Two days earlier, each adventurer received the letter by personal courier:

I am pleased to accept your application to assist on my simple but vital task. Please report to the Lavender Goblin tavern at ten past three o'clock, upon the day after tomorrow. Give this letter to the barman upon entry.

I look forward to our meeting.

Sincerely,
Jave M. Suya

The big day is here, and right now it seems a wonder that anybody will be able to get to the Lavender Goblin, or anywhere else in Alárya, without being six hours late. The rising tide brings in the trading vessels, turning the docks into a hot, multilingual crush of bodies and goods. In the heart of the city, a riot clogs the streets as worthy and unworthy poor alike protest the price of bread. Weathy merchants try to direct their palanquins down back alleys, only to ram head-on into runaway rickshaws.

The Lavender Goblin sits in the High-hill Neighborhood, where carefully cultivated trees and magically watered lawns provide an oasis from the noise and stink of the rest of the city. Despite this, the Lav is a tavern like any tavern, and its patrons are like any tavern patrons--squat, brash, and always spoiling for a fight, though they're wealthy enough to pay someone to get thrown through a window in their stead. Behind the counter, the barman polishes an already-polished glass and squints at the door, waiting.

In the town square below, through the shouts of the traders and rabble-rousers, the great bell is tolling three o'clock.

Punchy makes sure to arrive early, so's he can have more chance to drink before. Why do you care why hes' there early anyway, eh? You wanna fight or somethin'? He makes sure Edric is keeping his nose clean (because for some reason somebody always wants to fight the biggest guy int eh bar, to prove how big he is. Sizeist bastards.) and orders a drink.

And another.

And another.

See, Punchy doesn't need a hundred gold pieces, even if it is easy money. He's won enough money demonstrating feats of strength, or by beating some damn sizeist bastard or another's head in, that money isn't an issue. But Edric wanted to do this thing, and what Edric does, Punchy does. Usually after tying a few on first.

So he buys another drink.

And watches the door to see what other assholes got picked for this thing. Knowing how life loves to crap on him, he'll probably have to fight a few of 'em. Just to show who's boss.

Sister Hildreth comes in, a bit hesitant to be in such a . . . rough place. Not where she would normally go, but whatever the job requires. The money goes to the needy, where it should. She wrinkles her nose at the odor of stale beer. Who lets beer go stale? Heathens and heretics, the lot of them.

The tolling of the great bell tells her she's on time. To make sure, she glances at the slip of paper -- real paper, not parchment! -- she carries in her hand. Yes, the time matches. She shows the slip of paper to the bartender, who squints at it and hands it to his literate wife to read.

The bartender comes to stand in front of Punchy. He looks down his nose at the man, clearly trying to stifle a sneer. "Another drink, sir, before you depart?"

The bartender's wife looks at the piece of paper, nods, and leads Sister Hildreth down a narrow hallway into a private back room. Its decor is designed to make even the loudest man instinctively speak in a hush. The walls are covered in antique tapestries, and the dirt floor of the tavern gives way to a carpeting of fresh reeds. The woman pulls out chair from the huge oak table and indicates that Sister Hildreth should sit. The red velvet pad on the seat is at least three inches thick.

Rabble.

Taddeo catches his reflection in the window and stops to fix his hair. His cravat was a lost cause, at least for quick repairs. The blood was noticeable, but he would have to get cleaned up after this appointment. His hand falls to the hilt of his sword, as he opens the door of the tavern.

Perhaps there will be good brandy.

He enters the tavern and quickly sizes up the place. Striding to the bar, he smiles at the bartender, and waits for him to finish with his customer before speaking.

"A brandy, if you would be so kind."

The bartender turns sharply, his face giving way to the long-suppressed sneer as he sees the state of the man's cravat. Then his gaze slides down the well-dressed arm to the quality sword hilt, and the bartender visibly relaxes. "A brandy, of course, sir."

Reaching for the bottle of his middle-grade brandy (sword or no sword, really, just look at that cravat!) the bartender turns back to his other, shorter, customer. "Or would you rather just settle your tab?" he says rather pointedly.

The tall man seated beside Punchy speaks up, as Punchy seems to be distracted by something. "We have a meeting in a few minutes, sir, but I think we have time for one more round." Edric's large frame is engulfing the stool he sits on, though his body is perfectly proportioned. His clothes appear spotless, despite the crowd and mess outside, and his pointed hat, bent at the top, appears woefully out of place atop such an enormous frame.

He keeps staring at the damnable cravat.

"Sir. V.S.O.P. if you have it, otherwise I will settle for a three year. If you have nothing of quality, I will have to decline."

It was, at least, tied in the latest fashion. Who knew that fool wouldn't see the main gauche. It wasn't as if he'd been hiding it. And he'd been a spurter. Damnable spurters.

The barman twitches at the mention of a meeting, clearly thrown off his snobbier-than-thou game. He pours them each another round, vibrating in his vacillation between irritation and obsequiousness. "Is this meeting ... in this establishment?"


The barman's wife appears from a back hallway and swoops in between her husband and the newest customer. "Sir, we would never serve a gentleman anything less than our finest," she coos, pouring a tall glass of shining, caramel-colored top-shelf brandy. She looks the new customer up and down one last time, nods appreciatively, and slides the glass to him across the mahogany-topped counter.

Punchy takes his drink, and glares up at the bartender.

"That's right. We're invited. You still too good for us?"

The little man puts his paper invitation on the bar, and holds it down with one short, thick, and powerful finger. With his other hand he drinks his entire drink in one go, somehow managing to maintain the glare the whole time.

"Another."

Sneer.

Anthony walks into the bar, immediately noticing the strange lot around the bar. "Looks like the right place." He walks up to the bar and hands the note to the tender. "Oh, and what's this?" He pulls a coin out of the bartenders ear. "Here, my friend, is a tip." Anthony stole the coin from the little, angry dude.

He tries to scout out some sexy ladies.

Edric drinks his final beer. Not as quickly as Punchy, but quickly enough to make his escape. "I'm guessing it's down that quiet and secluded hallway over there?" After he finishes the drink, he stands up and walks over to the hallway, counting on Punchy to pay the tab and hoping he doesn't get in a fight. His seven-foot frame is anything but quiet as he plods toward the meeting room.

Taddeo smiles at the woman, sliding a coin across the counter.

"A thousand thanks, madam. With all of the . . . troubles it is nice to relax in an establishment with such a discerning lady such as yourself."

He picks up the glass, sipping the rich, caramel-colored liquid.

"Exquisite."

The bar had become quite crowded, so with a flourish he produced the invitation, handing it to his benefactor.

"Would you happen to know where I might find this meeting?"

The barman looks Punchy up and down, then comes to some internal decision and crosses his arms. "I'd put you out on your ear right now, if I weren't a born-again follower of Enaja, god of compassion, may his name be praised." He meets Punchy's glare, sighs a martyr's sigh, and says, "Take it from me, friend, you don't want another if you're going into a meeting with Mr. Suya."


The barman whips around, snatching the paper out of Anthony's hands. "Whaaa?" He waves the paper at his wife. Three o'clock is too early in the day for this.


"Mm-hmm," the barman's wife mumbles. Then she does a double-take at the hunk of beef walking down the hallway. Flushed with professional pride and--well, ahem, just professional pride, thank you very much--she sprints down the hallway, slipping past him and showing him to a seat across from Sister Hildreth. "Please let me know if there's anything I can get you."


Coming back into the bar, the woman overhears Taddeo's question. "Allow me, sir," she purrs, guiding him back to the meeting-room to sit next to Sister Hildreth.

As she walks back to the main room of the tavern, she takes a moment to smooth her hair and pinch her cheeks to make them rosy, in case any more good-looking men should walk in the door. Oh, she loves her Willem, but after ten years of serving customers with more gold coins than teeth, a woman can look, can't she?

Punchy gets up with a growl, grabs his chair by the legs, and takes the thief to the ground by expedient of smashing his legs out from under him. Don't ever let a player know that your character stole from their character. Characters tend to be a bit psychic (and psychotic) about that. The little drunk pins the thief to the ground with a surprisingly powerful frame and leans down close to his ear.

"My purse is lighter than it should be. Do you give me my coin back or do I kill you instead?"