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You get into the false ceiling, leaving only a few gray smudges on the plastry board, and listen in wiv yez Magnifical Earin Orn to what sounds like a fight.
A quarrel, to use the finicky Humie distinction. Gobbs don't quarrel: they size each other up, disagree openly if they think they can take 'em, then they scrap.
You focus, moving along the crawl space to find the best earin' spot. Between the two voices.
>jusst kell mehh
>juusst
>Dfité pleass
>SILENSA! SUCCUBA!
>YOUR LIES HAVE NO HOLD ON THE PURE!
>pure...after all you did
>after all }we{ did
>THE PURE POSSESS THE LOVE
>FLESH IS NOT TRUTH
>ONLY LOVE
>but itss mehh
>Csarfina
>if you evver lovved mehh
>jusst...
>juusst...
>...a kess
>FAIN HER NAME
>DEMON
It goes on, back and forth like this, for a good long bit. You make out that the Sordyfagg is a Whitey Knightyboi (<span class="mu-b">Squire Palatine</span>; Paladin Probate), and the female voice switching between drippy and sleazy is a Bitty Sissy (<span class="mu-b">Suora Chierico Hierocanta</span>; Priestess Acolyte). Yowza. You don't really have a type; you're an equal all-plup-and-goon-givvy kinda gobb, like all proppa gobby gobbs. But Saintesses and Tiddy Nunz do somefin special for you. Okay, okay Lady Knights too, but you know what you mean, hneh hneh hneh.
The quarrel hits a pitch at some point, keeps going: the Sordyfagg's prepping sumfin. Working hisself up.
You hear him stomp towards the female voice, and, between her wails and screams
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-s">TCHOKK</span>
<span class="mu-s">TCH</span>
<span class="mu-s">chrch</span>
...
<span class="mu-s">TCHOKK</span>
<span class="mu-s">grchCHOKKK</span>
<span class="mu-s">grch!</span>
...
<span class="mu-s">TCHAKK</span>
<span class="mu-s">tcCHAKKgch</span>
...
<span class="mu-s">TCHAKK</span>
<span class="mu-s">TCHch</span>
...
<span class="mu-s">SHCKRARGHK</span>
<span class="mu-s">SHRURRCH</span>
<span class="mu-s">GRRCHch</span>
<span class="mu-s">GRrrGRrrCHOTT</span>
...
...
You're fairly sure it's over. Sounded like...dismemberment?
You put your Earin Orn to the stone again.
>NELL'AMARE IL DONNA!
><span class="mu-b">shams!</span>
Okay, <span class="mu-i">dat</span> was spellfire. Sounded weak glowy like; typical of Whitey spells.
He's still walking about in there; you imagine him pottering, clearing up.
Whatever he's doing, he'll be out soon.
•••
You're at the bottom of the main stairs, hiding in the crook of the landing when he comes.
Sordyfagg's still in his newly (poorly) laundered duds. He smells of sweat and...hrnnn. It's blood, but Bad.
He's not carrying anything except the lantern and the HM Mally.
Goes to the chantry. Another prayer?
Yup, another prayer. Topping up the Mally.
Then he goes to {C U R A}, locks it behind him. You hear the inner door open and shut too.
Beddybye, then? About time...
You camp just outside his room, the parrish dow. You don't poke a window open or nuffin, just lissin.
You hear glass tinkle once or twice, smell his forn baccy. He doesn't sleep; you don't neevah.
He's up again just before moon-drop sun-up (6am). You watch him exit Ͳ and head for the Pit.</span>
