[center][b][h1]Bork[/h1][/b][/center] That catlady’s approach annoyed him. She bent down towards his ear -at least it was his good one, on his left side- and Bork stiffened, pulled back slightly, turned to glare at her. [b]”Hey!”[/b] he said sharply. [b]”This may or may not be your table, but it’s definitely *my* face your crowding.”[/b] He waited warily to see her reaction, fingers gripping his soup bowl so that he could fling its hot contents into her smirking face if the need arose. He hoped not. He wanted to make a statement, not an enemy. She didn’t get provoked. In fact, she even…well, she asked him out, more or less. That was odd. Bork considered the unexpected offer for a moment, then nodded. He even ventured a smile. [b]”All right, you’re on. Been waiting for the right occasion to test his fare, see if it’s up to snuff.”[/b] The girl stood up and did the catlady stretch thing. The dwarf watched. She had the stuff to work it, Bork gave her that. Then she said something to the elf, and he snapped his gaze over to the harbor master and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Nelthurin’s expression was all smooth-skinned elf blandness as he acknowledged her remark with a barely-perceptible nod. Bork watched her slink away. When she was out of earshot he looked at the elf again. [b]”Tell me that wasn’t Talia,”[/b] he said. Laughing, the elf shook his head and pointed to the other girl, whom the dwarf had not even noticed up to that point. She was quite pretty, in that mundane way human girls are often pretty. Not exotic like catlady. But he guessed she’d be breaking a few hearts, especially in this village. After he finished eating he excused himself from Nelthurin and rose to talk to Talia. The elf tugged at his sleeve and bent forward. [b]”I’d watch myself around her, if I were you,”[/b] he warned. Bork frowned. [b]”Around whom? Bar girl or cat lady?”[/b] The elf rolled his eyes. Realizing he was being slow on the uptake, the dwarf filled in his own guess. [b]”Yeah, you’re right. She wants something. That’s why she was so nice even when I wasn’t. I’ll be careful, thanks”[/b] Then the dwarf walked over to ‘bar girl’ and explained his business, placed the abbot’s order. [center][b][h1]Nelf[/h1][/b][/center] The elf ordered some food for himself and seated himself at a different table from the dwarf. He watched the proceedings between Bork and Talia. He was all business without the slightest bit of flattery or flirting, or even small talk. They probably weren’t going to be friends, either, Nelthurin realized. He chuckled to himself as Talia left. [b]”You managed to clean the place out of girls almost immediately,”[/b] he observed. [b]”It’s a gift,”[/b] the dwarf shot back wryly, as he walked back to his table to gather his things. Occasionally Bork could keep up his end of banter. Though not usually. He walked out, leaving Nelthurin to his thoughts. The harbor master was thinking about Kriltra. Could it really be that simple? He wondered. That literal? He’d speak to the abbot some time this evening and suggest a change to their earlier plan. They might have a much better “in” to the Cat’s Claw than Werli. [center][b][h1]Amsgar[/h1][/b][/center] The tailor grumbled as he walked towards the abbot’s place. So cold and wet. And muddy. And poor. Not at all like home. Why had he come to Pigeon Spit in the first place? He knew all too well why; it pained him every time to think about it. His brothers had sent him north, ostensibly to secure a supply of wool for their family’s famous rugs. But the funds for the shipments he sent back never came, and soon he realized the truth: his own kin had tricked him away to cut him out of the family business. He had booked passage home, using the last of his own money, but the ship’s crew ripped him off, and dumped him here, in Pigeon Spit, with no money and no prospects. To this day he remembered the name of that ship as vividly as he remembered the names of his treacherous brothers: [i]Dragon Wind[/i] And the revenge he conceived in his rage-filled fantasies fell as heavily on it as it did on them. The only saving grace had been that Pigeon Spit had needed a good clothier. His reverie was cut short by a water-filled ditch, into which he had very nearly just walked. Muttering he corrected his course to take him safely to the front door. He knocked and waited just a moment before trying the door of his own volition. [b]”Mr. Abbot?”[/b] he called in, unsure of the styles and courtesies required. [b]”I am Amsgar, the tailor. The harbor master told me you wished to be measured for something?”[/b] He hoped the abbot would have a good order for him. Maybe he could even interest him in some imported rugs. From his family’s competitors.