<div class="floatleft">(http://img200.imageshack.us/img200/651/unremarkablechapsmall.jpg)</div>-<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: impact;"><span class="bbc_u">Urban Druid:</span></span></span><br/>-<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: impact;">Samuel Cutter</span></span><br/><em>- Mapper of Sewers</em><br/>- Character Sheet (http://plothook.net/RPG/profiler/view.php?id=8648); 10 HP (Current 10); AC 16<br/><br/><hr/><br/>Samuel flowed through the city streets as easily as rainwater down a storm drain, his calloused hands shoved into the pockets of his tweed pants and eyes twitching with nervous energy.  He stuck to shadows and crevices, overhangs and alleys, and not once did his muddy feet falter upon crack or upturned stone.  Rained drummed on his leather hat and hung in heavy droplets from his mess of curled hair.  It was a cold and dreary night, but none better for a man with secrets to keep.<br/><br/>The man was all lanky bones and pallid skin wrapped in poorly tailored clothes, and dark shadows gave his eyes and cheeks an unhealthy sunken appearance.  It was a handsome face stricken with the marks of late nights and paranoia, but his brown eyes held a sharpness that spoke of an iron-clad determination that had yet to be broken.<br/><br/>Overhead a strange, low-hanging cloud seemed to shadow the man's every step, dipping drunkenly from side to side now and again as the rain fell upon it.  As Samuel approached the dimly lit windows of the tavern it finally dissipated, slipping up under the roof and vanishing from sight.<br/><br/>Rough knuckles tapped out a peculiar pattern on the wooden door.  Eventually it edged open, and after a moment of deliberation he was allowed entrance.  Sam did nothing to hide his edginess as he inspected the room, but his eyes seemed to light up upon noticing Alexander sitting at the bar.<br/><br/>"Mista Thornrose," he said, removing his hat giving it a good firm shake before clutching it to his chest.  His voice was distinctly uncultured, and humble as a field mouse.  "Fancy meetin' ya here."<br/><br/>He approached the bar cautiously, giving both men a polite nod before addressing their host.  "I take it yer Mista Asleod.  Just as I'd pictured ya, sir.  Mista Cutter, at yer service," he said, extending a surprisingly clean hand.<br/><br/>