Set a hair's breadth from the aging stone of a deep recess in the district wall, Dalvering's Flagon was an inauspicious place by any measure. Its outlandish high-peaked roof, narrow iron-framed windows, and smoke-blackened timber walls towered high above the cul-de-sac in jarring contrast to the countless immaculate constructs of stone and plaster which were its neighbours. These impinged upon every side, sometimes stacked to as many as five tiers, each new structure leaning against the next in a manner which suggested that their architects sought in vain to hide the peculiar establishment from view. In defiance of this, a crude sign had been erected at the mouth of the inlet, proclaiming Dalvering's "fine ale, spirited company, and atmosphere of remarkable discretion" in bold red lettering drawn by a practiced hand. To the horror of all nearby, the ill-reputed hostelry seemed to thrive more than ever, literally drawing the life from the surrounding properties as their patrons abandoned them to seek more wholesome lodgings.<br/><br/>There were precisely three avenues of exit from the Flagon, each suited for a different thing: the weather-worn chimney, emitting a thick and acrid black smoke no matter the hour; the main entrance, from which an unending stream of miscreants, criminals, and other equally unpleasant individuals surged at all nightly hours; and the garish yellow-painted limestone chute at the rear, which breached the Northpeak sewers in at least one place and served the dual purpose of latrine and waste disposal - for refuse both material and human in nature. Dalvering himself abided by a similar philosophy in the administration of his tavern: any and all activities were permitted so long as damage to his property or potential profits was not involved. All in violation of his singular tenet braved the limestone shaft.<br/><br/>Lithe, long-limbed, and eerily pale, the retired venefice was a man of few words and inscrutable motives, canny enough to manage a successful alehouse in spite - or perhaps<span style="font-style: italic">because</span>- of his reputation as a master poisoner. It was a popular topic of discussion whether Dalvering had constructed his tavern with the exact irony of being paid to serve dilute poison in public in mind, or if he was a simple madman. Having all but materialized in the city some years ago with naught but the curious vine tattoo encircling his wrists, ankles, and neck to define him, the enigmatic innkeeper immediately set to work brewing poisons, tinctures, and liquids of an unspeakable nature and potency for any who could meet his prices. Years later, with no more explanation than an impenetrable smirk, he had abruptly closed his business, produced a working crew and plans of his own design, and constructed Dalvering's Flagon. So it stood now, no more or less bizarre than it was then. Barring the odd tale or adage from his unknown birthplace beyond the walls, told with infuriating irregularity, none save his barkeep Donnal knew more than a fragment of the man's history. Of this Dalvering made certain.<br/><br/>No different from any other night, the Flagon played host to a decidedly colourful house of patrons. An ominous trio in black and crimson habits conspired over a platter of roast mutton at one table, throwing veiled glances towards a tipsy handmaiden at the next who playfully leaned over to eavesdrop in the midst of her dealings with an outlandishly-dressed fence. In another corner the local undertaker related news of the quarter's latest burials to a young man in a ragged black hat, his characteristic unnerving monotone lost in the clamour of oaken mugs and shuffling boots, whilst a dour woman of pallid skin and sleep-ringed eyes looked on with suspicion beneath an expensive hood. Remarkably, Dalvering himself was not in evidence. Taken with the uncharacteristic atmosphere of strained caution and civility which hung over the entire establishment, this could mean only one thing.<br/><br/>Donnal of Lochaber loomed over all from behind the serving counter; a mountainous humanoid fortification of muscle and ill-will crowned by a messy red-orange beard. His scalp nearly brushed the rafters when he rose, and dust shook from the boards in honour of his passing. From a woefully undersized stool he administrated the Flagon by mere force of presence - striking heated altercations dead in the air with a glance, slaying dissent with an idle shifting of the arms. The tarnished pewter tankard in his hands slowly rotated behind an oiled rag, gradually regaining its past lustre as he busied himself with the task, tolerating interruption only to serve up more glasses of the house's fine ale. Regrettably, on this night interruption was a foregone conclusion: already an unwelcome face leered dispassionately across the counter.<br/><br/>"Donnal. I have business."<br/><br/>The person of Edric Valcaedis in its present incarnation consisted of a hooded cloak, a dark leather jerkin, and several furlongs of undisguised spite. Of these three defining qualities, only two remained variable. At his waist there hung a discrete dagger sheath; his largest pouch bulged with gold. Among the gallery of miscellaneous undesirables which made up the Flagon's normal clientele, those of Edric's sort were undoubtedly the most troublesome. Where most held their ill-favoured meetings and exchanges of wealth under the tactful neglect of the hostelry's proprietor, it became another thing entirely when the dealings directly involved him. A room's worth of dishonest ears with no grasp of loyalty made for perilous negotiating conditions.<br/><br/>"As y'can see, we have as well," Donnal grunted dismissively. "Care to contribute with a brimming mug o' Dal's Finest, or are ye here for the 'spirited company'? Righ' impossible to separate the pair if'n ye're asking."<br/><br/>Undeterred, the artless man replied with an insistence that put starving hounds to shame.<br/><br/>"Neither, as expected. I've come for the marginally deadlier of Dalvering's fine wares."<br/><br/>Donnal's rough-hewn features twitched in a way that vaguely approximated a wince. Subtlety was not his art, and evidently the assassin relished dashing his attempts. Regrettably his uninhibited fists had never been considered tavern wares in an official capacity... at least not as part of the serving menu. He made a mental note to rectify this in the near future.<br/><br/>"The strong stuff it is, then, presuming ye weren' asking after me wife. Fierce old shrew. As soon shake yer hand as lop it off. Half her ship's still owed proper to Dal."<br/><br/>"This is something of a special occasion... and time is of the essence," Edric hissed irritably. "You'll forgive me if I don't wish to entertain your domestic lamentations, but I<span style="font-style: italic">must</span>see Dalvering."<br/><br/>Replacing his tankard on the counter with a venomous grin, the indecorous northerner leaned back on the stool and crossed his arms, still looming above his erstwhile customer by more than a head.<br/><br/>"The 'ol stringbean's taken leave for the night. Lookin' over a 'personal project of notable import' as he puts it. Always lets ye know that ye're better off not knowing, providin' he wants ye to know that much."<br/><br/>"Be that as it may, I haven't a day to wait. Between upsetting him today and denying him my custom tomorrow, I know which one we'll both regret more in the coming weeks."<br/><br/>Donnal ruefully stroked his chin; the logic was unfortunately sound.<br/><br/>"Oh aye. If I'd a mind I could put ye in contact, or near enough to, but the particulars won' please ye. The first o' which bein'..." The fiery-bearded server officiously extended a hand the size (and relative cleanliness) of a coal shovel. "Service charge."<br/><br/>There was an unpleasant silence as each party regarded the other with an air of mutual animosity over the open palm. Finally the ill-tempered assassin scowled and dug through his cloak with one hand, settling at length upon two silver coins stamped with an abstracted image of the city surrounded by jagged mountains. He let them drop onto Donnal's open fingers from an unnecessarily great height and averted his eyes, as though he were paying merely to rid himself of the sight alone. When the hand remained, he spitefully tossed another coin onto the counter beside it.<br/><br/>"Could've bought a horse for that much."<br/><br/>"Happens I've taken a sour-faced mule fer the same jus' recently," Donnal chuckled subversively. "Thorny disposition, that'n. Ah, an' in speakin'..." he trailed off as he knelt behind the counter, subtly transitioning from a wall of knotted muscle with a crimson-fringed top to one without. From somewhere in the herculean mass there issued as stealthy a whisper as the barkeep's thunderous voice could sustain. "Y'should take this along. Ye said it was a special occasion. Never know when ye migh' need it."<br/><br/>With unprecedented delicacy he laid a small brass tin onto the bar and idly brushed it in Edric's direction, suddenly very intent upon an unobtrusive scuff in the woodwork. Edric regarded the object with profound dubiety. The squared edges of a kerchief protruded from beneath the lid, and a faintly sweet odour wafted through the gaps. He turned to leave. Appearing to stumble over his stool, Donnal canted sideways and thrust the innocuous container into the wiry man's ribs with the force of a poleaxe. Clearing his throat, he offered something that sounded suspiciously unlike an apology.<br/><br/>"Stonemason's cloister, old quarter. An' buy some ale damn ye."<br/><br/>Edric gingerly took hold of the tin and snapped it out of the man's grip, wary of some unseen deception. When no starving gutter urchin emerged from beneath the floorboards to relieve him of his pouch, he slipped through the Flagon's doorway in poor graces, pursued by its minder's raucous laughter. What was that churl Donnal's game? Massaging his midriff, he secured his hood and proceeded down the ill-favoured alley, affording the approaching patrons as wide a berth as possible.<br/><br/>A pair of thoughtful, heavy-lidded eyes regarded him over the crest of an old dividing wall; a gnarled black shape loomed above them. Edric automatically fetched a small blade between his fingers. When he looked again they were gone, though for an instant he caught sight of a dark tangle of hair and brambles disappearing into the labyrinthine thoroughfare of derelict property which made up the Flagon's locality.<br/><br/>Ah. Here was the gutter urchin.