The shadow was very, very slow which did not suit Hobbes, but its quirky mixture of Victorian era steampunk culture did suit to amuse and was easy enough for Hobbes to blend in. The fact that his contact had failed to show their face for the past two days had gone from irritating to worrisome. Trumps were schizy in the shadow to begin with, but seemed to be increasingly more unpredictible over the past 24 hours. In fact, he was picking up the strangest vibe from all of the Elder cards in his deck. A call from Jinx this morning had been like speaking through a terrible phone connection and between all the interference he had only gathered something about Martin selling the silver and the castle overwhelmed by thorns. Not a word of it made sense and he had to wonder if she was trying to tell him about a vision she had, complaining about mundane things just to annoy him, or genuinely upset about something. The only thing he could be sure of was that she blamed the bad trump connection on him when she snapped, "Hobbes! Where the hell are you that you have found a way to make a trump call with you even more vexing that usual?" right before the trump magic went on the fritz and fizzled out completely, a state that he expected would last several hours if experiences served him right, and they usually did.
He considers leaving. His mission is done. The threat neutralized. Despite the displeasure his failure to be where he was expected to be might bring, it seems there are strange happenings afoot that might indicate he was needed elsewhere…and quickly.
The bartender freshens his drink just before a beautiful auburn haired woman enters through the door looking both determined and anxious. She looks around quickly and spots Hobbes, her footsteps clicking against the age polished wood.
"He's dead. Your contact. But that matters not, now. What is important is that you find the rest of the cards. Without them the effect cannot be counteracted and all will be lost," she suddenly stiffens and a trickle of blood runs from the corner of her lip, along her chin, and down her throat. She slumps into Hobbes' arms, allowing a small leather portfolio about the size of a wallet to tumble to the ground. The gun must have been silenced and to make things more difficult he sees no gunman in sight.
"Oy, what have ye done to the lady?" the barkeep asks with no small amount of suspicion in his voice.