The Common House was a center of the Bottoms. A central location for the social, political and economic going-ons of the district, it was also a popular place for visitors and new inhabitants (mostly newly free slaves).
A big rambling structure, it had been part forum, part temple and part bar. The political angle had been provided by Halman Wright and his team of advisers, all duly elected, who met in open meetings in the middle of the tavern. Religious feelings for Cayden Cailean were vast and joyful, and many a song tot he Drunken God had been shared their nightly. The Common House had had one of the best stocked bars in town. Mercenaries had flocked here although with the Freemen, the anti-slavery faction that policed the Bottoms and made the otherwise poor and disadvantaged place one of the fairer parts of Kaer Maga. It had not been unusual to see a table full of the fighters, planning out a raid or discussing a recent local problem. It was a reassuring sight in a city filled with dangers, villains and devastating greed.
That had all been before however. Before the Chelish. Before the Occupation.
Now the Freemen were gone, either killed, jailed or driven deeper underground. People whispered of them, often in devout tones, but none sat openly in taverns.
Halman Wright had been killed in the fighting, and his successor, Char Molien was too scared to hold open meetings. Democracy lived here, but secretively and furtively.
Even the bar business had slackened. The Bottoms had been one of the hardest hit by the Occupation. Stubborn and free-spirited, the district had stayed in revolt till the bitter end, earning them little but the hatred of the other districts and terrible bloodshed.
Still showing open wounds of the battle, it was no longer the happy place it had once been. It was fairly full tonight though, and one group by the roaring fire was even singing, in low voices, praises tot he Drunken God of Ale. A faint echo of happier times seemed to sound, and the bartender, a tired looking halfling of old years, cracked a smile at their music.
Rylka Sarna sat at her table, watching and waiting...
... She had replaced the wilted daisies in the bud vase at her table with a solitary bluebell. A signal that an agent of the Bellwether League wanted to meet with the Freemen. The barmaid stopped at her table once again. "Can I get you anything else dear?" She asked.
Rylka replied simply, "Another glass of port, if you would, thanks." She didn't really notice as the young woman left and returned with her drink. It's been too long. She thought with fear. If the Freemen are gone, this may not be possible. She realized her inattention and went back to watching the common room attentively.
If the Chelaxians have learned this sign, I'm waiting here for my arrest and execution. How much longer can I safely wait? She begins to fidget nervously as she drinks what she has decided is her last glass.
The bright bluebell adds a dash of needed color to the worn and faded interior of the Common House. To Rylka though, it acts like a beacon, a signal to all enemies and foes.
Here is a rebel. Arrest me!
The barmaid swings past, bending down to talk low in Rylka's ear. 'No need to pay for the drink. Already been covered by that gentleman." The barmaid points out a halfling at another table, grimacing over a game of checkers. His opponent is a surly looking man with wiry gray hair.
'He said, he'd like you to join them.' the barmaid adds, and then hurries off as the singing group calls for more ale.
Rylka stands and calmly slips the flower back into her hair. She picks up her drink and slowly walks over to the game of checkers. She stands, watching them play, or more accurately glare frustratedly at the board for a few moments before breaking the silence. "Thank you sir."
She pulls over a chair and settles into it looking over the board. "Who's turn is it?"
"Mine." grouses the halfling, face sitting in his hands. The brown hair is well-kept, cut short. His skin is tanned and weathered, a lifetime of outdoors activity, muscles ripple under his skin. His eyes are dark, almost black pits. His clothes are simple and spare, tough built for outdoor work.
'Please, have a seat. I think I am almost done losing."
His opponent laughs, and grins at Rylka. He is older, but still wry and strong, and has the callused hands of a man used to tools. Whether that means an axe or a blade is hard to tell. His clothes are built for rough outdoor work as well, stained leather and tough wool.
Rylka leans forward, elbows on knees, chin resting on one fist, and examines the board. "It's a long shot, but you may be able to get a king with this one. You'd have to get lucky afterwards if you want to keep it."
The move is a good one and the halfling rubs his hands in glee.
'Ha! Finally, something going my way." The two play on for a few more moments, with the halfling scraping out a win (mostly due to Rylka's helps).
Finally, they finish and the halfing invites Rylak to sit.
"Thank you for the help, miss. Sirel Highhill, at your service. Master Guide of the City. This is Marc Brandsson a...recently unemployed man of varied talents."
The man smiles at the description and inclines his head respectfully.
'Well met'
The halfling higher voice cuts back in, 'And who may you be? Other then a lover of bluebells, a wonderful flower.'
Rylka curtsies and nods to them in turn, "Marc, Sirel, we'll met."
She sits and takes a sip of her port. "I may be many things." She says with a smile. "I am Rylka Sarna, recently arrived. I had heard that Kaer Maga had fallen on hard times," she looks around the room, "but I hadn't thought this bad."
Once again looking over her shoulder, "Is there someplace more private that we can get acquainted?"
Sirle nods his head gravely, 'Times are hard. At least, here in the Bottoms." he adds darkly. 'Some places have done quite well for themselves, these last few months."
Marc grunts affirmatively and starts to reset the board, for the next customer.
"We have a room." Sirel nods to Marc, who stays behind. the weathered man pulls a pipe and begins to smoke, keeping an eye on the room.
Sirel leads Rylka up a tiny, winding stairway to a small room above.
'This will have to do." he says, as he closes it. It is a spartan room, furnished only with a few chairs, a small side table and a tiny cot. there are no windows or decorations. Carved into the doorframe, almost impossible to see, Rylka can see a rose and bellflower, intertwined.
Sirel waves her to a seat. "So, who are you really?"
Rylka carefully slides the bright flowing silk sleeve up her arm exposing a bloody rose upon her wrist. On close examination its texture and definition make clear that it is not a tattoo, but a birthmark. A glint of bright silver shines under her colorful and flowing blouse, a peek at the mithral shirt worn beneath her Varisian styles.
With more presence and self confidence than she has shown to this point, Rylka stands straight backed before Sirel and speaks clearly and forcefully. "The Everbloom sends her servant to make more men like Marc underemployed. If the occupation were to suffer an employment problem perhaps more could be done to see this ancient edifice under its own rule once again."
She lets the sleeve fall once more to her wrist. "This place needs help. I am here to help."
Rlyka sees the halfling's eyebrows raise at the sight of the birthmark. His face breaks into a smile at her words through.
'I am not a follower of Milani, but bless her agents. They have been a help in these trying times."
Sirel obviously relaxes, slumping in his chair. For a moment she can see how bone tired he is, rings under his eyes, muscles slack, eyes bloodshot.
"Thank you for coming. We heard a rumor they may be sending someone. That is why I was here tonight."
He brightens a bit, 'You will need a place to stay and meet some people." he pauses then adds, 'What are you willing to do? The City is in dire straits, no need to tell you that. Every little bit helps."
Ah, safe. Rylka relaxes as well. "Shelter and introductions are appreciated." She traces the carving on the doorframe with her finger. "I was hoping to smuggle more slaves to freedom, maybe assist those who are willing to do so as well." She turns back to look at Sirel as she sits in the offered seat.
"Sabotage is also an option. I need to get the lay of the land first, what resources do we have? How small have the Freemen become? I know you took heavy losses during the invasion."
"Resources." Sirel shakes his head slowly, "The Freemen no longer exist, not formally. More scattered then were arrested or killed, fortunately. Marc is one of them. He is one of the few who still works for us. Many of them are still in hiding or simply moved to a different part of the city, assumed new names."
He looks up, looking very old, very tired. 'I say 'us', but that isn't very accurate. The Underground is riven by mistrust. The Chelish are very good at turning out agents, at causing division in our ranks. Betrayals have become so common, everyone has become their very own little splinter cell. Even I hardly trust anyone else anymore."
He stands up, shaking out a day of kinks and tension. "Not to mention the Red Jackets. Devil Boys. Turncoats, licking the Chelish boots. They are the only reason the Chelish can even hold the city, traitors!" A flash of anger, and he pounds the small table then instantly calms down.
'Sorry, it has been a long day. As for shelter. Your choice. I have a few friends who live here int he Bottoms, I'd trust you with. It is a hot area, but close to the center of things. Myself, I live in the Warren myself, hiring out as a guide for incoming traders. Safer but more distant. Up to you."
Rylka sighs, "More work than I expected, but we can work with it. Step one is going to be organizing what remains of the Freemen. And those sympathetic if we can. I don't want to get them all in one place, that's too dangerous now. But if we could get them coordinated, work on expanding to new cells."
She stops, "My apologies, as you said, you've had a long day. More than one I'd wager. Let's get you home. I'll stay in the Warrensburg if it's all the same. Keep everything distributed for now."
She stands and holds out a hand, "C'mon, let's get out of here. Time to get some rest."
Sirel nods his head and both halflings leave the safe room. Downstairs Marc is still sitting, aromatic smoke wreathing him. He nods gravely to Sirel and they pass in front of him, under his watchful eyes.
Outside, the afternoon is lengthening and dusk is coming. Sirel curses mildly, "Our meeting took longer then I thought. We'll have to rush to beat curfew. No halflings are allowed on the streets after dark."
Leading the way Sirel leads Rylka on a breakneck dash throught he city. It is a rushed, hurried tour but even at this speed Rylka can see the state of the city, particularlity the Bottoms. The street corners are empty, lacking the usual performers or artists. The marketplaces are empty and the signs of hunger are everywhere.
It is a long way, weaving in and out of the tall shadows of Highside Stacks and then into Downmarket. The streets here are thick with Chelish and the quisling Red Jackets. Many stalls and shops are empty or selling only a pitiful amount of goods, compared to before the Occupation.
Crossing one square, as dusk is truly falling, Sirel scouts ahead, making sure the way is clear. While he is is still in sight, but a few paces away, a young, brazen human, wearing the bright blood red of the Red Jackets saunters up to Rylka.
"Out a bit late miss, aren't you?" he says, sneeringly.
Rylka puts on her 'good little slave' face, "Y-yes sir, just returning from delivering a message. Master is expecting his reply." She says quietly and subserviently.
She looks up at the young man with a frustrated look, "But I keep getting stopped by you toughs. I'll never make it back to the Master before dark at this rate." She starts to get a little bit hysterical at the end.
The man grins, obviously enjoying the little rush of power. 'Yes, well, we have to keep the peace. You wouldn't want the streets full of bandits and rebels, would you?' he swaggers a bit, then spits onto the rough cobblestones of the street. 'Run along now. Hurry up or I'll have to take you in."
He saunters off, whistling and waving a truncheon in one hand.
Rylka scurries off after Sirel, until she is out of sight and sound of the Blood Jacket, when she resumes her normal pace.
Once she catches up to the other halfling she exclaims, "Those Blood Jackets are annoying, I'd ask how you can put up with them, but I know the answer, you have to."
She looks back over her shoulder, "Let's hurry."
Sirel nods in reply. "Agreed."
If the pace had been a dash so far, now it turned into a sprint. Sirel nearly had Rylka vaulting stalls and carts by the time they entered the dark and twisting alleys of the Warren. The streets, wide and dusty from some much traffic, were surrounded on all sides by the rickety rope, canvas and wood scaffolding so many of the poor lived in.
Sirel leads her up four very dangerous flights to a small room, perched among the tottering masses. 'Home sweet home. Hopefully my wife has something for us to eat."
The 'house' is little more then two tiny rooms, glass-less windows and a door of canvas tarp. Inside is a short, blond halfling woman, spooning out a very thin, watery soup. Sitting in the corner is a young, ruddy faced halfling.
As Sirel enters, the youth springs up, faced filled with concern. Rylka can tell Sirel is shocked too.
"Pane, what are you doing here? So late?"
The youth nearly talks over him, "We got a problem Sirel. I have two slaves, escaped from some ropeworks in Cavalcade. They are on the run. I can't keep them at my place, we have to get them out of the city. Now."
Without saying anything, his eyes shift to Rylka. 'Well, care to get started?' he says dryly. Quickly he introduces Rylka to the youngster, keeping things vague and lacking detail and merely calling her 'a friend'.
'I can't go myself. I've run a bit too many lately, but you are a fresh face. Think you are up to it?" he asks, and Pane looks on in increasing agitation.
"I'll need to learn how things are done here eventually. No time like the present." Rylka reaches for the door. "Lead on friend Pane."
Pane rushes out but Sirel grabs Rylka's arm and whispers quickly. 'Pane is a good lad, but flighty. Don't reveal too much. I'd hate for him to become a target. I'll tell you what to do."
Quickly and efficiently he lists the route from the Warrens into Bis, through a friendly family's wall-hole in the Ring, down to a farmstead in the hinterlands where her job ends.
'Be careful. When in doubt, run. May your goddess be with you." he adds at the end, then lets the inquisitor go.
Pane leads Rylka through a network of high ropes, passages that seem to cross chasms by hope and prayer more then physical strength. twice they seem to pass through living spaces. All halflings, and all look hungry, despondent and defeated.
Soon they arrive at a rambling, hastily built house made of odd ends of wood and canvas. 'here we are."
Inside are two very dark-skinned human males, sitting in the dark. They both look at Rylka with desperate, needy faces.
"They don't speak very good common. They are Rhamoudian, or Garundi, I think. In any case, get moving. I don't want them to be here if the patrols come by I don't trust some of my neighbors."
Indeed, there are far too many eyes int he restless, packed Warren. Even from where she stood, Rylka could see a dozen sets of eyes, glinting in the dark.
Rylka listens intently as Sirel shares the path to safety. As he finishes she clasps his hands, "Thank you. You do your people proud. I hope to see you again."
With that she turns and follows Pane through the labyrinthine twists and turns of the Warrens. Finally arriving at their destination she looks at her new charges. She reaches into her pack and pulls out a small blue wooden scarab. "May Khepri bless us and our journey." She kisses the symbol and replaces it in her pack. Facing the two dark humans she bids them to follow. "Now we go. Follow my lead. We must hurry."
She steps to the entrance and gets her bearings. She discreetly touches her wrist. And may the Everbloom watch over us tonight. Searching the darkness for signs of anything amiss, she waves the others forward and they begin their trip to freedom.
Rylka's charges are big, muscular men. Although the halfling leads them the alleys and hovels, they nearly overtake her several times. Each time, silently, they pause and allow her to overtake them.
Three times she spots patrols of various types, either Blood Jackets or Chelish, but manages to avoid them fairly easily. Soon she leaves the wooden complex of the Warren and enters the misty, many tiered area of Bis. Instead of shacks and tent hovels, she enters a world of balconies, high towers and carefully carved pathways in the rock.
The streets are quiet, empty, save for a few rats and cats playing their own dangerous games of hunt or hunted. Rounding a corner into a poorly drained alley, Rylka senses something..
Instantly she realizes it is two men, one carrying a knife waiting in the shifting shadows of the alley.
Spotting possible trouble, Rylka quickly signals for the two men following her to stop and get down while she attempts to blend into the shadows.
The two escaping slaves melt into the shadows, dark skin hiding them very well. Rylka vanishes even more effectively, being smaller in stature. However, as she does so, she notes a thin figure move in behind them, blocking the way out.
It is an ambush.
None of the attackers move, and it occurs to the halfling the one blocking may not have a way to signal to the attackers ahead. For this brief instant, the inquisitor has action.
Rylka draws her morningstar from her pack. The head well made weapon formed in the shape of a blooming rose. As she slips through the shadows towards the unprepared assailants she gathers her will to imbue her weapon with the Everbloom's might.
As she closes on the thugs and prepares to swing, she silently asks Milani to bless her weapon. She hefts her weapon and swings it at the man's knee.
Despite Rylka's surprise she misses, the morningstar instead hitting the walls with a loud clunk. The two thugs jump and move into slightly brighter light. One is armed with a dagger and the other with a heavy sap.
The figure blocking the retreat does not move or say anything. Thw two slaves huddle in fear and confusion.
Rylka, now revealed, calls to Milani for assistance, "The weak cry out for your Justice!" Stepping up to the thug with the dagger, she takes a swing again.
Rylka's blow hits the man hard, but he doesn't drop. He curses, revealing a strong Kaer Maga accent. This man is no Chelish. She also sees no red jackets.
"Gorum, she's got an arm." the wounded one says, holding his knee she nearly shattered.
Slicing out himself, he tries to cut Rylka.
It goes wide, missing the halfling entirely. The man with the sap hesitates, calling out, "Boss?" to the man stock still by the entrance. He does throw a small bag then, aimed at Rylka's feet.
With practiced ease Rylka dances out of the bags way which erupts into a tanglefoot bag, neatly entrapped the wounded dagger man, who promptly falls over.
Realizing she may have made a hasty misjudgment, Rylka let's the Bane drop and turns to the entrance of the ally. "Blast it. Show yourself "boss". I've had enough of your city's Blood Jackets tonight. Do you wear red?"
She wills her vision to reveal evil and takes a quick look around the ally.
Rlyka's stare penetrates the shadow and she detects evil from the 'Boss'. The the two thugs stop struggling, including the one on the ground, covered in tanglefoot vines.
"Red is not my color." The figures voice is refined, well modulated, a man of some education. It steps into the light and she sees a young man, proud and strong, thin and athletic.
The man smiles and then lets his shoulders droop, a limp to form, the neck to twist and now he is a beaten man of middle years, punished by a hard life and long toil. Then it changes again and the profile is that of a winsome young woman, sprightly and youthful.
"I serve myself, young friend. This is my territory, and I have to ask who you are smuggling slaves through it. There is a tax for that." The voice is now female and glowing, warm with love and desire.
Rylka steps towards the unfixed creature. "I don't know what you are, but you are profiting on the suffering of others. It will not stand." She concentrates on the shifting figure, "Luck is not with you tonight"
"You really don't want to do that, stranger." The figure's cultured voice hardens. "I am a person of some repute in this town. No matter your agenda, I can make life very difficult for you."
Suddenly his hands flick and a silver flute appears in his hands. He starts to play and the liquid music is soft and warm in the dark alleyway. The two thugs are silent, and the slaves still as stone.
Rylka stands and listens to the music.
The music is soft, repetitive and entrancing. The voice is the safe, calming, safe.
"Now, that took the fire out of you, didn't it?" he says, the voice more relaxed now. 'I won't take it personally. You are new in town. Just remember my name, Inigo Karpol. Next time, have some courtesy, some restraint and some taste."
'I won't be so charming next time. Boys, let us leave the lady to her work. Just a warning, Miss." he says, the same calm voice. "The couple you are headed to see, they were kicked out a week back for late rent. I would advise you find an alternate route."
With that the two thugs leave down the alley (not past Rylka) and the bard follows, heading the other way. Soon the spell of the magic fades and the inquisitor comes back to herself.
'Miss?' One of the slaves says, his Common rough and unpracticed.
"Sorry, that could have gone better." She shakes her head too clear out the lingering traces of the music.
Rylka gathers herself and gestures for the two men to follow once more. "I'll get you outta here." Then softly to herself, "Gotta be more careful, don't know the lay of the land yet."
She moves ahead, more careful now, checking the route, having her charges wait while she scouts ahead and returns, trying not to let them out of her sight.
Rylka moves with practice ease through the streets of Bis. The streets get nicer as she reaches the edge of the city, the massive wall soon looming ahead. She has to dodge a few late-night folks, innocent or patrols, the halfling doesn't know.
Finally, after heading down a long, moss-covered street, she finds the door Sirle told her about. Just as Karpol warned though, the door is marked Foreclosed] and is boarded up, dark. A few brave weeds are already forming on the doorstep.
The street is silent and still, with no sign of life.
Rylka quietly examines the boarded up door looking to see how well it is sealed. She sighs inwardly, Wish I'd been a better study at locks when Iozif tried to teach me. Just couldn't keep all the little tools straight.
The door is only held shut by a few bits of nailed boards, no chains or locks as far as Rylka can tell. As she investigates it, finding no traps or spells, one of the slaves comes up and lays a hand on the boards.
His hands are huge, callused with years of hard labor in the rope-works. His muscles are corded, braided, looking as strong as steel. He smiles broadly and rips the board off with a quick flick of the wrist. The short snap is loud but instantaneously.
The slave grins, putting the board down quietly.
Rylka nods to the slave and steps out of the way. She keeps her attention on the street and other dwellings, making sure no-one comes to investigate the noise.
The slaves soon have the boards removed and the door open. Rylka sense no trouble, but they are soon inside the musty, abandoned house anyway. It is small, but rather well off inside, made up of a number of small, stone rooms. Kitchen, study, bedroom, a tiny dining room. All have been stripped of furniture or other objects, and the room's uses are just guesses.
Along the back wall Rylka finds a window looking out through the thick wall of the city. The countryside is dark and vast. It is a 50 foot drop to the stones below.
Rylka pulls a 50' length of silk rope from her pack along with a grappling arrow. Securing the rope to the grapple, she wedges the arrow into the corner of the window. She throws the loose end of the rope out the window and steps aside nodding to her two charges.
She pulls her heavy crossbow from her pack and watches the darkness, covering their retreat.
The slaves carefully climb down the rope, obviously skilled at such work. Silk rope is much easier on the hands then the common hemp of the working man. In a moment the dark skinned men are out of sight.
Rylka hears and sees nothing but then the rope goes slack and followed by three sharp jerks, then nothing.
Rylka pulls up the rope and stows her gear back in her pack. Dusting off her hands, she checks the window for signs of their escape.
With a careful peek outside before exposing herself, she leaves the apartment and carefully places the boards back in place as loosely as possible. Hopefully nobody will notice that these have been disturbed.
With extra caution, Rylka works her way back to the Warrens, heading towards Sirel's place.
Carefully, Rylka works her way back to Sirel's home. It is a tedious process, avoiding anyone without knowing if they are Blood Jackets, mundane criminals or simple beggars. Keeping her distance eventually the inquisitor makes it back, as the sky is slowly starting to gray.
The halfling greets her at the door, obviously having not slept at all.
'How did it go? I couldn't sleep, I've been worried about you all night."
Then the halfling smiles "I've been busy myself. I set up a meeting with another cell who will trust me. We have a meeting with them at noon, in the Bottoms. You'll be the main topic of discussion and how we can use you."
Rylka enters Sirel's living space. She wearily drops into the corner where she had first met Pane. "Definitely an interesting night. I hope your friendly family is ok. They've been evicted. The place is still empty, so we were still able to use it, but I don't know how much longer that'll be the case."
She looks up at Sirel, "Also, we had a run in with one Inego Karpol and a few of his men. Can you tell me anything about him?"
'I'll look into the family. They worked for the one of the local acting troupes. Hard times since the Chelish shut down most of them for 'immoral behavior'.
"Inigo Karpol?" Sirel says, a bit shocked at Rylka's news. 'He's the biggest black-marketer in the city. The major crime-lord in Kaer Maga. Was just just a musician before the occupation but he has taken to his new trade with gusto."
Sirel shook his head, 'Nasty fellow. Would sell his own mother for a bent copper coin. Smuggles in food and medical supplies, charge soaring rates to those who can least afford to pay. he has become quite rich off the whole affair."
The halfling sighs heavily and adds, 'We've had to work with him in the past, to get supplies we needed. Disgusting, but sometimes needed. It was one of the things that broke apart the cells, working with men like that. How did the, err, 'meeting' go?"
Rylka sighs, "We didn't exactly get off on the right feet. I mistook his thugs for Blood Coats when they ambushed us in a dark ally." She gives a small smirk, "His men did not make a good showing, but he certainly packs a metaphorical wallop."
With a glance out the window at the lightening sky Rylka yawns, "Let's get what sleep we can before that meeting across town. Don't want to be late."
Sirel nods and Rylka is soon fast asleep. .
The bed is only a rough collection of canvas and straw, but it is obvious that is the best the halfling can offer. It isn't comfortable but after the night the young rebel had, she could have slept on a leaping horse.
All too soon she is awoken by Sirel and his wife, a quiet, shy woman. She feeds them both, kisses Sirel and the man leads Rylka into the city.
By day the Warren is not the same, brooding set of ramshackles tower it was by night. Now it is full of laughter, conversation, life. As Rylka follows Sirel, she is engulfed in it.
Men and women chatting over checkers or a small loom. Merchants crying their wares. Bakers and butchers selling food. Children playing in the streets, weaving among legs and wagon wheels. It is a lively scene but Rylka can see the signs of the Occupation.
Too many men and women without work, idle. Merchant stalls nearly empty, despite it being morning. The children far too thin and the eyes...watchful, wary. Not hostile, but careful. Guarded.
This sits on the halfling the entire trip. Soon they are back int he Bottoms, which are even worse. The streets half-empty, with dirt and grime filling them. No one is tending the sewers, no one cleaning the manure.
Sirel leads Rykla down a small flight of stairs into a basement under a struggling (but open) candlemaker's shop. The door is latched and Sirel knocks three times and whispers something.
The door swings open, revealing a small basement, stone flagged with a table. They are ushered in and the door closes behind them. Inside are two people, one halfling one human. The man Rylka recognizes as Marc, from the other day. He smiles at the inquisitor, offering her a chair. He stands, watchful.
The halfling is a slightly pudgy, aggressive looking type with red face and fat fingers. A blue hat hangs over his ears, and a gold tooth twinkles in his jaw.
"You can call me Bloom." he says shortly to Rylka, not offering his hand to shake. (a grave offense in the Bottoms).
"Is that necessary?" Sirel says, sighing and sitting down.
"Yes, it is." Bloom says. 'Who knows who she is. An informer, a collaborator? Some foreign spy brought in to betray us?" His eyes are hard on Rylka.
Rylka watches the downtrodden people of the Warrens and the Bottoms, knowing that somewhere else in the city there were those for whom this poverty was unheard of. She grimaced at the thought of those in power standing upon the lives of others.
As they enter the chandler's and descend into the basement, Rylka gathers herself for the meeting.
She looks over the ill tempered halfling as he impunes her reputation.
Slowly taking the seat offered by Marc. "I could say the same thing about a man clearly living in excess while so many starve."
"But we are not here to verbally spar. There is little I can do to prove my intentions." She begins rolling up her sleeve. "So, let's jump right in. I am sent by the Everbloom to do her bidding."
Rylka holds out her arm, practically thrusting her birthmark into Bloom's face. "Do I need to perform like some show dog before you can trust me? What can you do to earn my trust?"