[i]Undulations of power coursed through the Undercity, remnants of the energy that pulsated violently just several months ago still ripe for understanding, harnessing, collecting. It was difficult to ascertain how to control each strand, but nevertheless, the slow, methodical extraction of what lay beneath the recovering city would absolutely be worth the trouble. He would need to delve deeper into the Undercity, however, which would prove to be drastically difficult considering the amount of guards that the Grand Duke had posted at every entrance, grate and doorway. 

Although...

He knew of the trouble that the Grand Duke faced. There were others who could sense the power he did, yet their purpose for harnessing it were malevolent, twisted. He had to find a way to thwart this new collective, one that could threaten the very fabric of a city trying to rebuild once again. He would answer the call put out by the Duke. Indeed, he would put a stop to whatever threat was lurking in the shadows and ensure that this mass of energy, of sheer cosmic force, would be utilized only for the stability of the Weave.[/i]

A broad shouldered frame seated in the northwest corner of the Blushing Mermaid rocked back against the seat it was in, eyes snapping open, breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes narrowed, breathing returning back to normal as onlookers expressed a gamut of reactions from apathy to chortling at what they supposed to be a staggering drunk choking on his fourth pint. There wasn't much that the frame could say to thwart their opinion: he sat at a round table with four other chairs surrounding it, all empty, seven tankards drained of any liquid that had once been in them and his sense of time was slightly...distorted to say the least. 
"Never could snap back to it." The frame mumbled, reaching into the pocket of his black and grey trousers to find his time dial, a circular object slightly bigger than a gold coin powered by just one of his patron's many powers marked with various lines to indicate what time of day the user was currently experiencing, indicating it was mid-day. He had sat down, what, maybe soon after the sun was rising? A chuckle, remembering his purpose for being in this hole in the first place. A missive had been posted at the Basilisk gate, stamped by the Duke himself, asking for assistance in rooting out a major threat to Baldur's Gate and any of those who were willing and able to convene in The Blushing Mermaid. He had indeed met with a cohort of about six, including one Flaming Fist Commander named Lark, who informed the group of what the Fists believed to be worshippers of the very Illithids who sought to enslave the Coast. The worshippers had formed into two major groups, The Harbingers and The Conquerors, both of which were attempting to recruit followers with promises of a life free from the confines of a dying society as well as wealth, the latter of course being much more of a draw. Lark noted several skirmishes between the two groups in the Lower City and on the fringes of the Undercity, hence the heavier security in both areas. Those who had answered the Duke's call (them) were to, by any means necessary, find out more about these groups, their motivation for worshipping the Illithids and their source of funding and/or resources. Notably, Lark omitted a great amount of detail, such as how the Fists knew about the Illithid worshippers in the first place, what intelligence they had already gathered and whether or not the cohort would receive any kind of official backing from the Fists. Of course, the reward was enough for all in the cohort to accept the missive's directive without question (5000 gold was enough to fund an entirely new life, which, based on the appearance of his fellow adventurers, could use). 

When the meeting ended, he had decided to descend into meditation as a way to do his own investigative intelligence, which apparently had led to several hours passing. It would be high time for him to leave, except for something...no, someone's presence was causing him to pause...

Ah. 

From his table, he spotted a lithe figure come to the counter, her eyes visibly aflame from where he sat. Her stance was relaxed, yet coiled, tight, ready to shed blood at a moment's notice. Was this the one who posted the note? Or another wanderer that would imbibe, sit menacingly for a few minutes and then leave? The energy that her presence cast was unmistakably ominous, yet alluring, as if she simultaneously invited one's doom with all the pleasures of the realms. In other words, he found her captivatingly dangerous, a label he had come to understand to mean that there was something of import happening or about to happen. Her presence here was no accident, but how to discern if she was here on the same missive as him? A simple test: the classic "a drink is on me if you're willing to sit at my table". 

After a server was notified and brought a glass of Debella's Vintage over to the lithe form, the frame waved, a half-smile crossing his features. Let's see if she would bite.