Varone's fate seemed to stray upon the edge of a blade. Like the great city of Basilos to the east, the pomp and glory of this 'Diamond of The Coast' was just loud enough to draw eyes away from the still-bleeding wound beneath its ostentatious cloak. Whether the return of the Sultana could herald in a new age, or the Senator-Lords of the Golden Book were already in the process of healing their fair Varone remained to be seen. The fall of a city so great and prosperous was not unknown to the north, particularly after the Wars of Brutality. As for now, it seemed it was in all of their best interests to vote on how these recently released cutthroats could have a bed at night and food in their bellies, and so they did. 

"I am for the beer too. I want no part in political struggles, and this one became a mess since last I was here," Raddek told them, crossing his arms as he sat back. A few of the patrons had now left the inn, as it was moving past early afternoon and those that stayed were either on drinking binges or wished for a pleasant place to converse rather than a noonday meal. At the corner of the room, a small band of three minstrels had begun to play, now that there was less laughter and yelling to make their presence redundant. It was a [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TJuPBBw-l-M]soothing, homey[/url] rendition of an older, northern tune. Raddek cleared his throat and glanced Lorcan's way. "The 'Dark Auction' is a..." he seemed to be trying to find the right words. "I'm not a criminal-" he cursed, remembering they all got shipped here because they were exiled by the law. "Ok I might be, but I'm not a thief. The 'Dark Auction' is an underground market for stolen goods. Most other people would know more than I do, but it's a large organization made up of many smaller organizations that steal and then trade, and they have a lot of smugglers working for them. If we could find a contact, we might be able to get a smuggler to help us ship in some ale. But that's only one option. We could find a smuggler or gang not affiliated with it, or find someone reputable, though that's looking more unlikely." He ended his thought with a sigh, taking a swig of his flagon. 

The card players shoved their chairs back, the sound of the legs were audible as they scraped over the tile. The frequent victor, who appeared to be a layman sailor, squeezed by Migi and Jaina on his way out of the tavern as the Captain and the other seadogs walked out in a rough mass to leave, passing Raddek and Lorcan. Raddek notably kept himself quiet as they walked by. Once they filtered out, Raddek placed his flagon done and watched the door. "So I'll tell Jonathan we're going after the alcohol. Fuck his sympathies for the queen. I'll get the room keys once we do, and when we get them, we've got three days to get him something or we'll need to start paying." 
[hr]
Concurrently, Emmaline had sashayed her way behind the bar door, back through the swinging door where Beren had entered. The kitchen had an iron boiler, a relic of a past age when Gnomes had yet to be slaughtered en masse and Dwarves traded with men more freely. The device was on and generating heat, but it was likely just barely the hottest thing in the room. The kitchen was a fair size with a built-in drain on the floor and cupboards galore, and four doors. Two leading to the common room, one leading into a backhall, and another one that fed into a small business room. The muscled youth rapped on the last room with his knuckles twice, the heavy crate set by the door. He seemed to be singing something under his breath, but stopped when he noticed Emmaline in the room, looking at him. 

"Uh, hi," he said, looking at her with chocolate eyes and then glancing around the room. His confusion was likely justified. "Are you...a new girl here?" 

Before she was able to respond, the door opened. A man in business attire, contrasting the stained apron he wore over it stepped out. He had two chins that were scraggly with coarse facial hair and a tired disposition. He was most likely the fellow Raddek had come back there to meet. "You're saving us by a few days, boy. I'll be sure to compensate you. I-" He stopped, his words dying when he noticed Emmaline. The muscled man she had followed idly pointed her way. 

"She new?" 

"She doesn't bloody work here. She came in early. Hey girl! You can't be back here." He warned, making no moves but clearly used to being listened to. He gestured to Emmaline. "Get her out of here, Beren. Thanks for the stock."  

As the door closed, Beren gave a sarcastic. "Oh of course," before turning to regard the buxom blonde that had followed curiously. He approached her, hesitating with what to do. He lifted his arms to grab her, but lowered them immediately and paused, clearly having no real idea how to move a woman politely. He had an embarrassed smile. "Here, let me show you out. We can't really be back here?" 
[hr] 
Meanwhile, Faeril stood in the midst of the crowd with the apparently suicidal boy and his request of death. Faeril examined him, and long years in schemes of skullduggery told him that the boy wasn't lying, nor did he think it a trap. However, there was something odd about the lad. He spoke someone monotonously, but was also very clearly stressed. He seemed devoid of hope, but reluctant. Perhaps it was merely the common fear of death most have, or perhaps he was in some weird situation he did not let on. As it were, he reached into his pocket and fished out five gold royals and held it up for Faeril to see. 

"To save my brother's life, sir. I can't tell you more than that." he explained, and then looked around. "Could you promise to make it quick, sir Dwarf? I don't want to hurt." 

Reyvadin, on the other hand, had a more elucidating experience, though it was an expensive prospect, it seemed. The exiled noble had a few options, having found a vendor that did business with the smith, selling the wares while the smith made them. Of course, smiths did not merely make spears. They made the spear heads and had an assistant find the ash, yew, or oak trees to make the hafts, as the same with any weapon. Amongst the piles were various melee weapons and arrows, fresh from the fletcher. But there were sixteen spears available, and four types of varying quality. 

There were simple spears, with oak hafts and iron leaf heads. They looked roughly two and a half meters in length, made for any guardsmen or soldiers in need of a good thrusting weapon. Next were partisans, with three prong heads. Slightly shorter but slightly more robust, reinforced with bronze at its sides. Pikes stood near twice as long as the partisans, with heads made of iron. Finally, the winged spears. A soldier's weapon, with steel leaf heads that could perhaps cut as well as thrust if used particularly well.

The spears and pikes were four lordling silvers, the winged spears were six lordlings, and the partisans were seven in total. Though haggling might be allowed were one smooth enough. 

A mustachioed Vrettonian stood, mumbling in his native tongue as he spoke accented Andredian to the customers, as that and Dre-Costan were the common tongue in these parts.