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In a large elven city called Amoritia, a large open market is set up. Thousands of shoppers and vendors mingle around the city streets. You could buy just about anything here, if you paid the right price.
Pinja maneuvered her way through a crowded street, her eyes nervously darting around taking in every sudden movement. She hadn't had a job in a while and was starting to get desperate. She had barely any money for food. The last inn she had slept in had finally kicked her out after not paying the fare for over 2 days.The bags under her eyes were more noticeable than they ever had been and her cheeks had hollowed out more. She needed a job, and she knew right where to get one. As she continued to walk the crowd got thinner until she reached a tavern. It was an ordinary looking tavern. Blue walls, dark tinted windows, rowdy customers. but, this tavern was far from ordinary. If you said the right set of words you could be lead to whole different room, with a much different agenda. She wouldn't go here unless she was truly desperate.
"The sky's a lovely color today" Pinja says upon walking up to the bar.
"What color is it?" the bartender asks without looking towards her.
"Red, like blood. But, it could rain and turn blue." the bartender looks at her and winks before guiding her to a room labeled 'Gambling room 2, RESERVED." Using a crooked and misshapen key, pulled out of what looked like thin air, he unlocks the door and waves her inside.

(Not sure how to begin )

Fallow was just enjoying the weather. He was a young blonde man with hair held in a loose braid with a scar that cut into his scalp and a violet scarf that hid the scar on his neck. Pinja would have passed him right by on her way in - perhaps he would've given her his tips, had she struck up a conversation with him. He hadn't been asking for donations, but the people in the area seemed to like his stories and his songs and his lute and the reception had put him in a rather great mood. Better than usual, anyway. And he was sober! How about that.
The best part about playing in this area was that there was always something going on. Sure, most of it's crime, but at least it's not boring.

Lupus was sitting in the back of said tavern, watching everyone with his solid red eyes from under the hood of his cloak. He was in a rather dark part of the tavern, trying to not be seen. Lupus wasn't one for crowds, though he did enjoy taverns from some unknown reason. Giving a sigh, he shifted to a more comfortable position, his long golden tail freeing itself from his cloak.

Fyrstir cursed, eyes narrowed and steely as a rowdy group of drunks pushed past him in the narrow market walkways. Of course, they were not the only things that reeked of ale. Perhaps it was the abundance of taverns - and less savory places still - in this part of town, where the city's core seemed to feed into the back alleys. At least, this is what Fyrstir can gather in the chaos. He was hardly a local. He pats at his right shoulder, the sound of metal clicking on metal dampened by the rough canvas of the grey cloak draped about his form. A moment later, he pressed into the nearest tavern himself. This city was overwhelming for the young wizard, where it seemed that the only good a magician could do was scam a kid or two out of his coppers.

Having traveled many miles throughout the known world, his former birthplace of Tannenford seemed further and further away from him. It almost made him homesick... that is, until he thought of his father... heh, bastard... After suddenly being plagued by these thoughts, his attention shot to the urbanized city ahead. Even from a bow-shot, he could see a large crowd over the hill he and his mare were positioned on. He never understood the appeal of such large cities; he himself couldn't stand them sometimes. It's better than nothing, he supposed...

The knight-errant approached the city gates, raising the visor of his bascinet as well as his armoured gauntlet. Having conversed with the watch to let him in, they did so. After his entry, he parked his horse by the stables and paid the stablemaster the fee. He was running low, as always.

Edlin walked through the bustling crowd, bearing his longsword in his left hand in its leather scabbard, all the while bumping and swimming through the horde of residents. All the while, he would mutter apologies with every one he touched. Having traversed through the crowd, his eyes caught the tavern ahead. "Gods be praised!" He muttered. With his excitement getting the better of him, he started running and burst through the door, hitting Fyrstir in the process. Having realised he hit someone, he quickly darted to the downed wizard. "Shit! I'm so sorry!"

As any good cloaked stranger should, the Hanged Man watched everything that transpired in the tavern. Pipe smoke wreathed his weary face, though he mostly just gnawed the mouthpiece and let whatever was in the bowl dwindle to ash. He sat with his back against the counter, facing out into the room, with his shield resting within arm's reach. The horn cup that he held in his hand seemed to be shaking ever so slightly--something only a sharp eye would catch.

A bard's music floated in through the windows, wending around the Hanged Man's head like the pipe smoke. Nearby, a rough-looking woman traded words with the barkeep--something about the sky--and was led away ... no doubt for something nefarious. Further off, by the door, two men collided with one another. The Hanged Man straightened up as he scrutinized Edlin with obvious interest, tapping the mouthpiece of his pipe against his lip.

Fyrstir supposed that he should not have been lingering so close to the door, as he was very suddenly, and very painfully knocked over by a heavily armored figure. The room was already filled with a faint and off-putting scent of smoke and spices, and being nearly forced prone by an inopportune strike to the back was hardly a comfortable experience. Choice words were uttered as the wizard blindly groped for purchase on the edge of a table with his left hand. He winced at the faint thrum of pain that shot down his arm as he finally pulled himself back up to his feet. Now, that was his own fault. Dammit, he should have remembered...

"God, I hope you are." Fyrstir heard himself say, all too aware to the man before him. He dusted himself off, with almost an air of indignant embarrassment, his pointed ears flushing a pale pink. It took a beat of silence to recover from the shock and for that stabbing pain in his hand to dissipate to a faint itch. The brunet could finally scrutinize Eldin for a moment, pressing his lips in a thin line. His eyes drifted to the other's longsword before returning to his face. Well, he seemed apologetic enough...

...And Fyrstir could hardly argue with a man with a weapon in his current state.

Fyrstir managed a forced sort of smirk, gathering his cloak carefully, his tone relaxing a little as he took a short step back from the other, "That eager for a drink, were 'ya?

"Here." He removed his gauntlet and offered that hand to help him up. It's the least he could do for his reckless actions. Contrary to what the wizard might of thought, his 'heavy armour' was ideal for travelling, if his appearance didn't betray that notion; brigandine, doublet, hoses, with plated greaves, gauntlets and a bascinet. Hardly heavy at all, as opposed to the much more armoured smoker he hadn't spotted yet. Once he looked around to see nearly the whole tavern staring at them, he blushed, before catching sight of the Hanged Man, the smoker. Must be a mercenary of some kind... I haven't fought an armoured opponent in a while... Bah, later...

As he helped the wizard up he quickly brushed down the wizard's clothes as an act of courtesy. "My humblest apologies my lord; I shall take this as a lesson for my reckless behaviour." His eyes darted so as to scan the tavern for any more prying eyes. He sighed when that was (mostly) no longer the case.

"Well... I could really go for some water right now. Care to join me? I'll pay for our drinks, ja?"

When one too many interesting-looking individuals went in the tavern, Fallow lost his patience and his curiosity took over. He finished his song, eyes darting towards the tavern every other bar (haha), then shifted his lute to one hand. "Sorry, folks - I'd adore to spend more time out here with you on this lovely day, but I'm afraid exploration calls!" He had a storyteller's voice, smooth and lilting and carrying. "What? Do you think this Dead Man is making up his Tales? No, no, no! I, like any self-respecting storyteller, have to find them." And maybe get a drink, too.
He picked up his pack from the ground beside him and made straight toward the bar - after another goodbye with a sad looking child, who got an extra little melody played for her.
He was openly armed, which was more unnerving in the smaller area - a small gun hung from a belt at his hip, but it was unprepared to fire. He let his lute rest from a strap on his back as he ordered a drink from the bartender and took a good look around the tavern.

The Hanged Man locked eyes with Edlin for a fleeting moment, and his lips twisted up into a lopsided grin. The expression was warped on the left side, where an ugly, vertical scar sundered his cheek. Was the helmed fellow blushing? Not that the old crow could say anything--he blushed at the drop of a pin, and was just grateful that for once it was someone else's cheeks that colored.

It was then that the music paused, and moments later the source of it pushed open the doors. Fallow was not exempt from the Hanged Man's scrutiny, though his attention soon returned to Edlin and the wizard.

Oh, sit here, sit here, thought the Hanged Man, his shaky hand bringing the cup to his lips.

Moments after the commotion, Lupus gave a quiet chuckle and kicked himself away from the table he sat at. He stood, a good six feet at least, and walk to the bar where he took one of the free stools. He ordered a pint of ale in his always calm, deep voice, yet his features were still hidden by the cloak. Some of his long, snow white hair escaped from the hood, only to be pushed back by a gloved hand.

Fyrstir followed the brief shift in Eldin's gaze, though his neutral expression hardly betrayed the wizard's fleeting thought that perhaps this tavern was one much less normal than he would have anticipated. With a clatter, it seemed that another fellow had entered the tavern, with a lute in tow. In the other direction, another armored man seemed to be surrounded by a haze as smoke clung to the air around him. He seemed to be nursing the cup he held very carefully, Fyrstir noted.

He corrected his earlier assumption, and then wondered if perhaps it was he who was lacking in armor, instead. That was much more likely. He glanced back to Eldin at the mention of drinks and mulled over it for a moment. What harm could it do, to duck in for a few drinks and a moment of rest for his feet. The road to hell was paved, so why not take a break along the way.

"I don't see why not," the half-elf swayed on his heel a little, his slighter build was seemingly swallowed by the grey cloak and he thought on the other's offer for a moment longer. His tone darkened no more than a shade as he continued, "Though I'm not inclined to open a new line of debt, I should pay for my own."

It seemed not a single table was completely free, and while Fyrstir did not particularly care about who they found in their company, he cast Eldin a questioning expression to ask if he did.

Edlin shrugged. "Okay, suit yourself." He said wryly. "I probably don't have that much for two anyway." He laughed awkwardly... actually, that was quite concerning... Best he finds a suitable job while he was here; he won't live long without the necessities.

He motioned his head so as follow him to the bar. He fitted on his gauntlet and held his longsword as he strode to the counter. He pulled out a stool and sat a few seats away from Lupus. He took a quick glance at the hooded man he sat adjacent from. Nothing too strange; perhaps a man of the clergy? Best he didn't inquire; who knows? Wait... is that a pint of ale? Certainly not priest-like to drink alcohol. He turned his head back to the half-elf, then to the barkeep.

"Do you accept Tannen currency? I'll pay you two Lieges for a glass of distilled water." He dug into his pockets and pulled out two silver minted coins, the face of an armet-wearing gentleman on the obverse and the image of an 's' shaped dragon on the reverse. He placed the Lieges on the table and pushed them forward.

When Fallow got his drink, he wet his throat then took a look around. No free tables? Too bad. He'd have to stay over here. He hoisted himself up onto the bar, then leaned backwards towards the bartender. "Do you mind?" His reply was a brisk shove off the table. He laughed brightly, then shrugged, and sat down in the actual stool available.
As he returned his lute in front of him, he cast a sidelong glance and smile at The Hanged Man. The combination of mysterious lonesome stranger and the armour was a good sign. But just as soon, he found his attention pulled by the cloaked Raziel. His intrigued smile continued to dance on his lips as he played. He had a feeling about this place. Not good or bad, but certainly a feeling.

Movement seemed to ripple through the tavern as they approached the counter and the first plucking notes of a lute being played drifted through the turbulent atmosphere of the room. Following Edlin, Fyrstir cast a cursory glance to the musician, Fallow, who seemed relaxed enough in the charged atmosphere that seemed to be mounting around the patrons. It seemed there was a mutual interest between the parties that all made their way into the tavern that day, and he was not excluded. Perhaps it was a hunger for something extraordinary.

He pressed up to the counter and looked up to the barkeep from his stool, left forearm pressed against the counter that was between them. It tingled, almost painfully. He tried to - had to - distract himself from the sensation by parroting Edlin's order, sans foreign currency. Not that his own coins were much better, anyway. They likely had enough value in gold to make up for the melted and decayed faces that glinted in the dim light.

A quizzical look flickered over the barkeep's features, but he took the coins from both men regardless, turning to gather a pair of glasses. The wizard tugged off his right glove, supple leather that had seen it's fair share of scorches and other arcane mishaps and sighing away some tension. "Well, I figured you weren't local. I mean, I'm not either at any rate." He directed this mostly to Edlin, though it was hardly a whisper in the crowded establishment. "What brings you here? Pleasure or business? Neither?"

His eyes roamed the other faces around the room, as much as he could without drawing too much more attention to himself. Raziel, Fallow, The Hanged Man, even the mysterious room in the shadow and back again. Perhaps this was more of a useful place than he had initially assumed.

"What made you thought that? My accent? These?" He pulled out a set of minted coins similar to the Lieges he paid the barkeep, whilst offering a playful smile. He put them back in. Earlier, he noticed the abundance of people with pointed ears. He assumed they were of elven origin. Open further inspection of the half-elf's ears (with great care as to not stare for too long, gods' forbid) they were of similar shape to the locals. Once he claimed to not be of local origin he felt puzzled and confused. Must be from elsewhere... He guessed there were plenty of elves in the known world for multiple settlements and other ethnically diverse groups.

"I'm just here for a good 'ol fight. It's mostly my job at this point, so I'd say both." He snickered. "How about you, my good man?"

The Hanged Man permitted his eyes to briefly stray from the knight-errant and his wizard companion. Another cloaked fellow approached to order an ale, and the bard who just entered made a cheeky attempt to settle his backside on the countertop. The swordsman's eyes met Fallow's for a moment--he quirked a brow and returned the smile, though it was brief. Edlin flashed silver, then--the gleam of it drew the Hanged Man's attention once more. He couldn't help but listen in to the man's conversation with Fyrstir, resisting the urge to interject.

Distracted, the swordsman sucked his pipe the wrong way, sending smoke shooting down his windpipe. Tears sprang into his eyes and he began to cough into the palm of his gauntlet. His cheeks and ears turned pink. "N-nasty habit," he wheezed at no one in particular. With a sheepish half-grin, he crushed the embers in the pipe bowl to death under his thumb. Drink was his poison of choice, after all--he sipped his brandy in some attempt to cover his flushed cheeks.

Fyrstir settled into his seat with a hum of interest of the coins that glinted in the palm of Edlin's hand for a fleeting moment. The man must have been from quite a ways off. "Mostly those." He nodded vaguely to where the coins had been, lips curling into a half-smile. While he was not familiar with this particular city, he could much more easily pass for it without a question or a skeptical look. Elves could discern him as different right away. His ears were never quite as pointed, nor his steps quite as swift or hushed. His sister's had not been either. They had been similar in most respects.

He wished his purposes could be easily explained with a nod and a chuckle.

"A hopeless information search, mostly." He supplied, left hand curling in self-consciousness. Right, searching for information to correct his own absolute stupidity. But first impressions were worth some omissions. "Though I've had my share of firefights in that process."

Fyrstir danced about a more easygoing expression, never sure if he was ever quite convincing enough.

Edlin snickered at his mention of 'firefights'. He didn't seem like the fighting type to him. But if his travels ever told him something, it's that the eye can deceive as much as he could during fence. Just then, he felt someone behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see that hooded man that always followed him throughout his travels. The half-elf nor anyone else could see the hooded man besides Edlin (or perhaps, the wizard could see the man's aura to a certain degree). "Not now, Torazel." He said as he stared at the hooded man. And just like that, he was gone. He turned back to the half-elf, snickering. "Angels. Can't live with them, nor without them. Or is that women? I forgot..." He covered his face with his gauntlet to hide a blush, whilst snickering childishly.

"Sorry. You probably don't know what I'm talking about."