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[center][hider=The Infamous Pear][img]https://i.ibb.co/qsxwrkh/Infamous-Pear-1-F.jpg[/img][/hider][/center]

	Conversations continued in ways not common to The Infamous Pear, but no one seemed to be paying much of attention to the odd and eclectic group of people in toward the corner of the room, just to the right of the stage. Even with the occasional off-duty guard here, no one wished to pry. Or even stare for too long in the direction of these potential intrepid heroes. The overall feel of the establishment was calm and accommodating, with just the slightest piece of unease tinging the air like something acrid caught in the wind. 

	The main hearth fire had slowed to a rolling crackle, casting less illumination about the room that it did an hour earlier. This has been supplemented by the works of Mr. Guido Laurel, the cheerful Halfling proprietor, by way of switching out a few of the burned-down tallow candles from the glass lamps which adorned the tables. He waited for a break in the conversation at hand among the party to handle theirs, darting in with the practiced dexterity of seasoned Innfolk and utilizing a chair as a step-stool to deftly make the table a little brighter. A cheerful eyebrow raise stood as the only communication he attempted, as if to ask if everything in acceptable, before darting back away. 

	Almost immediately afterward, a muffled kick could be heard assaulting the door which leads to the kitchen. It swung open with a sharp creak at first, announcing hinges which might require a little attention eventually, behind which was a silhouette backlit by an open woodburning stove of red-brown brick. The figure was carrying a large tray covered in plates of food in both hands, one on the bottom and one clutching the edge with a death grip. [color=darkgray]"Move it'r get it on ya!"[/color] screamed a feminine but not [i]particularly[/i] cultured voice as the silhouette bounded into the better lighting of the main taproom. This is a [url=https://i.ibb.co/4ZMbfJp/May-Thistleroot.jpg]lady[/url] of indeterminate background; either a larger Halfling or a less bulky Dwarf, by the looks of her. Regulars to The Infamous Pear were careful to remove themselves from her path. For good reason - she appeared to be carrying everyone's meals who already ordered. From the amount of weight on her tray, it is impressive that this woman could shuffle about as readily as she could. 

	After everyone else had been served, the Lady O' Kitchen made her way over to the Adventurer's Table, naught but a two plates remaining. One she placed in front of Mona Holcombe, bluntly stating, [color=darkgray]"Yah, um, 'roast' beef, we ain't got. Threw a steak in a skillet instead."[/color] She offered no apology or further explanation, simply nudging the plate closer to Mona. It contained a decently seared piece of former cow which smelled faintly of herbs and colorfully ribbed chard, wilted over flame and bearing the marks thereof. The second plate bore a large, uncut loaf of brown bread upon it and a jar of homemade butter. This one she plopped down in the center of the table. [color=darkgray]"Awright, I'm May. Here's what we got ready awready: Minced pork pie with potatoes and stuff (eight pounds o'buttah in that crust), Lamb stew with sorghum and mint, and toasted rye slices with spicy smashed beans and green-marble cheese. Whaddya want?"[/color]

	May suffers no fools and answers no questions about the contents of the dishes, merely giving an impatient stare or a quick, [color=darkgray]"Don't got all night. Pots boiling and stuff,"[/color] to whomever takes their time figuring out what they want. May otherwise takes orders and walks away. 

	[i]It is at this moment that Alastor Shore stands and politely excuses himself, muttering something about finding an outhouse. In hindsight, the events which followed became one of the lesser mysteries of Darenby, which unfortunately will not be chronicled here.[/i]  

	The door to The Infamous Pear opened with a smooth push, letting in a gust of autumn's nighttime air. The room was warm enough to be able to recover quickly from this unwanted intrusion of chill wind, and so no one gave any more than a grumble concerning it. The cause of this stood just to the side of the doorway, letting the heavy wooden portal come to a resting close. It was a [url=https://i.ibb.co/m9C3RVC/Gregory-Arbalest.jpg]Human[/url] in his more venerable years. 

	His face bore lines which showed a roadmap of experience, resting around a facial scar that promised an interesting story. He had a thick head of hair which was steel gray at its darkest, fading to stark winter white. A dark tabard covered a suit of well-tended chain mail armor and a broad bladed sword hung at his waist. Age was upon him, though he still looked formidable enough to dissuade all but the more aggressive troublemakers. The man looked to the Adventurer's Table with an expression of confusion, then a flash of contemplation as if he was reasoning something out and keeping it to himself. 

	This newcomer drew the attention of many of the scattered locals and any off-duty authority figures in the room, some of whom gave him a quick wave or raised a tankard in his direction. He politely returned many of these subdued salutations and then headed to the bar to speak with Mr. Owen Hardy. 

	What might or might not have been said was obscured by the hushed tones of the two men and general conversation in the Inn. The older gentleman pointed at the reserved table twice during the course of this quick and dirty talk before it was over, making no attempt to hide the fact that whatever they were saying, it was about the party. Finally, he turned to look straight at the table and its inhabitants and began to stride forward, his mail clinking softly with every step. Behind him scurried up the ever mobile form of Mr. Guido Laurel, doing his best to provide replacement drinks, even though no one ordered another round. Guido looked to the tall, venerable man, who nodded his approval. The Halfling then took the occasion to exit the area. 

	In a clear voice carrying an accent which could not be confused as a local one, the man began to introduce himself. [color=darkgray][b]"Good evening, and thank you for answering my summons. I am Gregory Arbalest, the Sheriff of Avonshire. Before we begin, I would like to see everyone's invitation, please."[/b][/color] His words were polite, if crisp, and made no illusion that his desire to see the letters was optional. [color=darkgray][b]"Then, we may talk about business."[/b][/color]