Small Time Bar-Man, Alderic Fortier | (No Knowledge)
The remaining injured guests seem to scoff at Guillaumine's offer for assistance. Some openly announce that they’d rather pay to be treated in a chapel than to venture towards the Crater or be around those living nearby.
One man seems to heed the doctor’s call, running toward her. He ran past her to the bar counter, however, revealing his true intentions. The unkempt bartender curses under his breath, “Oh no, oh no, where is it, where is it...” Behind the counter now, Alderic Fortier searches among the food and drink for something. “No, no, no , no, th-that wasn’t mine to lose, it wasn’t stolen, was it?”
Small Time Bar-Man, Alderic Fortier | (No Knowledge)
Mako's attention is split more ways than one can track. The dog stares at Marcus, before turning to face a beautiful woman to the east, then curls back to the snack bar where the food lies. When the dog finally noticed the doctor when Halcyon interacted with her, it stopped in its tracks and began to bark, almost in panic, stepping backwards from her. Halcyon was able to calm the animal, but it seemed uncomfortable as soon as it became aware of Guillaumine's presence.
The man behind the counter looks at the dog, before checking what he has around the small station. “Wasn’t told there would be dogs… they know I don’t like dogs...” He ducks under the counter as Halcyon soothes Mako, metal objects seem to clank together, and he rises after thirty or so seconds. He has two plates in his hands, one of a prepared steak, beef it appears, the other an assortment of nearly picked bones. “Your options, Madame: spoil ‘em with something lavish or we have a few, um, oddments he can tend to. There isn’t much meat on the scraps, but what is there is nicer than most this city gets.” The man smiles warily at Mako, who still appears shaken. The food seems to elevate his spirits however.
Closer now to Sinclair and the others, Halcyon is able to deduce that Alexander Ravenhall has opened a rather large orphanage by where the Crater lies. Watching Mirabelle, Halcyon narrowed her suspects of the gossiper's friend. Though she could not see Estelle, Halcyon knew her to be with Raphael, the somewhat flamboyant man, and the young, reserved Tizonian. One of them was her friend, one was her friend’s date who was being “poached,” and the another was the poacher.
Small Time Bar-Man, Alderic Fortier | (No Knowledge)
For Raphael:
Your client seems a bit disturbed, but you aren’t sure why he seems intent on writing something. If your client was seeking the quill to inflict self harm, the Guard would be in the room before anything severe could happen. Your records say he isn't a registered caster, so the quill isn't a material component of a spell.
The man behind the bar strained the tea leaves and added quick spoonful of honey. After a quick mix, he pours the steaming beverage into a container full of ice, and after a series of shakes, empties the now-cold drink into a tall, cold glass. “Tea, tea, here we are, good doctor.” He leans over the table, placing the glass within reach.
Small Time Bar-Man, Alderic Fortier | (No Knowledge)
“Tea, tea, tea,” rattles one of the caterers. He appears to be the only without an outfit, a mark of distinction that he wears a commoner’s outfit, though it is unknown if that is for better or worse. He appears a bit of a mess as he searches his station, his medium length brown hair falling over his face, his brown-green eyes frantically searching for tea. He grabs a metal canister, opens it, and gives a quick, joyous prayer upon identifying the leaves. “Wonderful. With honey, eh?”
He begins to make the drink, pouring the leaves into boiling water, and preparing ice stored in an extradimensional bag. He smiles widely at Guillaumine as he waits for the leaves to steep, before recalling other duties, and going back to preparing a plate for another guest.
Small Time Bar-Man, Alderic Fortier | (No Knowledge)
Behind the Screen:
SM:1d20 + 8 ⇒ (11) + 8 = 19
For Marcus:
You look around you city and reach out for contacts who may be able to push you in the right direction for finding more varied or popular alcohol. While you don’t know of any public-relation individuals who are experts over the field, by visiting the bars of the city, you are able to form an idea about what is currently being sought. There appears to be a big push for among the aristocrat crowd for drinks coming from outside the continent. Many bars seems to have brews claiming to be from the Faraway Lands, often with near unpronounceable names, by and large however, there are few who are willing to tell you about their supplier.
Your friend who pointed you towards the meadery and vineyard two weeks earlier (who is now under this alias) once again has answers for you. The bar he owns is rather humble, a small place jammed between a spice emporium and a steel forge factory. The region has a distinct smell, burning metal and foriegn spices create an interesting invitation to the bar. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t seek to thrive, but rather make it each month with the regulars it has gathered.
Alderic appears around thirty five, and it is clear he doesn’t share the same circles as you. His face isn’t well shaven, and a bit of dust and grease covers his skin and outfit from hard work. Messy dark hair dances over his brow, and passes over his ears. While growing wrinkles make him appear tired, his eyes are brilliant, shining with life. He pours you one on the house, he always did for bartenders, never seeing conflict between businesses, but rather an opportunity for a good talk, or a good friend.
“Here’s what you need to know on those Far Away drinks,” he begins, passing the cop to you, “they aren’t real.” He grins, pouring himself something now. “Trick is to get something cheap and strong.” He cuts the foam from the glass. “Then throw in an ungodly amount of berries. Raspberries, elderberries, whatever have you. Paint a fancy label, charge a silver a cup, and there’s your gold.”
Alderic takes a sip of his drink. “Won’t trick men like us, nor a nobleman I’d bet. But the everyman and them merchants? Fall for it every time.” He doesn’t seem to agree with the practice. He takes another sip, sizing you up. “Ever have something from Far Away, Tamarin? I’ve got real stuff somewhere below if you got the time.”
