The Fuzzy Bunny Inn was always a joke in the Slums. Located near the Student Ghetto, it catered to bored and adventurous students who sought a cheap thrill. The waitresses wore ridiculous outfits designed to titillate and scandalise – not uncommon for the Slums, of course. The joke came from the fact that the girls looked like they were for sale, but they were not. The Fuzzy Bunny Inn didn’t even have a common room to stay the night, let alone private chambers for such transactions.

The Fuzzy Bunny was all promise and no pay-off.

No one’s laughing any more. While the Fallen Flagon remains the most popular dive in the Slums, the fall of Morokh and the Thieves’ Alliance has diminished its patronage, and more importantly, endangered its most lucrative, and infamous, feature: the Slave Pits. The city’s new Slavemaster has shown little interest in supporting the spectacle of the Pits, and with his disapproval has come a diminishing of custom there. Nowadays, more souls flock to the Fuzzy Bunny, for a simple reason: it is common knowledge that it is Lucian’s tavern of choice, where the new Slavemaster conducts the business of the People’s Alliance.

For the past several weeks – after his role in directly confronting the remnants of the Thieves’ Alliance ended – Lucian has “held court” in the Fuzzy Bunny every night, hearing pleas for aid, offers of assistance, stories of woe or whatever else the people might wish to bring his way. The Student Ghetto is as safe as the University district these days, patrolled and guarded by Lucian’s men and allies, and the legend of Lucian is growing.

But it’s still a shock when one meets him. Tall and lithe, Lucian has a boy’s face, bright and beautiful save for the ugly scar running down his left cheek. He looks far younger – and far more hopeful – than his story would lend one to believe.

But then, legend says he has met the Trio, and received his mandate from the Golden Dragon himself, and such things can change a man.

Lucian sits at a table in the centre of the room, with no obvious guard and nothing but a queue separating him from the people. The table is littered with dinner, drink, notes and coin, showing he has been here a while. One of the Fuzzy Bunny’s waitresses – a pretty young Elf dressed, as one would expect, as a scantily-clad rabbit – stays nearby, in case he needs anything.

It is to this tavern that four have been called. Their resumes left with Lucian on nights previous, tonight they have been called together before him, their apparent skills and expertise useful to the leader of the People’s Alliance. It is with a smile he greets them as they each enter, motioning them to join him at the table as they await others. Even as the party gathers, he continues to hold court with the people, always sympathetic, always eager to help.

As the first of the four approaches, he is listening to the tale of a sad-eyed grandmother, who has been preyed upon by street toughs and lost her home to their turf wars.

Tyrone ducks through the front door of the Fuzzy Bunny, turning to let an impatient patron out as he does. The young man takes a moment to regain his senses as the press of the crowd in the Bunny, and the good looks of the waitresses threaten to overwhelm him; three years on ship with only minimal shore leave and sixteen years on a rock in a town of less than two hundred (with more than a fair share of places of ill repute, where all the un-reputable women were inevitably a cousin or some such) had in no way prepared Tyrone for how big the big city would be when he finally got there.

The first thing that Tyrone managed to do when he was paid off at the docks was to get taken by a con man running a game of three card monte, then get overcharged at a bar where he got very drunk, and then to top the night off he woke up the next day having been rolled by the whore he didn't even remember enjoying the services of.

But at least he was in the city, finally. And in the week and a half that had passed since then, things had been improving steadily. The culmination of that rise in fortunes was meeting Lucian, and the favorable result of that meeting. Tyrone smiles, thinking of that, and then breaks into laughter at the cross look a waitress sends in his direction at her misunderstanding of his far away gaze and grin, both of which were pointed in her direction. Finally back in the here-and-now, Tyrone ambles over to the table where Lucian holds court.

Bolor Borilsson enters the tavern, stepping aside after entering to take a look around. He is of middling height for a dwarf, but his shoulders are wide and he fairly bulges with muscle. His black hair is cut close to his scalp and his beard is closely trimmed. He wears sturdy leather pants, a brown canvas shirt and a leather coat, all plain and undyed. A warhammer rides at his belt and his hands are covered in studded leather gloves.

He notes the young human standing by the table, and moves to flank him, unconsciously moving into hhis blindspot. He isn't at all sure what he is supposed to do, so he defaults to his usual. He stands silent, watching the people around him with his hand on his hammer.

Lucian gives the elder a smile. "Mother, please, do not fret. The old Alliance created your pain, and the new Alliance shall remove it." He grabs one of the scraps of paper, scribbles a hasty note upon it, and presses it to her shaking hand. "Take this note to that gentleman over there," he motions to a weedy and plain-looking man sitting near the kitchen door, "and he will take care of you."

The grandmother thanks Lucian profusely before shuffling her way towards her new saviour, and Lucian motions to the two waiting figures. "Sit, my friends, sit. I don't know how long the others shall be." To the waitress: "Anything they want, on my tab."

As the adventurers settle, he turns his attention to the next petitioner, a chubby, but sturdy fellow sporting a new black eye, who reports a new gang causing trouble in the central slums.

Bolor waits to see what the human will do before he does anything. He will look the chairs over though to grab one with a view of the door.

Tyrone smiles and takes a seat on the same side of the table as Lucian. He starts when he looks back to see who else Lucian addressed and then lets it go. Sneaky, rude dwarves aren't his concern so long as their hammers don't leave their belts.

"Small beer, please."

Lucian scribbles another quick note, instructing the man to deliver it to another man indicated in the tavern, with promises that the issue will be taken care of as quickly as possible.

The waitress flashes Tyrone a bright smile - he is nearly as handsome as Lucian, after all, and much younger - as he orders, then pauses a moment to see if the dwarf has an order of his own before vanishing to the kitchen.

"Beer. Dark."

The dwarf takes a seat, without even looking at the barmaid, except for a quick glance after she has turned to leave. He then scans the room, looking for Lucian's guards both obvious and hidden.

The waitress bobs a curtsey to the dwarf and vanishes to the kitchen.

SPIRIT: Ingenuity. 7. Success.

As another petitioner approaches Lucian, with another story of woe from the Slums, the dwarf observes the people in the tavern. Lucian's men are good - most would miss them. Aside from the aides he clearly has scattered about the tavern to whom he delegates the woes of the people, Bolor can see at least a dozen individuals who are clearly keeping an eye on Lucian and his "court" - a couple of the waitresses who are a little less scantily clad than others, several men peppered along the walls and bars, and darkened hoods and surreptitious glances from nearby tables.

Tyrone's gaze follows the waitress out of the room, and then when she disappears into the kitchen, it follows one coming out of the kitchen across the room, etc.

The door to the tavern opens and closes, apparently without anyone there to have opened it. A few minutes later, a young, plain-looking Halfling in a green tunic works his way through the crowd of legs and clasps dirty hands in front of him as he stands patiently waiting for Lucian to finish.

Another tale of woe is given a satisfactory conclusion - in this case, a few coins of gold are passed along - and Lucian looks down to the new arrival. "My friend, at last you have arrived! We only await one more before we can discuss business. Please, sit, sit. Our hostess shall return momentarily!"

As if summoned, she does indeed return with the beers that were ordered.

Tyrone accepts his beer with a broad, white, even smile, and then drinks.

The dwarf doesn't acknowledge the woman, but takes the beer and tastes it. If it doesn't taste too horrible, he will sip it as he continues to watch.

Late.

And not just a few seconds late, either, but a whole two minutes.

All because he'd got lost en route. Next time, perhaps he shouldn't try a new shortcut. And next time, perhaps he shouldn't oversleep...

Albert hurries into the Fuzzy Bunny, through the doors, dodges through the crowd, and finally reaches the last empty chair.

"Sorry I'm late sir."