"Two beers." He glances down at Quillin. "Dark all right for you?"
Tipene is a tall, muscular man with dark hair pulled back in a topknot, slightly darker than tanned skin, and facial tattoos. He nods at the woman. "Parrot's not going to sh1t on anyone he doesn't like. Yours the same?"
A wild-haired dwarf sits off at a table against a wall. Seaweed and shells run through his auburn beard and little driftwood togs are knotted in the ends of his unruly mane. Bedecked in what appears to be woven vegetation, he draws deeply from a mug of ale, the pale drink leaving a breaker of foam upon his lip.
He snorts at the discussion of the animals and their fecal routines. Gozreh bless it all. Animals sh1ttin' here and there. Waves love a sea dog, irreverent always. he whispers to himself, half into his cup.
"Jali's perfectly well behaved." the woman says with a bright smile. "Well, most of the time anyway." she adds, her smile shifting into more of a smirk.
"The dark's a good choice. Full flavored, not overly hoppy." she says raising her mug.
"Hear that, Smudge?" he announces. "Spare the precious floor, only sh1t on heads in here." Smudge squawks an acknowledgement. The gnome shrugs at Tippene, "Sure, dark," and peers suspiciously at the monkey.
The bar-dwarf sees the newcomers furnished with a foaming oak tankard of dark ale, and doesn't respond to Quillin's words bar a grunted nod. The beer is indeed a fine drop... full of flavor and not overly hoppy.
A sonorous noise starts sounding from the corner where the pair of dwarves sit... and looking over you notice the fishermen head down on the table and snoozing. The bar-dwarf chuckles and shakes his head slightly as though it isn't an uncommon occurrence.
Tom watches as each of the newcomers enter, still entertaining hope he wasn't suckered. Though a few look to be capable sorts, none match the description he was given. He shrugs and keeps drinking and decides to watch the newcomers instead. perhaps an opportunity will present itself after all. Not one to stay depressed or angry for long, he begins to cheer up a little, though the lost coin still rankles.
Quillin pages through the Shipping News as he drinks and finding nothing of interest, tosses it on the table. Smudge promptly hops down and begins messily shredding the paper and cackling evilly. Looking for diversion Quillin turns to the girl with the monkey.
"My name's Quillin. You local?"
"Local? No. I'm originally from Almas, but have been bouncing around port to port for a while now." she says with a smile before taking another drink of her ale.
"I'm Lysandra, by the way. Nice to meet you, Quillin."
A short span passes without addition to the scene before a gruff call from the back room "Gi us a hand will ye" causes the bar-dwarf to grunt back an affirmation. He gives the room a narrow eyed glare before wagering the risk of theft during his short absence not significant and moving into the rear of the establishment and out of plain view.
Not a few seconds later a new figure enters the bar via the door. A mid aged man in sailors cloth and weathered coat. His chest heaves inwards and back as he lurches in, as though he's desperately attempting but failing in the act of drawing breath. His neck is streaked red and bloody as are his fingers, gouging and scrabbling at his throat. The look in his eyes above rough bearded face is one of terror and fear.
Noiseless bar his footfalls he lurches desperate and forthright towards Tipene, his bloody hands first reaching into his coat pocket before smearing over the tulita's body. He'd brought forth a leather coinpurse, though that falls from his hands to the ground - spilling open and spreading casino chits over the floor. The man drops to his knees and continues to struggle in the act of drawing breath.
"I'm Lysandra, by the way. Nice to meet you, Quillin."
"Huh, yeah. I should have recognized the accent," Quillin grunts and losing interest wrests a bit of paper away from Smudge and producing a charcoal stick starts working on his shopping list.
The gnome barely looks up as the man stumbles into the bar, but his ears twitch at the sound of a purse hitting the floor.
Lysandra's eyes widen at the sight of the dying man. "Wha-what in the Nine Hells was that all about?"
Seeing the bleeding man lurch into the tavern, Tordek draws one last pull from his mug of ale. Getting up with a grunt, he walks over to the man and turns his eye to the man's throat, looking to provide whatever first aid he's able to given the materials floating around the bar. As the man gasps for breath, the dwarf grimaces and tries to pry his mouth open, looking for something blocking his airway.
You there, tattooed fellow. The man slipped you summat. What was it? It may have something to do with his current state.
As Tordek finishes speaking, he turns his eyes back to the dying man, and pulls a ragged twig of wood out of his belt.
Tipene starts as the man stumbles against him, reaching reflexively for the carved war club at his side. As Tordek steps in to assist, the Tulita backs away and checks to see what the man had given him.
Your knowledge of the healing arts gives you the thought that it might be either poison or magic foul that's causing his distress.
The man's eyes roll back into his head and he falls face down onto the decking, jerking free of Tordek's attempt at diagnostics via a violent and jerking seizure. Even to the laymen among you he doesn't look long for this world.
The sonorous dwarves in the corner remain at rest, and there is no sound from the rear of the Dented Helm to suggest that the bar-dwarf nor his unseen companion might've heard aught yet.
Quillin folds and pockets his list and drops down from his stool to inspect the purse on the floor. He eyes the chits to see if they bear an establishment name on them as the purse disappears into his velvet coat.
Tipene shakes his head and looks around quickly before replying in a quiet voice. "Don't think so. Unless keys are poison." The Tulita straightens up. "He's running from someone. Quillin, we should leave now, before they come."
Casting eye over the poker chips Quillin doesn't see any name or lettering, just a butterfly sigil that he recognizes as Desna's mark. The goddess is oft worshipped in parts of the world in her incarnation of luck and gambling.
"Quillin, we should leave now, before they come."
"Why? It's not like WE did anything." He turns to the dwarf "What's wrong with him? Tipene here seems to think he's eaten a key."
Lysandra looks on, curious as to what exactly is happening.
Don't fully know. Like as much some kind of nefarious magic,maybe poison. It's beyond my ken to cure, regardless. If he's alive in 24 hours, I can possibly identify the poison, but from the looks of it, he won't make it that long. Tordek casts an eye through his shaggy mane at Tipene. He gave you a key? Looking between Tipene and Quillin he nods his head, Leaving at this point would likely be suspicious, iffin you were to run into anyone. Either way, he's beyond my savin'. Either we do what we can to make him comfortable or end his suffering here. Wind and Waves will claim him in the end anyway. Do what you will, I'll see what I can do for him. He says, with the grim finality of one who's seen the life slip out of the eyes of people before.
The wait for the man's end isn't long, as his seizure ebbs and fades to leave him motionless on the tavern deck.
Tordek watches as the man's chest ceases to rise. Closing his eyes in silent prayer, he removes one of the small shells from his beard and lays it on the man's forehead. From the sea you rose, back to the sea your soul flows. He says quietly, before standing to face the rest of the assemblage.
M'name's Tordek, just Dek to my shippies. Not sure about you lot, but I'm itching to be back out on the waves doing summat useful, neh? If yer looking for a boat or even just some companions that are eventually going to be seaward-bound, I'd not be adverse to throwing in with you lot. Easier for a collection to get aboard a crew than a single in my experience. He holds a gruff hand out to Tipene.
Tipene grips the offered hand firmly. "Tipene. First we get out of here. I was wanting drink and quiet, not a fight."
Tom watches the scene unfold. Waiting to see some sort of response from the crowd as a man just dies in front of them.
Hmmm, if that group leaves, I'll just follow them. They look like they might have something going on that is better than being stuck here.
Quillin frowns, "Well, i'm not keen on hanging around for the questioning." He gives the body a quick once over letting no pocket go unturned. After, he nods toward the oblivious dwarves in the back. "Should we give them a clue or just let 'em stumble on to it so to speak."
Tipene cracks a slight smile as he shakes his head, then returns to his normal reserve. "Let's go."
Quillin 'rescues' the man's chip purse, a couple of daggers and some assorted men's sundries (comb, chewing tabbaco, etc.) But naught else that might hint of his prior travelling or identity. Even the chips don't project an idea of their worth till you can match colour with denomination.
You do manage to slip out before the return of the bar-dwarf, and without awakening the sleeping beauties.
"Well if everyone else is high-tailing it out of here, I'll be damned if I'm gonna wait around for whoever was chasing that guy."
I'm good to just let them stumble upon the situation. Tordek says as he walks back to his seat to scoop up his battered backpack.
Out on the street, Quillin looks over his new companions. "Well, don't knwo what your plans are. Tippene and I just got ashore again and have some shopping to do. Of course..." He produces one of the casino chips. "I could find out where these came from and see if I can come up with a little more spending money."
The street doesn't show any outward signs of interest at your emergence... at least not overtly. You're able to extricate and get a street or two distant before the distant sounds of a city watch whistle can be heard keening over the top of the city's hubbub. You've no way of telling if it's related to the dead man in your wake... but it's from the right direction.
Though places to bleed yourself of coin abound on the streets of Freeport, there are a few places where concentrations of commerce can be found.
The Merchant District is the most urbane of destinations, though their fare does tend t'wards the better heeled and wholesalers.
The Warehouse District holds avenues bent towards the sea and industry, including the auction house (though official auctions only run once a month and the shipping news didn't imply anything on today) and the Rainmakers Guild.
If it were drugs or items nefarious then you might seek to find ways and means to enter the Black Mark via the Underside... though the mere act of getting there would be fraught with danger.
The most varied and cosmopolitan means of shopping though would be via the Seaside Market - a teeming and seething bazaar back by the Docks.
Quillin ponders. "I need a couple spell components unlikely to be found topside even at the Seaside Market though we could go by there for other things. What were you looking to spend your loot on Tipene?"
"I hear there is a Black Mark under the city that might provide the other things I'm looking for. Who knows, they might could ID these casino chips as well."
Unable to restrain himself any longer, Tom decides to crash the party.
"Underside? That's a might bit rough of a place."
Tom says casually as he moves up to the group from where he had been following them. He glances around the group.
"The big guy there looks like he could handle himself," Tom says as he nods at Tipene. "But the little guy, the old man, and the young lady all look like easy marks."
He short bows to the group with a sardonic smile.
"Red Tom at your service. I'm sure the little scene you left behind is something you wish to avoid. I am at loose ends at the moment and you look like a group with some favorable prospects of action. If it's Underside you're going, then my company might be fortuitous for you. After all, the big guy can't watch out for all of you at once."
Lysandra raises an eyebrow at Tom's comment and "angrily" says, "The young lady is perfectly capable of taking care of herself."
"That being said, I suppose there is something to be said for safety in numbers. Nice to meet you, Tom. I'm Lysandra."
At being called an old man, Tordek breaks into a loud guffaw. An old man, maybe, but not so old for a dwarf lad! Even still, to have a bladesman near to hand would be useful, I'd gather. After shaking his head and chuckling to himself a little longer he looks at Red Tom once again, By the way, the name's Tordek, not old man. He winks quickly through his shaggy mop of hair, a smile making his beard pluck up.
"No offense intended, I am quite sure you are each capable, I was just commenting on appearances. Truth be told, I was expecting a little less of a welcome so I laid it on a bit thick." Tom says with a smile.
So, the dead guy an acquaintance of any of you?"
"Better weapons and defensive magic. My tewhatewa was made by a fine craftsman, but there are better out there." Not that I expect to find one here.
Tipene shakes his head.
Underside, Overside, doesn't matter overmuch to me. In any event, don't know the dead man. Any distance we put between ourselves and that tavern though, would be as wise as the post-rain bird come to feed. Tordek says, smiling at his attempt at druidic humor.
Quillin makes a decision. "Alright Tippy, we'll swing by the Seaside Market to see what they have and maybe ask around a little about what lies beneath..."
"Thanks. Lead the way and I'll watch out behind."
Erring on the side of relative caution at first before deciding whether to press downwards t'wards more shadowed climes. Taking a wider berth so as to avoid the block or two around the Dented Helm, the motley accumulation of personages proceeds nearer to the Old City and the sea... before entering the Seaside Market proper.
The streets and open areas before you are crammed solid with tents, tables, stalls, knick-knackery and goods of all description. Imported, exported, home grown, bred for purpose and baked for consumption it's a visual, aromatic and aural assault on the senses. Barkers bellow for custom, urchins beg for coin, and there are more than one set of eyes peering out from shadows to assay on the weight of purses.
Without any real effort or need for circumspection, Quillin is able to get the poker chips identified as coming from the Sweet Dreams Gambling House. It's a well known gambling house run from Scurvytown. He's also able to assay the worth of the chips at a healthy 142 gold pieces... though it's unlikely he'd get face value without exchanging them at the gambling house proper.
With a bit of circumspection and asking the right people the wrong questions, Lysandra is able to tease out an avenue into the Black Mark. A temporary and movable market that peddles in the illegal and dangerous, it's not in the Sewer Guard nor the Town Watch's good books. The Sewers themselves aren't the safest of places to be, and without being able to know which turns and tunnels to take going in... finding it by chance would be a bit like finding a needle in a dungheap.
That said, a snaggletoothed rum seller points you t'wards Captain Dimetrios - as a means to finding your way in. He's a noted smuggler, scoundrel... and friend to the orphans cared for at the Star of the Sea. Cross the man's palm with a few coins or a decent bottle of Varisi wine and he'll see you right.
Lysandra also notes a few shady 'business' people purveying their wares in the Market. Could be a struck conversation and bargain could see one of them pair up or lead you inwards... though their assistance is unlikely to be free from oily residue either.
Tordek follows along behind the leaders of the group, nose twitching for some reason as Lysandra schmoozes the rumseller for information. His hand grips tighter around the gnarled wooden staff as he casts his eyes around, his ears listening to whatever blips of sound rise out of the din and bustle of people. Without a specific concern he holds his tongue, until something specific catches his eye or ear.
Quillin seems impressed by Lysandra's unexpected seediness. He follows her guidance to a greasy looking fellow who smells of snakeweed and maybe some pesh. In a low tone, he insinuates himself. "I'm looking for a bit of devil blood and that's not a euphemism. I need actual devil blood. I heard Demetrios is the fellow that might hook me up. Do you know the fellow?"
The glazed eyed man licks his lips as a dribble of chewing tobacco leaks from his mouth to streak his cheek. Pushing back his well oiled (though slightly rancid scented) hair he glances around before responding "Sure... bribe the bastard enough and he'll see you to some overpriced sh1t at his precious Black Mark... what sort of sanguine you need? High grade? Or will the pus from one of those sh1t-sacks see you sorted?" Quillin infers that the man's referring to a lemure.
Quillin ponders, "Well, I never really thought about it..."
"Blood is Blood! Hot and Red!" Smudge opines.
Quillin shrugs. "True that is, Bird. Lemure will do."