[center][h1][color=00ff66]Ilyana the Half-Human[/color][/h1][/center] [hr] "Water," Ilyana mutters, slipping the yoke with the two wooden buckets hanging from it on her shoulders. With a groan as she stands up, the cords just the right length for her to grasp the rope bails. She then turned and began trudging towards the nearest gate. [i]What was with this heat? And why was there no water out here among the other tents and wagons? Those huge things with the tusks must need a lot of water just to keep cool. She hoped they weren't going to make her take off her cutlass or her knife once she reached the gate. Somehow she didn't think Athulwin would take it too kindly if she killed the guards.[/i] The sailor paused as a floating head raced past her to catch up with the group in front and suddenly vanishes. She rubs her eyes for a moment, then when the mirage didn't reappear, Ilyana starts trudging again towards the city gate. "Must be the heat." [hr] [center][h1][color=ed1c24]Granny Siri[/color][/h1][/center] Pilot the construct was busy putting out the tent and poles from the dromedary box underneath the wagon, while Siri supervised - or rather, she read from one of the many journals of previous Wanderer clerics while it worked. "Pilot, listen to this one!" the retired apothecary cackled. "This one is from Faust while he was in that underground bazaar. He's got bars listed here!" The scarecrow turned, its glowing red eyes blinking for a moment as it listened. "'[i]The Dead Necromancer's Tavern.[/i] This quiet tavern located just off Temple Street in Undertaker's Alley is notorious for the nightlife, people are dyin' to get in. 'Raise Your Spirits' nights on Celesdays offer half-off drinks for terminal illness sufferers.' He's got one star written here." "'[i]The Common Prayer.[/i] On the corner of Temple Street and Dawn Avenue, this humble tavern offers an assortment of gruel, pottage, sour rye bread, and the house ale. Every night is Sermon Night, where you get a lecture while you're eatin' following the cancelation of Exorcism Lundays due to licensin' issues?' They had icensin' issues for exorcisms? Well, this one has two stars! Guess it's a better atmosphere than the Necromancers?" Pilot shrugs its shoulders. "'[i]The Vile Elixir Alehouse[/i] on Lighthouse Road opposite the Secret Asylum of Time and next door to the Cloister of Doom, favored by wizards, witches and warlocks. Closed Lundays. High marks for the Shepherd's Pie, pulled pork, and their Baked Apple, as well as a fine assortment of cheeses. Specialty drinks, although the Hangman's Doom should be avoided.' My, that sounds interestin'. Got four stars, guess he liked the place." Siri paused, reading intently, then let out an explosive whoop. "'[i]The Immoral Demon Bar [/i]is a lively place on Phoenix Row where they say you can make a deal for just about anythin'. Notorious for their cursed magical weapons decor and their Dancing Hands review, a spectacular animated display of former customers hands who made the mistake of touching one of the weapons without permission. Remember, you can look,'" she chuckles, "'just don't touch.' Five stars. Must have really liked the hands dancin'!" Siri glances up and the smile slips from her face. Someone had somehow pinned a small blade to Pilot's chest with a bit of parchment wrapped around the hilt while the scarecrow's eyes blinked rapidly. "Who did that do you?" Siri demands, glancing around using the magic eyes all around the wagon and her hat band. A bunch including the giant and the bat-boy was heading towards the gates, and she could see that half-elf boy following after them with a pair of buckets on a yoke. Of the messenger, there was no sign. Slipping warily down from the wagon seat, she crosses over to the scarecrow and pulls the thin throwing blade from its chest, an assassin's throwing blade to be sure, despite the lack of poison. Pity that, some of them gave the most wonderful tingles. Untying the string, she uncurled the parchment and began reading. "Greetin's and salutations, Mistress Siri," she scowls. "The Assassin's Guild is in urgent need of your assistance when you arrive in Midnight City. A Sobieck." She studies the crest for a moment, the hilt of a blade sticking out of a bleeding human skull, then shakes her head. "What, they couldn't just walk up and hand this to me? What's with all the cloak and dagger?" Siri asks, then winces. "Sorry about that." Leaning forward, Siri muttering a mending spell as she ran her finger over the slit in Pilot's shirt, the fibers drawing together as if they'd never been cut. "Did you see where they went?" The construct shook its head silently. "And just how did they manage that trick?" she scowls, glancing around once more.