[Game Thread] Interludes and Conversations

[moozuba]

At the Fortress - Two great friends travelling back to Absalom together! Once the four of them started on their way out of the fortress, Scant became unusually quiet. He didn't say a word, not even to his new friend the carpenter, until they were about to get on their horses and leave. Brom motioned to Scant to help him up since they rode together last time, and Scant did enjoy his time with Brom, he seemed like a really nice fellow. Maybe a little naive, but you can't hold it against him. It was probably his parents fault. This time Scant wanted to go with Radcliffe, there was some stuff he wanted to talk to him about. "Thanks for the offer Brom, but I think I'll ride with Radcliffe, he looks like he needs some company." While riding with Radcliffe, Scant had lots of things going through his head. "There's a bunch of stuff going on around us and we don't know anything about it. What's this Black Company that Goblin talks about, Knowledge: Local = 10it sounds familiar, I just can't remember right now... And Bixby mentioned The Black Butcher, that Knowledge: Local = 18also sounded familiar, I just can't place it. Or am I getting the two mixed up? Black this, black that, black is all the rage with the kids these days..." The main thing on his mind was the orb. Scant didn't know much about it, but Radcliffe sure did. He mentioned it a few times before and during the fight with the lizard king. "He knows something, but how do I bring up the subject? I better bring up the subject lightly." So Radcliffe, you have lots of priestly, divine, godly training right? Plus, you're older and wiser than the rest of us younger guys, so you know more than us. So what do you know about he orb in my backpack? You seemed to know something about it when you saw it with old lizard face, what does it do?"

[Melchior]

"Thanks for the offer, Brom, but I think I'll ride with Radcliffe, he looks like he needs some company."

Radcliffe had been going through some final preparations in getting the sour old mule of a horse his churchbrothers had lent him for the day's task ready to make travel when the halfling made his intentions known. His hands abruptly stopped what they were doing, his face a frozen mask, etched into a slight frown. Raising his gaze, he looked out over the blasted wasteland of the Cairnlands, seeking out the golden disc of the sun. It was past noon by this point, and Saranae's Gift was steadily making its descent towards the distant horizon. His eyes narrowed accusingly as he glared across the wastes towards the sun.

Saranae. The Lady Everlight. The Dawnstar. The Healing Light. The Eternal Sun. She Who Lights the World. Defender of All Creation. Binder of Rovagug. Holder of More Pretentious Names Than Radcliffe Could Remember. Goddess of healing, redemption and compassion, his own patron diety and in the opinion of a good many scholars and theologians the closest thing that there was to a primordial entity of 'goodness'.

Somehow, this was her fault.

Breathing out a long, weary breath through his nose, Radcliffe turned and looked down at the halfling that was approaching. He gave the halfling a nod, and gestured sharply with his head towards the old, ratty saddle, "Well, come on then. It's a long ride back to Absalom." 'And it just got longer'

Light he needed a drink.

~~~

The journey itself had actually been fairly quiet for the most part. They had been riding for some distance and the halfling had yet to pipe up with any of the inane dribble that Radcliffe had come to think was some-sort of racially integrated verbal tic that all halflings possessed. Instead, the lad appeared to be lost in thought of his own. Radcliffe wasn't certain if he should be more worried about that, or not.

Finally though the halfling spoke up, like Radcliffe knew he would eventually. The old priest gave a dry snort of amusement when the lad brought up the subject of his learning and knowledge. No doubt several of his brothers and sisters of the cloth would have words to say about how well any of his lessons had stuck. But the matter of his credentials was not the real issue here, the orb that was currently resting inside the halfling's backpack was.

"I know it's evil," he answered cautiously, keeping his gaze forward to watch the road. "You saw what it did to that troglodyte back there in the tower, lad. That's the same fate the ultimately awaits anyone foolish enough to cavort with forces beyond their understanding. Power is like a drug. Sharp and sweet at first, intoxicating, but soon the first taste isn't enough and you find yourself wanting more. Needing more. And with every taste, you give up a little more of yourself. Until you have nothing left to give."

[stobco]

The halfling was waiting for Radcliffe to provide exact details of the nature of the orb, what it did, and what shouldn't be done with it. He sat there, ears wide open taking in everything the priest said. Once Radcliffe stopped talking, Scant was confused, and disappointed.

"Aw c'mon, is that all you have to say? That's stuff anyone with common sense would know. I know all about how evil draws people into its grasp and tightens its grip ever so slowly. What I really want to know is what do you really know about the orb? Help me out would yah? I have this thing in my backpack and I'm supposed to hand it over to the guy that paid me to get it. Problem is, if it's so powerful, maybe I shouldn't hand it over. I don't want it to fall into the wrong hands. Makes sense right?"

[Melchior]

Radcliffe rolled his eyes at the indignation in the lad's tone. "Halflings. Too curious for your own good by half. And you would be surprised at how frequently 'common' sense, isn't."

"But alright lad, if words of warning aren't what you were looking for, might be you're right. Maybe I do know more. But before we get into that, how about you answer a question of your own for me first." Radcliffe cranes his neck around to glance back at the halflings riding behind him out of the corner of his eye.

"Who's paying you for this job?"

[stobco]

"Ah, so there you have it! I'm trying to get outplayed by a cleric of Saranae!" finishing off his sentence with a light poke to Radcliffe's ribs.

"I really have nothing to hide. I mean, I was asked to keep it a secret, but I thought the orb was just that, an orb. I didn't know it turned people into walking zombies. The guy that hired me is Dervish, the same guy that's paying myself and Brom, and Vigg before he left us for a woman, to bring back any valuables from the fortress. It's your turn."

[Melchior]

Radclife chose to ignore the jab to his ribs and the accompanying accusation that joined it, focusing instead on the halfling's response to his question.

"Just 'Dervish'? " he echoes, one eyebrow raised. "No surname? What, does he fancy himself some kind of world famous bard; all hair and glamour and ego?" But what would someone like that need with relics from a rundown old fortress in the badlands?

He rolled the name in his head, but it did not ring any bells. Radcliffe had lived in Absalom many years now, ever since the road had brought him down this way back when he could still have been called a young man, but there were a lot of people who called the City at the Center of the World home, and many more coming and going each day. Besides, Brom and the halfling didn't strike Radcliffe as the sort to spend much time in the same social circles as him. They were too clean.

Regardless he didn't know the name, but he tucked it away in the back of his mind none the less. It might be worth looking into later.

"Aye. My turn," Radcliffe nods, turning his gaze back to the road to gather his thoughts. "I don't know what the orb is called, which only makes me all the more wary of it considering what it does and where it was found. The more powerful and dangerous magical objects are also usually the ones that have been the most thoroughly documented, and therefore the easiest to recognize and identify."

"But I suppose that's not what you asked, now is it?" Radcliffe sighed. Truth be told, he knew far less about the orb than he wished. "I know it has power, which our friend back in the tower was drawing upon to boost his own capabilities. To what extent I can't say with any real certainty. I don't know what, if any, power the blighter had before he got his claws into that little trinket, but I don't think he was drawing anything near its full capabilities. A few parlour tricks with some shadows just doesn't mesh with what else was going on there. You saw that ritual he had set up back there, didn't you, lad? It takes a better mind than old King Taskkar's to set that sort of thing up. If he had the ability to pull off something like that all on his own, he could have killed us all. Either someone else did it up for him, who just conveniently happened to be absent, or he was getting directions from another source."

"The only thing I can say for certainty is that the orb possesses significant dark power, specifically the sort relating to shadows, fear and death. Or perhaps undeath to be more specific, judging from what happened with Taskkar after Brom put the blighter down the first time. Its magic is divine in origin, but as to which specific deity it is tied to..." Radcliffe shrugged his shoulders. "There were a number of shrines to some of the darker gods set up, by the troglodytes I presume. Logically they would be the first suspects..." Radcliffe trailed off, not bothering to hide the doubt and hesitation creeping into his voice on that subject.

[stobco]

"Of course he has a last name. Most people do. I really didn't think it mattered, I mean, how many people do you know named Dervish? John or William, sure, I could understand. But Dervish? Anyhow, his name is Dervish, D... E... R... V... I... S... H... McGillicuddy, M... C... G... I... L... wait, are there two L's in his name? I'm not sure... But I'm pretty sure he's not a bard, more of a businessman."

Scant knew he should be thinking about Dervish's role in this. "Does he know what it can do? Or is he just ignorant to its powers and looking to turn it for a quick profit?" Regardless, he knew what needed to be done. He had to find out more about the black orb, and Dervish, before he handed it over to anyone. And what better person to make sure it's kept safe than himself?

"So you're telling me the orb has something to to do with evil gods? Maybe a lizard god? I saw that "thing" that was set up, you really think someone else was there? Well, if there was I'm happy it wasn't home. We had enough on our hands with the two in there, anymore and we might not be talking right now if you know what I mean. You know what Radcliffe? This black orb sounds like a pretty nasty thing. It's a good thing I'm keeping it safe. It always seems to be the small folk that are guarding precious, dangerous things, doesn't it?"

Scant stopped talking for a few second to collect his thoughts. "What should I do with the orb? Who can I trust?" He thought about everything he'd been through these last few days since Dervish hired him to go along and keep an eye on the other "explorers", and to retireve the orb. He's only Brom a short while, but he feels he can trust him more than Dervish. Something doesn't feel right about Dervish. Radcliffe and Bixby seem decent enough, but what does he really know about them. Actually, what does he really know about Brom? Nothing really.

"So Radcliffe, since this has something to do with gods and stuff, and you're a specialist in area, what do you think we should do with it?"

[Melchior]

"I think you should be supremely careful, lad," Radcliffe answers, grim faced. "And I think that you should trust nobody, least of all the man who sent you out to the fortress to find that little trinket you've got tucked away in your backpack."

"I can't say that I know the man. First I've ever heard of any Dervish, McCillicuddy or otherwise, but from the sounds of things he knows quite a lot more about that orb than you or I, and that's cause enough to be cautious. Perhaps it's just the cynic in me talking, but it would seem to me that a man doesn't go looking for specific dark artefacts in the ruined fortress of a centuries dead mage-warlord and would-be conqueror because he needs a new paperweight."

"If it were me holding on to the thing, I'd take it to someone who might be able to tell me better what it was before I went ahead and made any rash decisions. And when dealing with objects of divine origins, you ask the divine themselves - or their followers. You'd be best off finding answers in the temple district, lad.

"I'd probably take it straight to the Temple of the Shining Star and see what Lady Xerashir could make of it, but you might say I'm a bit biased in this case. As a priest of Saranae it should have been unsurprising that Rdcliffe would favor looking for answers from his own temple. He might not have been held in terribly high regard from most of the other priests but there was still a certain loyalty intrinsic there; and he trusted them more than most in Absalom, despite their differences.

Still, there were other gods, and the lad should know his options, "You could ask a priest of Nethys; who better than the god of magic to inquire about magical objects? The followers of the All-Seeing Eye rarely take sides, but they also tend to be unpredictable, worshippers of a mad-god as they are. In a city like Absalom you probably wouldn't have to deal with any of his more... pernicious faithful. Probably."

"In the fortress, the troglodytes had set up a few shrines to Pharasma. That doesn't sit quite right with me, though. Now, a lot of people don't hold much love for Pharasma - she presides over death and most people don't much care for the subject - but she's not malevolent. Much more relevant to the subject at hand though is that fact that she abhors the undead. Considers them a perversion of the natural order. Isn't too fond of necromancy either, obviously, so I have a hard time figuring out how she fits into what we saw going on back in the fortress, what with the zombies and the necromatic rituals. But if anyone could be said to be an expert on the subject of death, it'd be the priests of the Lady of Graves. Might be worth seeing what they have to say about the orb, though I imagine it's nothing kind."

"You could even take it to the Temple of Asmodeus, but I highly recommend against that, unless you're feeling especially foolhardy."

[Melchior]

New Scene The Night of the First Day.

The Docks. For most, they are the first sight of the city experienced - their first real taste of the Center at the Center of the World. A bustling district where sailors and longshoremen constantly struggle to load and unload the constant stream of ships of the cargo destined for Absalom's markets and elsewhere. Trade is the life-blood of Absalom, and it is not sequestered solely to the Great Bazaar and marketplaces of the Coins district. During the day, young touts are found nearly everywhere, announcing the services of all manner of business.

Nightfall does not stop the docks district. Torches are lit, lanterns and hung, and business continues. Indeed, many visitors to the area prefer the night, and the semblance of secrecy that it brings. When the sun sets and the more reputable business men turn in for the night, that is when all many of men and otherwise skulk up from the Puddles to ply their trades with more fertile markets coming into the city from around the world. Anything and everything can be found here, if you’re willing to pay the right price and don’t mind too badly that what you’re buying was likely acquired through less than honest means. The Harbour Guard does little to curb the practice, turning a blind eye to all but the most flagrant of offenders so long as things don't get out of hand.

The Laughing Rogue was one of the dozens taverns that could be found the area, catering to sailors, travelers and locals alike. Entertainment and camaraderie are in ready supply here on the docks, eased along by a healthy dosage of social lubricant in the form of cheap ale, as well as companionship of a different sort, if one has the coin to spend.

The interior of the tavern was a smokey low-beamed den. The grubby, whiskered faces of the patrons were dimly lit by the lights shed by tapers placed on the rough wooden tables, and the paper lanterns strung up along the rafters. The room was filled with uproarious laughter, hammering upon the tables and the clack and roll of dice coming from a shadowy corner. Many of the clientele were thick-bearded old salts, just put into port that day, clad in tattered and disreputable coats. Those who do not show the obvious signs of a long life spent out on the seas are younger men, dock workers thick with muscle, and there are also a handful of hard-looking women that look to be as quick to fight as the men. Pretty young bar wenches flitted between the tables, serving drinks and fending off drunken advances with easy skill that spoke of great practice.

One of the old sea salts, a grizzled old dwarf with a wild beard that is more white than grey, raised his mug to the rafters in a toast to the whole room. The man's crewmates let out a raucous cheer and began thumping on their table in a steady rhythm. Soon, most of the tavern caught on and many of them joined in until there is a clumsy mis-timed thumping sounding throughout the tavern as the sailors pound on their tables. It is good enough for the dwarf, and he raised his mug again before launching in a song:

Safe and sound at home again
Let the waters roar, Jack
Safe and sound at home again
Let the waters roar, Jack

The dwarf's voice is deep and coarse, but he is a good singer and as he belts out the first words the other sailors cheer him on, joining their voices into the shanty as he reaches the first chorus.

Long we've tossed on the rolling main
Now we're safe ashore, Jack
Don't forget your old shipmate
Fal dee ral dee ral dee rye eye doe!

Since we sailed from Palin's Cove
Four years gone, or nigh, Jack
Was there ever chummies, now
Such as you and I, Jack?

We have worked the self-same gun:
Quarterdeck division
Sponger I and loader you
Through the whole commission

Oftentimes have we laid out
toil nor danger fearing,
Tugging out the flapping sail
to the weather bearing

When the middle watch was on
And the time went slow, boy
Who could choose a rousing stave
Who like Jack or Joe, boy?

There she swings, an empty hulk
Not a soul below now
Number seven starboard mess
Misses Jack and Joe now

But the best of friends must part
Fair or foul the weather
Hand yer flipper for a shake
Now a drink together.

O, Long we've tossed on the rolling main
Now we're safe ashore, Jack
Don't forget your old shipmate
Fal dee ral dee ral dee rye eye doe!

By the time the dwarven sailor had reached the final reprise, every voice in the tavern had joined in, a chorus of coarse voices that made up for in enthusiasm what they lacked in singing talent. When the song was finished, there was a great applause and clattering of mugs as every man and woman raised their drinks in toast. Another song kicked up, and several voices joined in but after the first most of the tavern clientele had gone back to their earlier conversations.

Radcliffe grinned as he took a hearty drink from his tankard, draining what had been left in it. His mouth was drawn into a smile that almost made his cheeks hurt, and not just because of the drink and pretty girls. The song had roused the young boy in him, that always seemed to emerge whenever he got a whiff of salt water or watched the sun rise over the ocean. Radcliffe had lived in Absalom near on ten years, but he had been born and raised in a fishing village. The sea was as much a part of him as the city; it was born into the blood, and not so easily forgotten. Perhaps that was why the docks were probably his favorite part of Absalom. It was dirty and rough and the ale might have been watered down, but some things had value that coin just couldn't buy.

With a sharp whistle, he alerted one of the serving girls and gestured with a wave for her to bring him another ale. Once he was confident that his order had been acknowledged he turns back to his own company. His smile turned predatory as he grinned across the worn wooden table at the men sitting opposite of him.

"Now, where were we, friends?" He scooped up the cup and shook it, rattling the dice within, the familiar sounds causing his smile to grow even wider, showing of some teeth in a manner rather reminiscent of a shark. "I believe that it was my roll?" He rattled the dice within his cup and with a casual flick of his wrist he let the dice roll.

Several very profitable games later, the serving girl arrived at the table to bring Radcliffe his drink. With a warm smile and flirtatious wink he thanked the lovely young lady and sent her off again with a generous tip. He had plenty of coin to spare now, after all. Taking a drink of his ale, he glanced across the table at the now empty seat there and wondered if perhaps he should have gone a little easier. Or at least, played it out longer before taken all their coin. Now he had to wait for a new opponent. Picking up the cup, Radcliffe rattled the dice within the cup absently as he glanced around the tavern, wondering how he would spend his evening now.

[Rolzup]

On the face of it, it’s simply not possible. There is no imaginable way that a 2 foot tall monkey, weighing a mere 11 pounds, can keep an adult male human (who has had, perhaps, a little more to drink than was entirely wise) upright and moving. Not without assistance, or magic, or a miracle.

And yet, somehow, Jasper Poundworthy manages this task, entirely on his own. Bless him. Whatever it is that Thomas Bombast pays that monkey, it’s not nearly enough. Thomas himself would be the first to admit this, and has indeed done so on more than one occasion.

Jasper is perched upon his master’s shoulder, and is moving briskly from one left to right and back again, directing Thomas’ staggerings with subtle shifts of his weight and gentle tugs upon the appropriate ear. He performs these manipulations with an air of kindly forbearance; it’s not the first time that Jasper has performed this task, and doubtless it shan’t be the last.

With a lurch, Thomas comes to a halt. Jasper leans forward to chitter in his ear, and Thomas nods wisely...barely managing, thanks to Jasper’s swift intervention, to keep himself from toppling face-first into the street in the process.

“I need to clear my head, old boy. All full of cotton and what-not. What the deuce was in that concoction of Wilkins’, Poundworthy? And what was I thinking, accepting a drink from a man with such a remarkable dearth of teeth?”

Thomas shakes his head, and eventually comes to rest a few feet away, electing to prop up a convenient wall. Jasper makes a sympathetic noise, to which Thomas agrees. “Quite right. Probably better to remain ignorant, for the sake of all concerned. Never seen such an unfortunate shade of blue, though. Positively ghastly. But one can’t help but wonder, really.”

Unwisely, Thomas takes a deep breath. The smell of the city, almost thick enough to taste, is indeed strong enough to help settle his mind...and deeply unsettle his stomach. Retching, he doubles over, while Jasper soothingly massages his temples. “Better out than in, I suppose,” Thomas eventually gasps, “My thanks, old top.” He straightens up slowly; thankfully the streets are no longer spinning quite so much.

It is then that the sorcerer’s eyes light upon the sign of the Laughing Rogue. And only the merest instant later, a brilliant idea springs into Thomas’s mind, fully formed. “Hair of the dog,” he declares, “Just the thing!”

Jasper makes a disapproving noise, and Thomas waves a hand. “A small dog only, Poundworthy. I promise. The merest of pups, and no more!” The monkey shrugs a resigned shrug -- he’s also been down this road before. Doubtless it will lead somewhere interesting, and Poundworthy's memoirs will be all the better for it.

The door proves dauntingly complex, before Jasper gently points out that it opens in to the tavern. Chuckling ruefully, Thomas enters, wincing as the sounds and smells of the Rogue wash over him, and raises a hand in greeting to the room. “Halloo, and all that,” he calls, “Quite the night, eh?”

[ItsaVerb]

Thank the gods Vigg thought as his freshly-washed feet practically skipped along the first of a series of wooden plank decks that networked the commercial establishments of the docks district with the docks themselves, where carts hurried cargo from the ships moored there up the gently pitched ramps to the warehouses and merchant shoppes above.

The district was a bustle of activity, and the salt breeze of the inner sea tickled the bard's neck as his wet hair fluttered about. It was noisy. Perfectly noisy. If there was one sound Vigg Nosam loved more than his own voice it was the the cacophony of a mass of lives living themselves out in real time, each conversation oblivious to the others, a beautifully-discordant accidental symphony of anonymity. It was the first time all day he'd been able to clear his mind. Unfortunately that wasn't likely to happen this night as his thoughts were entirely engrossed with the image of the most exquisite example of feminine perfection he'd ever laid eyes and ears on.

He would have stayed right there in that chair at the Wilted Rose and continued his flirtation with Miribelle Cedersong from a distance, but thankfully, a rare stroke of wisdom reminded Vigg he reeked of trog, and mastiff slobber, and spider dung, and smoke, and sweat, and his clothes were stained with crusted vomit, only some of which was his own, and he decided he should fetch a change of clothes and have a bath if he were to have any shot at taking this seduction to the next level.

Brom didn't mind when Vigg stole away unannounced. The benefits of platonic friendship. Frankly, he also wasn't anxious to suffer the bit of minor berating the ranger would have for him today. He did set Brom on fire, so he didn't have a strong leg to stand on, but he preferred to defer that conversation to another day and hope it would be forgotten.

Vigg was also glad to put some distance between himself and the grating sound of Feiya's insults in badly-broken-common. There was something intensely unnerving about that one, and even if he had a hundred fingers he couldn't put a single one of them on exactly what it was--even aside from her callous attitude, unpredictability, wild power, and apparent death-wish.

The one thing aside from the portrait of Miribelle's face that nagged at Vigg's thoughts was the sword. He might have made a bigger deal out of leaving it behind at the tower. He couldn't shake the notion that it was important, and not in a good way. Mik gave him a shoosh because the damned sword weighed a hundred pounds and they didn't have the cargo room for it, and Vigg could almost swear when they left that tower he could still hear the faint whisper, the voice of that artifact saying 'don't leave me'.

Vigg located a suitable alehouse, his eventual destination, a random hall full of strangers where he could be alone for a while.

The young Keleshite strode through the door of the Laughing Rogue to find the place full of robust celebration. The first person who caught his eye was a stocky human sailor at one of the tables nearest the door. The poor guy looked like he'd been on the short end of a bad bar-fight, his nose was broken, both eyes were black and swollen, and the hand that held his mug had a few fingers splinted together with gauze. He was regaling the other dogs at the table with a story.

"Aye, she was tall, mates. Lanky. But the lass had the face of a mermaid I swear to ye! Strange one, too... monk or something. She had one of those curvy desert swords and wore sandals. Arrrgh! But she talked too much! That's it! I'd have had that handful, but the bird wouldn't shut up!!"

The first part of the description of this tall monk struck Vigg in his gut. It reminded him of his sister. The second part, the part about the girl being a jabbermouth, that was very much not like Kyra. Still, the conversation reverberated in his ear for a bit.

Spying a table on the far side of the room, Vigg noticed a middle-aged fellow sporting a holy symbol and the sparkly eyes of a drunkard. This might be the real-world personification of the promiscuous priest he'd been writing the play about. Wouldn't it be amazing if it were true, and he could poke the good cleric for some information on his more harrowing exploits?

Making his way to the table, he noticed the cheerful solitary gentleman fiddling with some dice.

"Vigg Nosam, Padre." Vigg extended his hand for a shake. "Looking for an opponent for a roll or two, and a toast of ale?"

[Melchior]

With his immediate prospects quitting the table, Radcliffe had settled back in his chair to relax and appreciate the atmosphere while he awaited his next challenger. The taverns on the docks also held a healthy supply of men willing to put their hard earned coin on the line, all Radcliffe had to do was wait. And as it turned out, he did not have very long to wait at all.

He cracked open an eye as he heard the telltale sounds of footsteps approaching his corner. He brought his mug up to water his lips, and ran an appraising glance over the newcomer, as he stepped up and introduced himself. This Vigg Nossam was a young man, with sun tanned skin, but it was readily evident that the man was no sailor or dock worker; he didn't have the build for it. Nor did he look like a local. He was a Keleshite, unless Radcliffe missed his guess. A traveler then. He look a little out of place amongst the rough seamen that otherwise made up the Laughing Rogue's clientele but it was not so unusual that it bore special consideration.

The corner of Radcliffe's mouth turned up into an easy grin. "I am always looking." Setting down his mug, Radcliffe reached out to accept Vigg's proffered hand, shaking it firmly. "Radcliffe. Have a seat, lad. I'm not one to turn aside company when it is offered."

Radcliffe waved towards the bar where the tavern master - an elderly man, fat and balding but whose well worn face suggests a life spent in good humor - was standing. Soon, a serving girl brings over a pair of sizable tankard, filled with foaming ale. Radcliffe thanks the young lady, and slides one of the tankards over to his new companion with an easy smile. "Here you are, lad. The first one is on me."

Company was always welcome, but the game and the coin was what Radcliffe was really after. Scooping up the cup, he shook it to create the distinctive rattling sound and was about to inquire whether or not Vigg knew how the game was played when a ruckus drew his attention away from his company and towards the door. 'Now what do we have-' "Is that a monkey?"

Indeed, the novelty of seeing a monkey riding atop a man, an obviously drunken man at that, momentarily overrides Radcliffe's sensibilities, causing him to just stare at the scene in mute incomprehension as the new arrival stumbles into the tavern and boldly, and loudly, announces himself. Blinking, Radcliffe took in the rest of the new arrival. The man's finely cut clothes, his expertly coiffed hair, his hauty bearing despite the fact that he had quite obviously gotten an early start on the night's drinking, all marked the new arrival as nobility, and an especially foolish example of nobility in Radcliffe's opinion. He could only speculate on what had possessed the man to leave the Petal District and come down to the Docks of all places, at night, but to do so while so flagrantly displaying his wealth and standing... Well at least he would make for a very pretty corpse when they found him in the gutter tomorrow morning.

[ItsaVerb]

As much as humans desire to convince ourselves that our behaviors are led by logic, and that we are able to base sound decisions on information, the fact is that none of us have as much control as we think we do... or wish we had. Such is the case with first-impressions. We learn it's not right to 'judge a book by its cover', but that's exactly what we do, and in a matter of seconds. We can't help it, it's how we are wired.

Vigg liked the man at the table instantly whether he wanted to or not. He was terrible at estimating people's ages, but he guessed the chap was in his fourth decade of life. The older gentleman buying his drink certainly did nothing but reinforce the first-impression.

"Thank you very much, good sir!" Vigg bubbled, taking the head off a fresh tankard of ale with a refreshing slurp. "Ah... that does hit the spot! I didn't catch your na--" The words left his lips but tumbled to the ground before they could reach an ear. Vigg turned back to see what his host and the majority of the other patrons in the tavern were looking at.

"Indeed it is a monkey! Well, there's something you don't see every day." The pun that occurred to him was just too stupid, so he kept it to himself. "What's more interesting is that the monkey seems to be doing more than just riding on the man's shoulders... it looks like he's commanding the fellow the way a man might ride a horse!" Absolutely fascinating... I must meet this person.

Raising his voice to catch the smartly-dressed and obviously inebriated man's attention, along with a wave of his hand, Vigg blurted "Quite the night indeed, my friend!" He gestured for the man and his monkey to come closer. "Join us, won't you?"

Vigg turned and offered a quick wink at the anonymous gentleman with the dice. "This one looks like he's got a few coins he won't mind losing, doesn't he? I'm not sure he's sober enough to cheat if he tried, but I'd keep my eye on that monkey."

[Rolzup]

As his eyes adjust to the light, and he takes in the sea of scowling faces, Thomas sags a little. "Oh dear," he murmurs, suddenly feeling more sober than he has in hours, "More rogue than laughing, I fear. Well, nothing for it, old boy. You do still have that knife, I hope?"

Squaring his shoulders, he takes a step forward and opens his mouth, prepared to proclaim that he's the toughest man in this room, see? And that Thomas Bombast isn't going to take anyone's....

It's at this moment that Vigg calls out, and Thomas seizes upon his invitation like a starving dog offered a rich, meaty bone. "My pleasure, my good man!" he calls out, as Jasper rather grumpily (and discreetly) re-sheathes his stiletto. He picks his way through the crowd with surprising grace; clearly this is a man who is at home in a tavern, even one as...rustic, shall we say?...this one.

As he seats himself, Thomas offers the others a cheerful grin. "Thomas Bombast, at your service! And this is Jasper Poundworthy, at mine."

Jasper bows. Impeccably.

[Melchior]

And the monkey even bows. How about that.

Radcliffe let the strangeness of the situation drift out of his mind. People, animals and novelties from all around the world regularly passed through The City at the Center of the World, and after living there for any real length of time one quickly learned to just accept the weirdness and move on. A well-mannered monkey servant didn't even scratch the top ten strangest sights Radcliffe had seen in his time in Absalom.

"Of the Absalom Bombasts, I take it?" Radcliffe quipped with a wry smile. The man had already accepted Vigg's invitation and was seating himself, but Radcliffe was not inclined to dispute the matter. Old money made for an easy mark; the only problem was that Radcliffe so rarely crossed paths with the gentry. They shared precious few of the same social circles and few high-born were so inclined to leave the Petals. But tonight, one had staggered his way all the way down to his front door, and he intended to make good use of such a golden opportunity.

"Well met, Master Bombast," Radcliffe greets with a friendly smile, bowing slightly in his seat towards the nobleman. "Brother Radcliffe, humble servant to the Lady Everlight, at your service." Though the words he introduces himself were said with a a sort of solemnity, the sardonic smile that splits his face rather ruins the effect. "Sit, please. We'd much appreciate the company of a gentleman such as yourself. I so rarely have the pleasure. Would you care for a drink?"

Almost as if on cue, the same serving girl from earlier returns to the table, sitting down a tankard in front of Thomas to match the two in front of Radcliffe and Vigg. Radcliffe grins over the top of his own mug - neither of the other two at the table had even seen him call for another drink - and raises the cup in a small salute before bringing it to his lips.