Making no aggressive moves, and keeping her posture loose, Ithi'Ka glances back in acknowledgment of the guard, but makes no attempt at a greeting.  What could she hope for at a place like this-- get on the bouncers' good side?  Doing so would be risky-- create personal connections that might be exploited, risk sharing information about her patterns and the details of her job for the Karnathi?  No.  The lean-bodied elf gets a nod and a tensing of the mouth that hints at a smile, but does not concede one.<br/><br/>Easing the door open with her shoulder, Ithi'Ka enters the choke-point of an arched alabaster corridor, where there waits more security.  Probably a ballroom's entrance at some time before the war... the building was once the estate home of a land baron, host to grand galas and political dinners... now dilapidated, the friezes cracking, the oil-painted nudes defiled by age to more lurid, earthly shades.  There's more probing red light, washing the subtler shades of her coal-ash skin away and making her look like a painting in blood and oil.  More scrutiny, lifted, pierced eyebrows at the massive, hook-horn bow on her back, at the blade at her side, but no more spoken questions-- only stares, whispers-- and she's finally admitted to the shadow-cast room.  Her eyes are well suited to the caliginous ambiance, but those lurking within have seen less light than she of late.<br/><br/>Beyond, a grand room waits... couches, a small stage, well-sculpted barstools support well-sculpted men in silks and linens, and long-legged tables support long-legged women equally scanty in their attire.  The air is fetid with aromas-- essential oils, herbal smoke, distilled spirits and lilacs.  Eyes flick over the Drow, but she makes no effort to slide from their sight.  Some stare in curiosity... too bad<i>she's</i>not on the menu.  Some are wary, for though her hands carry only poise, she is clearly here for some business other than pleasure.  Thrumming tones resonate from a trio of musicians at the stage, unlike any music she's heard in even this liberal quarter.  The melody is on some reed-pipes, their high notes serpentine in complexity like lizard song, played by a turbaned gnome of braided beard.  Rhythm is kept a set of deep-noted, drum-heads and tiny cymbals, struck as part of a dance-like spinning and contorting by an androgynous gnome wearing only a linen loincloth.  The vocals are warbling, fluctuating-- reminiscent of the notes she's heard in prayer in some countries, a female halfling with silver hoops at her ears and nostrils sings words in the Talenta tongue that are haunting in their peculiarity.<br/><br/>A solitary figure beside the bar-- a human, his figure like some black Adonis-- lurks with his arms folded impatiently, head cast down.  She knows he's reading her, knows he's studying her and has been since she entered his block.  His casual deference at her approach masks the readiness of his body-- hardened, disciplined, but natural.  "Hawk," she says softly in greeting.  She doesn't stare, she looks instead at the blue hurricane-glass candle that illuminates his face in silhouette.  In her periphery, she sees his brown mouth curl up to a smile in the flickering light.  "Is the Lady in?"