The wind whipped at loose shingles and tugged at laundry lines strung between stone buildings. It swirled cyclones of dust down cobblestone roads and wrapped flags ‘round their poles. It teased the dirty blond locks of a half elven youth as he strode down the street, black silken scarf raised against the wind. The sun slipped slowly toward the horizon, heralding the time when evening met nightfall.

Jake Narmolanya shivered against the early spring chill. Although the days had grown warmer of late, the wind gave the air a bite reminiscent of the icy winter. The half elf wore only a light black vest over his long-sleeved green shirt, the laces of which hugged his chest tautly. His pants matched the vest, pressed obsidian that wrinkled in the reddening twilight. Jake had all his clothing tailored from sifan cloth, save of course his fine leather boots.

The demon hunter ran a hand through his shaggy hair. He’d left his customary canvas cap behind this night, for it did not go so well with the rest of his outfit. Meeting with a woman made Jake think of such things. He never concerned himself with the colors of his clothing while on a Haidian’s trail. When doing battle with a demon, he didn’t stop to consider if his coattails complimented his bootstraps.

I suppose life can’t be all battles-to-the-death.

Of course, he didn’t feel the need to launder his clothing and bathe before meeting with most of his female friends. Perhaps it was Amari’s harsh, judgmental attitude that made him want to meet her expectations. Regardless, Jake and his garments were both scrubbed shining as his polished boots carried him through the streets of Radasanth. Soon he arrived at the Drunken Dwarf, a middle class tavern where he’d arranged to meet with the red-haired Salvic woman.

Jake took a seat with his back to a wall and ordered ale when the waitress came ‘round. Despite its name, the Drunken Dwarf catered to an almost entirely human crowd, which was good. It meant Amari would blend in. The half elf knew the Salvic lass was putting herself in danger just by meeting with him. The Crimson Hand, the organization in which she had become a leader, did not look kindly on external relationships. Jake was not sure why she had agreed to meet with him, but it made him glad. He felt Amari needed some positive friendship in her life, and hoped he could provide such an influence.

The smell of sour wine and stale ale wafted overtop of the odor of sawdust on the floor. A lute player began plucking her instrument in the far corner, earning appreciative applause and whistles from some of the more drunken patrons. The bosomy server returned with Jake’s ale, and he paid with silver and sipped the sudsy beverage. The tavern was crowded and growing rowdier as the minutes ticked by. Perfect conditions for a covert meeting between old friends.