It is late afternoon on the 10th day of Ilcuk. The middle of monsoon season and the short-lived torrential downpours serve to wash the waste and corruption of Pheze into the Canden Sea. The rains will last another three months before before they are more tolerable again, the locals will often joke that the time between monsoons is when Glil has wandered off to refill his bladder before pissing on Pheze again.

One of those rains has begun outside of your favorite tavern, the familiar sound of sitting beneath a waterfall thunders down from the poorly patched roof. An out of tune harpsichord struggles to be heard above the noise. Several drunk sailors have begun dancing along, but most of the clientele of The Last Mistake are simply trying to avoid the heat.

Asreelm has settled you four at your usual table and Bellach has distractedly taken your orders before moving off to stop a brewing fight, deliver meals to three other tables, and be reminded by Asreelm that he needs to take "special care" of his new friends at another table.

The storm shutters are thrown open as is the door to, ostensibly, let in a breeze to cool off the tavern, the end result being a humid, hot room with rivulets of rain water flowing from various holes in the roof and out into the streets beyond.

You've all gathered here as is your habit on each tenday of the month. A chance to catch up, trade stories, and play a few games of cards that Speaks with Dead wins more often than not.

Sitra Mor slides down in his chair slightly and closes his eyes as sweat runs down and frames his face. He breathes deeply of the humid air and drums his fingers on the table. "I can nearly chew the air." He licks his lips and watches the Asreelm makes their rounds around the room.

[I begin focusing on Sixth Sense.]

Batri stretches his corded neck from side to side releasing a series of pops and cracks.  “This is the one thing that makes me miss home, but it is definitely the only thing.”

He mops his smooth brow with his sleeve exposing the tattoos on his arm, a series of stylized animals that look like they would be more appropriate on ancient pottery.  The sheen of his now slicked pate enhances the appearance of the spirals of thin lines inked on the top and sides of his head.  “Anyway, that merchant says he will give me five to rough up some of his competition...  Fifteen if I make him never able to work again.  So I say to him fifteens the going rate for that to begin with and more like seventy five for something more severe, but I also say I’m not going to hurt the guy for him.  Scare maybe, but hurt no.  Anyway,  he agrees and holds out fifteen silver.  Gods damned silver?  I was talking gold.  Anyway, slapped it out of his had right there and told him to get stuffed.  Went to the guy he wanted me to roust and sold him the information about his competitor for five, gold this time.   He shakes his coin purse creating a clinking noise.  “Offered more if I went back and got rough, but I said no.  Anyway, hope none of you need any tack for horses cause I hear someone else was willing to be rough.  Very rough.”

He smiles, shaking his head at the foolish merchant. “Anyone else have an exciting week?”

In reply to Batri Shom (msg # 3):

Speaks With Ghosts irritatedly throws her current hand away before looking at Batri shrewdly.  How long you been in town for, again?   There's always some young gutter rat looking to do bloodwork for half.  Though they tend to end up facedown back in the gutter pretty quick.  No one pays top gold for the rough stuff anymore.  It's been a slow week for me.  Unless you count that working girl who asked me to take care of a punter who roughed her up.  But that was more of a public service.

In reply to Batri Shom (msg # 3):

“I sang a few songs and chased a few girls.”
This message was last edited by the player at 23:14, Fri 10 July 2020.

“I don’t work for cheapskates.  You can’t hire the best for what you would pay a punk.”  He frowns at the priest, “I also come with discretion and violence only comes if I agree with your cause.  If the people who look to hire me don’t realize that, well they can sit on a pike and spin.”

He turns to the bard, smiling, “And the lasses...  They pay you for the service or do you pay them?”

"Surely they pay him, no?" comes Asreelm's baritone as he arrives at the table. He claps the bard on the shoulder and winks,

In reply to Batri Shom (msg # 6):

Smiling.  “Sometimes both.”

"It is true, my friend." he smiles broadly and begins to leave as his attention is drawn to another table, but before he can a woman's terrified scream tears through the storm outside, followed immediately by other voices filled with horror and confusion.

"Well I think I know what we're doing today," Sitra Mor says as he stands up from his chair. He wipes more sweat from his forehead, unintentionally sweeping his thin hair back.

He pushes back his lustrous black locks, dealing the slight oily sheen.  His lips widening into a grin. “Well today either haircut or women.   A girl with long brown hair.   To feed and shelter me I don’t care.  But you my lads better be ware.  For if she has one, I am keeping the spare. 
This message was last edited by the player at 13:37, Sat 11 July 2020.

Speaks With Ghosts drains her latest mug of ale.  She stands and picks up Moss Rock from where it was leaning against the wall and makes her way to the door.  Asreelm!  Another round for when we return.  I feel like I'm about to work up a powerful thirst.

“So gallant.  Can we try to not start a fight today, Speaks with Ghosts?” He sighs as he follows the priest from the room, adjusting his belt and making sure that his blade will slide free easily.

Outside a small crowd has gathered around something in the road, what exactly it is can't readily be discerned between the observers and the downpour. The reactions of the crowds is much clearer, some recoil while others heave their previous meals into the rain flooded street.