he continues towards the smithy.

Griffin also gives a polite nod to the bundled rose. He wonders if his feathers are sticking up from frozen tea now.

"Oh," the Rose pouts prettily, "don't I just know it!" She brightens. "But soon it will be Holiday, and then it will be spring before you know it. So we must all persevere, best we can."

The Red Pawn turns and seems to eye Harrison briefly -- never mind the lack of eyes. This is something you can just tell somehow.

"Indeed. And may we all be lucky to see you again in the springtime so that your full beauty will be as a gift to all those who gaze upon you," Harrison adds. He then casts a glance to the pawn in question.

The doors lead into the smithy, where it seems that the color is drained right out of everything. A couple of creatures that look for all the world like grossly oversized caricatured schoolboys straight out of the pages of Punch stand just inside, hovering around racks of weapons and pieces on display, but mindfully out of the way of the central path of traffic through the doors. The Red Pawn, meanwhile, remains outside, looking over the wares through the display window, not seeming to be as concerned by the winter chill (though still bundled up against it like everyone else out in the streets).

With visions of ornate greenhouses in his head, Griffin blinks and ruffles out his feathers. Then he turns his attention more to the street around them, and any other shoppers or strollers out for a constitutional.

The reporter considers. If those two don't move on in the next few minutes, they must be keeping an eye out for Miss Lucky, he thinks to himself, but does not say for fear of being overheard at such close quarters. But is she inside or outside, that's the question. Well, easier to begin by investigating the scene.

It looks as if there might be a couple more heavily-bundled shoppers perusing the wares inside, with a large and imposing Chessman Knight behind the register.

A white ferrety creature (surely not a mink?) strolls along the street, twirling his cane nonchalantly as he goes. He's dressed up like a dandy, and seems as much out and about for people to admire him as he is to admire anything else. Other than that, the streets are mostly quiet in these parts for the moment, though the clack of hooves and wheels on cobbles can be heard up and down the street in either direction.

Without another word, Harrison heads into the shop, the tip of his cane clicking lightly on the floor as he goes.

The reporter follows suit, nodding to the schoolboys and other shoppers as he enters. He lowers his umbrella as he passes through the door, closing it up tight and shaking snow off.

At least the mink is in his winter coat, Griffin things, before heading into the doorway. He pauses at the side of the Tweedles, and takes a position near the door, just in case. "Go on in and warm up, Integra," he tells his neice.

The two "schoolboys" are dressed in a mishmash of schoolboy attire (complete with white-red striped caps that were popular maybe a decade or two ago), wintery garb, and random pots and pans and cushions and washboards and such. If they were to move, they would probably clatter mightily, but instead they just stand almost statue-still in front of the weapons racks they are perusing, though their eyes move to follow Harrison as he walks in, and their heads swivel ever-so-slightly.

Embroidery on their lapels identifies the two boysmencreatures as "Tweedle Dis" and "Tweedle Dat."

"Gentleman," Harrision remarks to the two misshapen boys as he passed by. He seems to be heading towards the shopkeeper Knight.

"Quite the impressive display, isn't it?" Griffin asks the nearer one, Tweedle Dat.

"Children must be supervised at all times," the Black Knight drily says, idly glancing askance in Integra's direction. "These are not toys." It's worth saying, as many of the weapons and pieces on display do have a rather shiny, toy-like quality. The sharp edges soon drive the point home that some care should be taken, however.

The reporter considers the Tweedles, then goes to look over the shop's wares while Harrison engages the Knight in some chitchat... But really, he's examining the other shoppers.

"Good day, Sir," Harrison says as he removes his hat out of respect for the shop. "I have recently returned to town and discovered it is simply not a safe place for my kind anymore. So, I thought I would see what you recommended for rabbits in danger," he explains as he now uses the butt of his revolver-cane to hold his hat.

"Indubitably," Tweedle Dis says, "this is an unsurmounted feat of craftsmanship." "Contrariwise," Tweedle Dat says, "I've seen better."

There's a sharp intake of air from one of the shoppers over in the corner. The lady seems to be rather bundled up, and, it would seem, is so cold that she hasn't even bothered to loosen her muffler despite the warmth that the forge-fire (glowing a colorless white) sends throughout the shop. The Tweedles, in perfect symmetry, suddenly decide to move to other parts of the shop to peruse -- in a way that gives them a better view of Harrison and the Black Knight, incidentally.

A vaguely raccoony-looking gentleman gasps as the movement of Tweedle Dat most assuredly cuts into his personal space. He sucks in his breath, mindful of the sharp pointy things on the racks, as he squeezes his way past into a more open area.

Well, if that's not our Miss Lucky, I'll eat my hat, thinks the reporter to himself. As a Tweedle brushes past him, he takes an unwary step, accidentally bumping into the gentleman's panoply of pans. "Oh! Excuse me, sir."

Griffin decides to move in a bit more as well, and stop blocking the door. "Stay close, Integra," he comments to the girl. "No need to make the Black Knight nervous."

The Black Knight's gaze drops down to Harrison's hands, then back up to meet his eyes. He ignores the loud clatter of pans. "It's unluckier in some places than others. But rest assured that my customers have nothing to worry about while perusing my wares." His gaze scans the rest of the room in what Harrison might take for a meaningful fashion, hovering slightly longer than a mere scan on one Tweedle, then over toward the door, then to the other Tweedle.

The pans still clatter noisily. Tweedle Dis's face turns beet red. He tries to slap at himself to still the pans, but it only makes things worse.

"Well, I do hope that is the case. What sort of weaponry can you offer to one such as me?" Harrison inquires. It's also his turn to look around because of the noise, and a chance to look over the other shoppers.

Among the shoppers, there is a large Frog, the Raccoonish gentleman (the exact species is hard to place, but doesn't look like anything native to England), and the mystery-woman-who-looks-suspiciously-lapine-and-who-is-staying-turned-away. And, of course, there are the two Tweedle, plus that Red Pawn is still outside, and the Rose -- ah, it appears she has just decided to move along and continue her constitutional, rather than lingering at the window display.

The reporter shifts his travel bag to hang over his shoulder by its long strap, to free his hands for possible combat. He apologetically tries to 'help' Tweedle Dis with the pots and pans. "I'm terribly sorry about the racket, this must be awfully distracting for people who're trying to carry out a little quiet conversation," he says. He darts a glance toward Harrison, then the lady rabbit.

"If you are looking for armor," the Black Knight slowly says, "we have curtained sections where you can be fitted, but my squire is out today with a cold, so you'll have to pardon the slow service. For arms, I can make custom weaponry, though there is a wait list. We have many ready-made weapons on display."

Griffin relaxes slightly, realizing the Tweedles (and probably the red pawn) are the shop's security guards. Although who would try to rob a shop full of weapons?

The mystery-bundled-woman wanders away from the display she was perusing, just as Tweedle Dat begins to invade her space. She makes her way up to the front counter, and glides a gloved hand over some polished decorative cross-guards and scabbard fittings. Her other hand is kept tucked away in the folds of her cloak.

"Ah. Well, perhaps I will peruse what you have before deciding to have something made," Harrison says and lifts his cane, and thus by proxy his hat. "Perhaps we will speak in a bit." With that, he starts to step away and nearly bumps into the mystery shopper. "Oh, do please excuse me, I almost didn't see you," he apologizes. And upon watching what she touches with her hand, he asks, "Are you in the market for a sword? Never quite learned how to use one, myself."

The Black Knight is in the middle of describing some of his more interesting wares on display. "Punch gauntlets," he says, indicating some large armored gloves with blades built into the backs. "Perfect for keeping your paws intact, and warding off anyone who gets too close." He continues to speak loudly as if he thought Harrison were still listening.

A pair of deep green eyes glance out from the fur-lined hood of the cloak, up to Harrison. There's something at once animal, and yet strangely human about those eyes, but a moment longer and it's evident to Harrison that they belong to another Rabbit much like himself. "I am not much of one for swords," she says softly. "I prefer my parasol." Indeed, she has a parasol tucked under her other arm, and, by Wonderland logic with umbrellas and such, it might be RATHER more sharp than it has a right to be, when needed.

Integra giggles briefly, as she admires a large scythe-like weapon that is styled so that it looks like a great pink flamingo -- just a great pink flamingo with a sharp scythe for a beak.

The reporter takes a step back from the jangling pots and pans to whisper to Griffin and Harrison, "Watch out for the Tweedles and the Red Pawn. They're watching her."

"Really Integra, we here to look at cooking knives," Griffin claims, after a glance to Ace. He tugs the girl more towards another display.. which puts the gryphon on the other side of the rabbit woman, between her and Tweedle Dat.

A tall gangly lamp-lighter makes his way down the sidewalk, getting an early start on the posts, though it's still a hazy grey daylight out yet. The snowfall and gusts of wind seem to be lightening up a little, as the Frog appears to be looking hopefully for an opening to head outside again.

"Well, it is quite the beautiful parasol," Harrison has to agree. "But I do hope you can forgive me for not noticing it sooner, I was distracted by the emerald of your eyes. It has been some time since I have seen such a remarkable color. Surely one with eyes such as yours would never have an enemy in the world. Not like a common hare such as myself seems to."

"You are too kind." The Rabbit-lady flushes, glancing away. "I think, however, that it's awfully ... crowded in the shop today. If you come back tomorrow, the Knight should be less distracted." She bites her lip, then quickly glances around. "I don't have time to try to be so coy. There's some trouble brewing here, I'm sorry to say. These dolts might think you have something to do with me, by virtue of being another Rabbit. You should probably leave with your friends while you can, so you don't get caught up."

The reporter chuckles to see Harrison is 'stealing a March' on the Troy of Miss Lucky's heart, but eyes Tweedle Dis as the pots seem to be stilling. "Excuse me sir, but I think you just need to show these pans who's boss with a firm grip," he says, moving back to Tweedle Dis. "Might I demonstrate?"

"You have an eye for quality, friend," Griffin says to Tweedle Dat, and leans his rifle so that the boyonet is in front of the creature's face. "What do you think of this blade? Should I have it sharpened here?"

"Oh dear, oh bother," Tweedle Dis says in a deep, slightly slurred voice. "So noisy. So noisy. I am trying to be stealthy."

"Contrariwise!" Tweedle Dat barks, momentarily distracted from the sharp thing rather close to his face. "You are the center of attention!"

Integra coos over a fancy-looking dagger with ever-so-many enameled roses and leaves twining over the cross-piece and grip. It is ever so shiny and colorful. But she's good enough to know not to touch without permission.

The Frog, meanwhile, makes a hop for the door. The door bells jingle loudly as he heads into the sparkling, wispy snowfall.

"I could not turn away from a fellow Rabbit in danger. So, your troubles are at the moment also mine," Harrison remarks quietly. He takes his hat off the butt of his cane and sets it back on the top of his head. "Besides, I've been attacked several times in the past few days. So, at least in this case, I have something lovely to fight for outside of my poorly dressed comrades." He grins lopsidedly.

The reporter, taking that for an assent, tucks his umbrella under one arm for a bit and takes hold of a particularly loud and heavy pot. "See, you take hold firmly and then you swing it at the other pans to show who's boss." He pulls it over and takes fly at the lower pans to try and overbalance Tweedle Dis onto his back!

"As long as I'm in here, the Black Knight is keeping me--" Miss Lucky says, but then she blinks at the clatter in the corner, and instinctively reaches for her parasol, turning to put her back to the counter.

"Oh my, what a clatter!" Griffin notes, 'accidentally' swinging the bayonet towards Tweedle Dat's face as if he were turning to look.. but somehow forgetting to turn his head as well.

"Time waits for no Tweedle," Harrison quips to the other lapine and winks. He pulls out his recently acquired pocket watch and gives it a wind. And thus with a burst of newfound 'speed' he goes to help out Dis with his ever so large feet.

The reporter appears to be having little luck with the pots and pans; if anything, he's made the jangling rather worse.

The bayonet "accidentally" slices against the Tweedle's cheek, leaving a thin red ribbon. However, as pudgy and rotund as this guy is, he seems to be made of stern stuff. "Watch it," he growls.

Tweedle Dis is so caught up that he doesn't see the sped-up bunny trouble headed his way. With a solid THUMP, he crashes into the racks of weapons.

The Tweedle slides down with a loud clatter and crash of pots and pans, to the floor. He appears to be out of the action.

"Well, on the bright side you won't need a tag for people to tell you apart now," Griffin offers the cheek-cut Tweedle. "But do you think I need to get the blade sharpened?"

"Seems quite sharp enough," Tweedle Dat mumbles, as it still seems to be sinking in that Tweedle Dis isn't getting back up anytime soon. Grind, grind go the gears. "Wait a minute!" Two and two are slowly being added together.

"How terribly clumsy of him," Achilles says. "But on the bright side, he's not making quite so much noise now, is he?" Hand on his umbrella, he turns to the rest of the shop to see if the Red Pawn is going to help or run. "Nice footwork, Harrison."

The Red Pawn seems to have gotten a good enough view of the whole exchange, and goes for a red-enameled blade hung from its belt (or what passes for same).

"But is it sharp enough?" Griffin asks, and tries to see if he can deflate the Tweedle with another jab.

"Guh!" says Tweedle Dat. Realization finally dawns on him. "Hey! That was ON PURPOSE!" Still standing. This is a tougher-than-average fellow.

"Don't be so clumsy with your weapons, this is a respectable shop-- Harrison!" the reporter says, catching sight of Integra running straight for trouble.

In a blur of bouncing bunny battering doom, Harrison zooms out the door and lands a solid food onto the pawn! Unfortunately it doesn't do much more than get the bunny to spin around as the pawn just stands there. So when he stops his pistol is aimed right at the pawn. "Boom," he says, and fires!

Amazingly, the small Pawn doesn't fold under the onslaught, but he seems to be made of more solid stuff than flesh and bone; rather, he seems to be made of solid wood with a thick layer of enamel and armor on top of that as well.

"We're here to help, ma'am, sir," Achilles says as he sees (with a sigh of relief) that Harrison is dealing with the pawn. He turns preparing to charge toward Tweedle Dat, should the oversized schoolboy be unwilling to listen to reason. (or pointy things in his face)

"This shop is CLOSED!" the Black Knight declares, as he leaps into the air, then impossibly turns 90 degrees mid-air, ending on top of the counter at the close of an "L" move. He repeats this feat, landing in the corner right next to the stunned Tweedle Dat. "You are banned from the premises!"

Tweedle Dat fumbles, with a "But it's not fair!" look on his face as he sputters angrily.

With a mighty whinny, the horse-headed black-enameled heavily-armored Black Knight brings down his mighty Beater of the Dead Horse, that legendary ender of unwanted conversations. Tweedle Dat hasn't even a chance for further retort as his eyes roll back and he falls in a heap to the floor.

The reporter prepares to run out the door to deal with the last remaining threat! He slows a bit as the lady rababit dashes in front of him, then follows her.

With lightning-fast Rabbit reflexes, the lady rabbit grabs the hem of her skirts with a hook, and rushes out into the street to shield Integra with her parasol. Seeing the Red Pawn still up and in action, she moves alongside Harrison to join in the melee.

Coming out the store behind the rabbit, Achilles frowns down at the red pawn, the white scar over his left eye coming brightly to life against his pinkish skin. "Sir, you are outnumbered three to one. I strongly suggest you lay down your weapon and surrender, or I shalln't be responsible for your life nor limbs," he says in a tone of Stern Command.

The Red Pawn suddenly drops the wooden blade, which lands with a "fwump" on the freshly-fallen snow at building's edge. "Th-this is ... all a terrible m-m-misunderstanding!" He holds his hands wide. It's impossible to read his face, per se, but he seems convincingly intimidated.

Meanwhile, in the background, the other customers are scrambling for cover, the furry gentleman losing his hat and dropping to all fours in a mad dash, while the Frog crashes into the bakery across the street.

"Perhaps you've misunderstood that the pretty rabbit lady here is not here for your employer to pester and bandy about," Achilles says with a tone like iron. "Who are you working for? I'm a reporter, I'll know a lie if I hear one," he claims.

"F-f-for f-f-friends of royalty," the Red Chessman stammers. "R-r-r-representative of the M-m-m-monarchy of H-h-hearts."

Harrison snaps his watch closed and ticks it away. "I am terribly sorry it came to blows," he apologizes to the other rabbit next to him. "But I cannot tolerate a lady being threatened."

Just down Castling Way, that lady Rose -- still out on her "constitutional" even after all this time -- hails a carriage, and hastily climbs on board, tossing a small pouch of coins up to the Pawn driver. He snaps the reins, and the carriage rolls away with greater speed than should be safe in these streets.

"Sorry for the mess," Griffin tells the Black Knight. "I doubt you generally have these sorts of problems."

The reporter glances over his back. "That's put the fat in the fire," he growls quietly to Harrison and, he presumes. Miss Lucky. "The Queen of Hearts will have reinforcements on the way, we'd best make ourselves scarce."

Griffin goes about collecting the other Tweedle. "Integra, you need to learn not to run away like that," he tells his niece in passing.

The lady Rabbit rushes up to the Black Knight and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. "Thanks for everything. Be safe."

Integra drags her foot on the floor, looking downcast. "I'm sorry, Uncle Paisley!"

The reporter collects the dagger and offers it to Griffin, in case he wants his niece to have it-- she was eying the daggers after all. "Any questions for our 'guest'?" he asks.

"I'd rather you not be exposed to such harsh realities, but there is little hope of that I'm afraid," the gryphon says, then puts a hand on Integra's shoulder. "But you're British. You can handle it."

"Really, Ace," Griffin whispers. "A dagger for a girl so young? Pry a frying pan off one of the Tweedles. Frying pans are much more proper."

The reporter says defensively, "I was across the shop, and more concerned with Dis Tweedle." He uses the dagger to slice off a frying pan of the proper size for Integra. Functional in two ways!

"What will it take to get the Queen to leave this lady alone?" Harrison asks the pawn.

Turning the Pawn, Griffin asks, "Tell us, where were you to take Miss Lucky if you had succeeded in capturing her?"

Once he's found and sawn off a proper-sized frying pan for Integra's armament, Achilles offers the dagger (hilt first) to the Black Knight. "I doubt we'll have need of this," he adds. "Sorry about the commotion, sir, but it seemed better to make sure they didn't have enough time to make a real mess."

"Most considerate of you," the Black Knight says. "I'll keep an eye on them for when the town guard arrive -- which I imagine should be soon, after all the screaming."

The reporter turns back to the Red Pawn. "Remember, I can see right through your lies, so tell us the truth or you'll regret it," he asserts, tapping the left side of his face.

The Red Pawn stammers a bit less now that he seems to have time to "catch is breath." "I was to take her back to Charity -- the City of the Red Chessmen. The emissary from the Monarchy would take her back via the Guarded Way, I presume."

"That's a long way to go with just you. You must have had a lair in this town, where you would stay while waiting for your prey to appear," the reporter growls. "Where?!"

Harrison replaces the spend shell in his revolver. "We should move out of the street before anyone else shows up," he notes.

"Th-the Queen's Way Coachhouse!" the Red Pawn says, stammering a bit more at the threat. "She's very big on everything being royal and all."

Ace nods thoughtfully to the rabbit. "This pawn's probably too lowly to be any help at convincing the Queen of Hearts to leave off her chase," he muses. "Should we just send him off with a warning?"

"I agree," Griffin notes. "We know where to avoid, so let us be off. We can hardly make plans in front of this fellow."

"His fate should be decided by her," Harrison notes and gestures towards Miss Lucky. "IT was her that he threatened, after all."

The Black Knight lifts his nose and snorts. "Town guard's coming. I'll meet them down the street, and buy you some time. Safe travels." He begins to trot down the street -- apparently he doesn't have to hop in L-movements like he did in combat, but he DOES seem to meander a bit as he goes, rather than walking in a properly straight line.

Miss Lucky Rabbit frowns. "Oh, dear." She sighs. "I simply do not want to escalate this any further. Two passed-out Tweedle and one scared Pawn, I suppose can be forgiven. Outright murder in the streets, no. Please, leave him be." She leans in further, and pokes at the Pawn's chest with her hook, as her dainty tone and expression turn more sinister. "Just as long as this is the last time I see your smooth shiny bedknob face."

"I-i-i won't bother you again!" the Pawn claims. "My employer ran off! Abandoned me!"

"Cross our paths again and you'll regret it. Now, scat!" the reporter growls, shooing him in the direction the Black Knight went.

"Wait.. what?" Griffin asks, and looks down the street, where the carriage was. "The flower was your employer?"

Ace gives the griffin a sidelong look as he picks up his bag and begins moving on the opposite direction. "You didn't spot that?"

The Red Pawn, at the first opportunity, just scrambles down the street, abandoning his wooden sword and the Tweedles in his haste to turn himself over to the town guard, it would seem.

"I am not used working with sinister folk," Griffin notes to Ace, the implication being that the reporter is used to working with such.

As they head down the street, the reporter argues to Harrison and Griffin and Miss Lucky, "If we want to get the Queen of Hearts off of your tail, our best bet is to work our way up the chain. The Rose is probably the Queen's agent in these parts, and the Tweedles and the Red Pawn were just hired. I'm betting the Rose reports directly to the Queen."

"Judging from the pile of coins she gave the driver, she's likely the one keeping them in funds as well," Ace adds.

"My lady, do you have someplace safe and secret to sit this out while we deal with the problem?" Griffin asks Lucky.

"Oh, if I only did!" Miss Rabbit laments. "I thought this was well enough, but it seems word gets around too easily."

"What is the likelihood of that actually working? Getting the Queen to call off the hunt, that is," Harrison interjects. "I'm not exactly comfortable invading the Queen's Way Coachouse."

"Truthfully? Probably not great, given the Queen of Hearts's predilection for executing anyone who disobeys her, but on the other paw, if we can persuade the Rose that it's in her best interest to drag on the 'hunt' as long as she can..." Mr. Johnson suggests.

"Perhaps we can fool the Queen with a fake?" Griffin asks, looking to Miss Lucky. "Does she demand your actual presence or would a stuffed glove put her off for a bit longer?"

"The Queen of Hearts wants a lucky Rabbit's foot," Miss Lucky says, as she makes her way down the street -- since staying and waiting for the town guard does not appear to be an option for her. "Last time, I lost a paw. It didn't give her the luck she wanted. So I suppose she'll go for a hind-paw next. But just to be sure, I'm sure they'll chop them all off and see which one works best, while they're still fresh. My failure to volunteer my own limbs for the Queen's pleasure is a capital offense. So is failing to give her luck with the one paw they took from me."

"Well, since there's no telling who the Rose might have in her employ still within the Inn, I suggest moving on to someplace a bit more isolated and defensible," Griffin offers.

Harrison rubs his forehead. "I'm sorry about your paw," he says to Miss Lucky. "And for foolish people who believe our limbs to be lucky."

"Oh, but they are," Miss Lucky says. "It's just that I never said it was GOOD luck."

"Truth be told, mine have never brought any good luck, either," Harrison has to agree. "But you won't loose any more until I've lost mine, or I have died. If I don't look after other Rabbits, what good am I?"