Leth - Level 5

Rogue

     Raucous patrons and lively music quickly quieted down as the bartender rang a heavy brass bell. “Closing! Closing! Make sure you pay yer tabs!” he announced in a deep voice. Customers clamored to finish their drinks, pay their bill, and shuffle out of the tavern. Waiters began bussing and wiping tables while the bar staff counted coins and cleaning glasses. A few bargoers sprinkled around the tavern remained through the commotion; a wiry gnome and energetic half-elf chatted with each-other across the long table in the center of the hall; a human wearing all black sat in the corner, contemplating his drink; a pair of dwarves remained at a small table near the entrance, one standing, entrancing the other with fishing stories; a tiefling played with their fiddle near the stage.

     Finishing his closing duties, the burly bartender moved to the dwarves’ table. “I said, ‘closing’,” the bartender sternly informed the two. The dwarf dropped his outstretched arms and stopped his tall tale of catching a thousand pound tuna. “Aw, come off it, we’re just finishing our pints.” “I. Said. ‘Closing’,” slowly snarled the bartender, crossing his arms and standing straight, towering above the dwarves' short stature.

     The standing dwarf ‘tsked’, then quickly downed what remained of his draught and dropped 2 copper pieces on the table. The pair scurried out, the bartender following to close and latch the door behind them. None of the remaining audience gave so much as a glance at this encounter, nor when the bartender walked back into the room. The bartender collected the coppers and steins, moved back behind the counter to again count coins and clean the barware. Once he finished, he moved to the opposite side of the room, in front of a large wallboard hosting several public fliers. The board’s attached leaflets announced various requests and upcomings. “Harvest Festival Oct 25th”, read one. A second flier read, “Come buy the freshest fruit in the market.” A third, “Farm help wanted 2 mi east of Redberry.”

“     Right.” the bartender announced. The workers and remaining patrons immediately stopped chatting and glanced up in attention. The bartender grasped the bottom edge of the board and gave it a sharp tug. It pivoted up and away from the wall, swinging up parallel with the floor, whereupon the bartender rolled it about its axis and set it back down against the wall. The reverse was similarly plastered with notices, now describing recipes and liquors, ledgers and delivery details. These fliers were - on the surface - esoteric and benign.

“     I’ve had no luck with this here one,” the bartender said, pointing to a recipe for potatoes au gratin, “so I’m thinking about increasing the amount of spice.” “How about pepper?” jeered the half-elf, pointing to the darkly dressed man in the corner. “That won’t work, try paprika” the human retorted with an upwards nod, now facing the room. “Nah, mate,” the half-elf shot back, “I don’t like it.” “Keep it business, people.” The bartender shot quick glances at the two. “If you have some ideas for improving these potatoes, talk to me. I’d like to have them presentable within a few days. Otherwise, have at it.” The bartender turned and walked back behind the bar.

     Activity commenced as the occupants began studying the board and discussing the fliers amongst themselves. After a few minutes, the man in the corner stood up and sauntered over to the board. He contemplated the leaflets, until his eyes set upon a flier advertising a bottle of rum. He snatched it off the board and brought it to the bar, sliding it across the counter. “Hey,” he said to the bartender, tapping the flier, “what’s this one like?” The bartender sized up the paper. “It’s a pale rum, aged 16 and a half years.” He placed a glass upon the counter. “Made in uptown, small place near the docks.” He retrieved a rum bottle off the bar shelves. “Full bodied. Notes of almond and coffee.” He poured some of the foul liquor into the glass. “Comes in a tall, fancy bottle. Quite modestly priced too.” The bartender lifted the glass of liquor and handed it to the man. A small paper note rested between his fingers.

     The man sighed, “well that’s an apt description.” Taking the glass from the bartender, he palmed the note effortlessly. He lifted the glass to his lips and mumbled, “cheers,” before rocking his head back and downing the drink. “Has that gone bad?” he asked, sliding the glass back across the counter. “Hmm, possibly.” the bartender smiled, sniffing the bottle. “Alright, got it.” The man cocked his head in disappointment and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He wandered across the tavern and into a hallway with a pair of doors on either side, pushing open the first door on the left and stepping inside. A minute later, he stepped out again, this time wearing a belt and holsters loaded with equipment, four blades strapped to his back. He unfurled a black cloak around himself and continued down the hallway to the back of the tavern. At the end lay a storeroom. The now-equipped assassin lifted a hidden hatch in the floorboards, and dropped into the tunnel below, letting the trapdoor fall closed behind him. He struck a torch before unfurling the paper, which bore an unusual script made of arranged dots. He translated it to a name in his head. The bartender had provided him with a good description of what this person should look like and where they should be. He fed the paper to his torch and continued down the musty, subterranean passageway. He was off to find the newest unlucky acquaintance of Lethifer Malison.