The scribe was an older woman seated behind a desk of heavy oak.  She had a half-dozen inkwells next to her and a massive feather quill that looked to have been taken from a griffon or similar massive beast.  A stack of parchment higher than her head was on one side of her desk, and she was slowly moving it to the other side after adding a few notes.<br/><br/>When approached she nodded without looking up and pulled out a piece of paper.  “Names please.”  She carefully recorded each name under the job.  “Equipment insurance?  50GP per person.  It covers any loss of gear for any reason other than sale.”  Regardless of the answer she wrote a note and gave those gathered directions to the job’s contact.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>The Temple of Passion, dedicated as it was to one of the three unofficial patrons of the island, was one of the most imposing structures in the city of Freehaven.  A massive structure built of red sandstone blocks it spanned the main road through the Temple District.  A series of arching bridges ran above the wide street and inset statues looked down at any travellers.  It rose more than a hundred feet from the its base and, as it had been built on a hill, looked to be nearly half again that height from a distance.<br/><br/>The main entrance faced the dawn sun and had no doors.  A set of nineteen stairs sat between a pair of narrow halls that jut out from the rest of the building.  Each step took two or more paces to cross and was wide enough to hold a dozen horses end to end.  In the center of the stairs, carved out and lower than the rest, was a single massive tree rising from a circle of grass.<br/><br/>The main entranceway took the form of a pair of statues with hands entwined.  A nude woman on the right, a nude man on the left.  Beyond was a massive hall filled with fountains, pillows, statues, and naked men and women, many wearing slave collars.  The priests and priestesses were identified by sheer white robes that did little to hide what was beneath.<br/><br/>In a large pool that had a massive pedestal but lacked an actual statue stood a late middle-aged man.  He was dressed in a patchwork robe and had wild hair that stuck out in all directions, at least where he wasn’t going bald.  He stood in knee-deep water near the center of the fountain and was shouting up at a woman who was naked save for a slave collar.<br/><br/>“No, No, NO.”  He bellowed.  “If you are to earn your freedom on the coattails of the great Nicholas Vause you must be RADIANT.  STUNNING.  BREATHTAKING.  Not,” he paused with a sound of disgust and motioned dismissively at her lounging form, “that.”