Brian
Len Kharisne
Whylderhome, Market District

Len had been awfully thoughtful in his choices for the initial meeting, making an earnest effort to pick out a reasonably reputable establishment, impossible as they were to find in Whylderhome, for an initial drink. The 'Seven Drunken Knights' hardly would qualify in any other civilized place, but it sufficed here. It was a common haunt for the Brothers' Whylder's pet nobles and associates, furnished well enough it could seem like a uper-crust salon if you squinted hard enough. The interior was decorated with scraps taken from the arena a few blocks away, shot armor, tattered tabards, and blunted, scraped weapons arrayed in a mockery of their former owners for as long as the pub could get away with it before the mourning period subsided and some pissed-off next of kin demanded some respect for the dead.
Len's eyes darted as he leaned back, shuffling. He rolled his shoulders, popping his neck to either side and barking out a cough. He'd picked a seat prominently visible from the door, and made a point of arranging the seats so that no party would feel totally obligated to face opposite of the entrance and be blind to their surroundings. He lazily adjusted a decanter of as-of-yet-untouched barleywine to sit a bit closer.
Bobby
The door to the uncannily named ale house opened, and the two men who entered were *Not* Roland Redstag. They were big brutes, dressed in scarred armor and wearing masks of ultra violence. They squinted the angry eyes under their heavy brows and peered around the room. Then one of them gestured to someone outside.

The next man to enter was also *Not* Roland Redstag. He was a quarter less brute than the first two, his eyes possession an animal intelligence. He gave everything a once over and nodded.

The final man *Was* Roland Redstag. He swaggered through the doors, a smirk on his face. He wore no visible armor, dressed instead in a high quality linen tunic bearing the Redstag sigil over the right breast. His left hand rested casually on the hilt of his bastard sword as he walked right up to Kharisne. Roland smiles, picked up the wine, and drank from the bottle. Then he offered his sword hand to shake. "I'm Roland Redstag. It's a pleasure to meet you in person."
Brian
They certainly fit into their surroundings well. The room tensed all but undetectably for a few moments, the cheery din quieting barely as the new presence was registered, a scattered handful of armed patrons taking particular regard, before the faint celebratory atmosphere swung back into motion, momentum regained as quickly as it stalled.

A metallic jingling rustled from the otherwise silent figure as Kharsine rose, the studded leather of his golden-brown and black doublet broadening his lanky, lean frame. He wore it open enough to reveal the swordbelt around his waist, but closed enough an inexperienced eye would ignore the layered armor padding sitting just above the comfortable tunic resting beneath.

His eyes were steady, a cold blue-gray, and betrayed a certainty, a methodical cunning, his twitchy, rodentlike body hid. "Milord. Kind of you to say so." A light smile danced across his face a moment. He took Redstag's hand in his own right paw, shaking firmly before sitting down, the other hand snaking up to scratch at a scruffy cheek as he rolled his shoulders back.
Bobby
Roland senses the intellect immediately. A rat like cunning. His lips twitched near imperceptibly before he sat down, the crease of his tunic revealing the steel rings beneath.
"I must say, I imagined someplace... Nicer." Roland traced a finger through the dust under the candle on the center of the table. "But it's fitting, I would say."
As he spoke, a number of his men filtered in, spreading throughout the room. They were lax, unaggressive but observant. 
"They're not for you, if you're worried. My family has to watch our backs, what with the war on and everything."
Brian
A dry, chortled chuckle cleared his throat as it devolved into another hollow, instinctive cough. He scratched again, popping his spine with the rolling motion once more as he straightened his posture, smirking gently.
"I'd be an awful hypocrite if I were to blame anybody for being careful, m'lord."
He clasped the bottle in a claw, taking a swig in a considerate confirmation the liquor was safe as much as to sate himself.
"Course, I'll blame the war for the locale, though. Necessity breeds creativity- hard to meet at one of the fine folk's salons nearer south when the North's still burning. So we stick to our warm, safe warrens up here."
Bobby
"You know, my brother's a man of peace," Roland said, almost derisively. "He believes that it breeds better men."
Roland gestured and had one of his men bring him a stiffer drink. He enjoyed it with a long swig.
"I think peace breeds weakness. Weakness that sits and festers and rots everything around it until entire countries fall apart. War keeps you sharp, ready, hungry.
"Either way, the North is for my brother to deal with. My only interest is what I can do for you, and what you, in turn, can do for me."
Brian
Len's brows narrowed as he scratched his wiry beard, whiskers twitching. "Mmmf. World's not a kind place for better men.
The bartender was prepared, taking especial notice of the group and remaining alert. The watching eyes on them were subtle, but definitive. Kharisne hadn't picked somewhere he'd be alone.
"What you'll have to look forward to once Whylder lays eyes on you will be dependent on that. Stay sharp, ready, hungry. This work's one a ready beast thrives in, but a man's got to be careful to not get razed to the bone. Well, not too careful. We'd be outta jobs otherwise."