A Night to Remember

[Ricctuss]

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http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25336-A-Night-to-Remember-(Recruitment)

Rykard Saint swaggered into the tavern and the room fell silent. He was dressed as ostentatiously as a corrupt noble, and one look at his eyes would tell you that he was twice as immoral. The air around him was heavy with sleazy magic. A feeling of danger clung to him like a favorite tunic. He tossed a suggestive wink at the barmaid and seated himself at a table in the very back of the room.

He removed his worn fur greatcloak and draped it over the back of the chair next to him. A few years ago, he'd promised himself he'd never come back to Salvar. Not after that unfortunate business last time. But here he was. He'd found an opportunity that was too good to pass up.

In a nearby keep, a self-proclaimed noble was throwing a massive masquerade ball. The noble was really nothing more than a glorified warlord who'd risen to his "station" by taking advantage of Salvar's political turmoil. While he himself was nothing special, his treasury was.

When the warlord took control of the keep, he discovered a hidden vault, deep within it. Whether the unfortunate previous owner knew about it or not is unknown, but the warlord discovered it and all it contained. In addition to its already substantial contents, he added his own ill-gotten wealth.

The entire keep had the best guards money could buy, and the vault was the most protected area of all. But, with the upcoming ball, the guards would be spread thin across the whole property. It would be a perfect opportunity for an enterprising criminal to get a cut of the riches.

Sure, Salvar wasn't know for its tolerance of magic-users. But this village was unimportant enough to be mostly ignored by the church. It was also close enough to the border that it saw its share of strange travelers. All in all, it seemed like the locals were content to leave Saint alone if he didn't cause any trouble.

He had every intention of causing trouble. But, he also had every intention of being back safely in Corone by the time anyone found out.

A few weeks ago Saint had put the word out in all the right (or wrong, based on how you looked at it) circles. There was a job he needed help on. If you had the right skills and weren't afraid to get your hands dirty, you could stand to make a decent bit of coin.

Now, he'd just have to wait and see if there were any takers. He leaned back in his chair and watched the tavern door.

[Dalasi]

“When in Salvar, do as Salvarites do.” The Hummel said chirpily, as he crossed the last few yards of the frosty street and clambered up the tavern’s rickety porch. Two men, sat outside despite the cold, smoked long pipes and grumbled incoherently at him in welcome.

It was a common enough phrase, but until now, Dalasi had missed out opportunities to fulfil his need to find out just what ‘do’ was. Whenever had had come to the surface in the frozen heart of the north, he had found nothing more exciting than weak beer, weaker women, and no sense of purpose.

“Good evening, sirs,” he said in stolid Tradespeak, lacking the finer points of grammar required to speak Salvarian with any sort of confidence. They stared at him, but said nothing more.

Pressing a gloved hand against the rough wood of a border tavern’s door, he took a deep breath. Months below the tundra, deep in the earth, had given the swordsman a strange sense of loneliness. For the first time he had time away from his duties to do as he pleased. There was no time like the present to break the habit of a lifetime, but as he entered, he still felt overwhelmed by the sudden proximity to so many wild, untethered, and unclean people.

He nodded to anyone that looked his way, but said nothing. Sometimes, in this sort of environment, that was all Dalasi needed. Many bearded men and women saw his kindness, and turned away, back to the brink, and the drink, that kept them company long into the night. He strode with growing confidence over the piss-stained floorboards to the bar.

“Barkeep,” he clucked, his Tradespeak becoming softer, but still heavy on his tongue, “ale, if you would please.” He dare not order anything more fanciful, lest it draw too much attention. He doubted he would be able to enjoy it, with the cold still bitter in his bones, and the anticipation of another heist on the tip of his tongue. Brewed hops and oat mead were perfect.

The burly man, clad in a grubby white apron and simple brown slacks nodded. He turned away, scooped up three tankards, and slammed them under the draught nozzle. It hissed white foam raucously and filled the tankards with what Dalasi hoped was the aforementioned beer. Before he could lean against the bar his drink was set before him, and an oily palm extended for coin.

“Cheers,” the swordsman said, slipping a cold coin out from his sleeve into the barkeep’s hands.

Satisfied with his sale, the barkeep left Dalasi to his sorrows. Dalasi took a glug, and instantly felt better. It even tasted fresh, which was an accomplishment in itself. His simple leather armour, riveted in places with blackened chainmail danced with the light of half-cut and half burnt out candles and lanterns. Refinements of such simple, military efficiency still seemed overburdened, glamorous amongst the poor, and destitute of Salvar. If it were not for his pointed ears, pallid white skin, and the half-crystalline blade slung over a shoulder, he would have forgiven anyone for mistaking him as an envoy of the Church.

Dalasi took a seat on one of the stools, and turned his attentions, between sips, to the occupants of the tavern properly. One of them, according to the ledger he had received from an informant, would be their guide and confidant. He danced with heady thoughts over several people before he at last set eyes on the only person in the room suitable.

“That would be him…,” he clucked, incorrigible desires to slap him already popping into his mind. Whoever he was, and whatever he wanted in this mansion, Dalasi had doubts about stealth when a man dressed like a prince wanted to lead the charge into the shadows. He rolled his eyes, took one last heavy swallow of the beer, and walked over.

He held his hand out in greeting, beamed a smile, and said, “Hello there, my name is Dalasi. I have come about your…offer.” He did not quite know how else to put it.

[Ricctuss]

Saint started sizing up the newcomer the second he walked through the door. With the hazy, dim light of the tavern, it was hard to make out much. Still, he noticed the man's pointed ears and pallid skin. Dark Elf, maybe? By his walk, Saint would have pegged him as a soldier or mercenary. That, and the fact that he was wearing armor and carrying a sword slung over his back.

Saint frowned. This wasn't the sort of person he was expecting to respond to his call. He looked better suited for the battlefield than the shadows. Still, he had a feeling there was far more to the newcomer than met the eye. In addition to that, this man looked like he knew how to use the fancy sword he carried. Combat was definitely not Saint's specialty, so this man might balance out the party.

Well, only one way to find out.

He was about to go over and introduce himself, but the newcomer beat him to it.

“Hello there, my name is Dalasi. I have come about your…offer.”

Saint returned Dalasi's smile with a crooked grin of his own and shook his hand.

"The name's Rykard Saint. You can just call me Saint. Funny story, I fit right in here in Salvar. There seems to be a surplus of lost saints," Saint said, laughing at his own joke.

"So, word got out," Saint continued. "Good. Come, pull up a chair and let's talk business. Ah, but first let me get another drink." He waved the barmaid over. "'Lo love. I'll have the biggest mug of the strongest thing you've got behind that counter." He paused for a second, staring off into the distance thoughtfully. "No, make it two. Three if my friend here wants one."

After the barmaid left, Saint glanced around casually to make sure no one was listening in. The people seemed every bit as apathetic as before. Satisfied, he turned towards Dalasi.

"So I trust the person who told you about me told you the basics of the job?" Saint asked. "What skills do you bring to the table? No offense meant friend, but you look like you belong at the head of an army rather than sneaking behind the lines."

[Itera]

The Second All-Salvar Pub Crawl is a repeat of the best kind of tradition: impromptu, ill-thought-out, and totally saturated in alcohol. The first one had ended with participants variously in bed with a porpoise, locked in a carton of potatoes bound for Scara Brae, on fire, in a heated argument with a small forest, and assisting a certain duke being conceived. Fortunately for the duke's mother, the forest, the local fire brigade, the potato merchant, and the porpoise, the second one seemed to focus less on drunken rampage and more on enjoying the sublime atmosphere of Salvar and its charming establishments.

Of course, this did not in any way prevent irresponsible and shameless behavior; that came with simply being fey. There were already berserk chickens swarming a tavern in a small herding village a few hours' trek away. The camp of a fur trapper had been mysteriously raided of all its mead, though it had also been mysteriously gifted with a large smoked ham, which had one small, neat bite taken out of it.

The tavern door swung open under Itera's urgent push, the light dusting of blown snow briefly damping the tips of her white gloves. She slipped in with two solid thuds of solid boots on solid floor, somehow maneuvering her white parasol through a space narrower than the parasol, and elbowed the door shut behind her.

"It's inside. It's not cold. Stupid cold" Itera muttered, apparently to herself, while collapsing her shield and stamping the rapidly-melting crust of frost off of her red boots. It took a few more moments for her to brush all the cold off of her offensively frilly, white-and-purple dress. It was truly offensively frilly. If there was a crime of blasphemy against sensible decoration, it would be hung by the straps until moth-eaten. That is, unless it was first pardoned for elegance.

"Are you suuure?" Said her hat.

"OUT!" That came out a little louder than a low mutter. Itera's mob cap wiggled, bulged in strange places, and then lifted itself entirely off of her head. There was a small fairy inside: green dress, blonde hair, and four white feathered wings. Idiéth puffed out both cheeks in irritation and buzzed off, dropping the hat quite lopsidedly on top of Itera's quite-mussed hair.

Being just over a foot tall had some disadvantages, like the inability to use chairs at a table without a dictionary or three. Having wings helped. Idiéth was at the bar in seconds, then she was past the bar and reading the labels on the shelves, not that she could read most of them. The attendant, momentarily distracted by a demand for more peanuts, had not noticed.

From somewhere, Itera had produced a brush and was working on straightening out the damage. Her cheeks were pink with a combination of the cold outside, the embarrassment of having been seen without her hat, and several recent mugs of stout. The complex assembly of tails took a full minute to sort out underneath Itera's centuries-experienced hands. The hat went on, perfectly straight. The brush vanished, as if it had never existed. She glided stately over the stained floorboards towards the bar, chin up, eyes half-lidded, faint smile hidden behind an open folding fan that had appeared from nowhere.

Avoid drawing attention? Who do such a heinous thing?

Dignify mortal attention with acknowledgement? Who would do such a traitorous thing?

Idiéth narrowly missed clipping the keeper's balding head on her way back. She swung tetherball-like around Itera's head and proudly announced, "They have mead an' ale an' kid her an' beer!"

"Is that so~?"

"Uh huh!"