[Nephele]<br/>Out in the cold street by moonlight, the piercing eyes upon Nephele seem unamused, perhaps even annoyed, at the lack of detail that the young woman is able-- or unwilling-- to provide.  Still, through the iron slot, they take their time in roaming over her once more, making some careful assessments and calculations before muscles around them clench the yellow orbs to annoyed, menacing slits.  "Get yer arse in here then."  The sound of a metal bolt sliding, oiled in a reinforced track, from a stone recess.  Then the door creaks open, and out from into the alleyway a widening ray of amber light and noise spills out, making her shadow tall against the encroaching alley's darkness, casting back gold gleams from the eyes of the watching dog.<br/><br/>As the heavy metal swings back into place behind her, and the heat and din roils like a firepit of wet wood among stones.  The half-orc is bare-chested but for his scars, some as thick and wide as her hands on his grayish-ochre skin.  "Sit somewhere," he rumbles impatiently, slamming the bolt back into place as an enthusiastic roar is stoked up-- apparently at the actions in a fighting-pit mid-room.  Great gray stones loom over this roped-off sand-pit where a trunk-thick dwarf is chugging ale and a tall, lean-muscled elf seems to be entering to face him.  It's like a larger version of the rooster-fights back home, no doubt, with perhaps more blood to be spilled in a more slow and brutal fashion.<br/><br/>"Go on I said," the door-man says, not looking her direction any more, and offers an impatient swat on the rump as a reward for her politeness and uncertainty.<br/><br/>From her vantage point, she can see two guards bringing chained prisoners... one a bloody-faced man, the other a bald-faced youth with delicate features... from a holding cell off to the left...<br/><br/>[Cris]<br/><br/>Heedless of the cries, the guards are insistent and impatient in their course of leading the two from the holding cell to a staging area, of sorts, where watchers of an ongoing bare-knuckle fight have cleared the rough-hewn benches to stand and cheer for the combatants.  Cris can't quite make out the goings-on in the ring, but from the packing sound of flesh against flesh and bone against bone, it's clear enough that the fight is moving quickly.  Somone in that ring knows their business, and is dispatching it rapidly.<br/><br/>A man in the front row turns away suddenly, staggering a couple of drunken steps toward where Cris and her father are set roughly to wait, his contorted face screwed up where fresh blood and spittle has just been sprayed across his cheek and eye.  He wipes it away with an impatient swipe, before yelling enthusiastically and turning back to the fight.  "Yeaaaah HIT THAT fuggin' BASTAAAARD!"<br/><br/>Cris' father coughs, dabbing at his mouth and nose in a vain attempt to control the bleeding as he leans his head back and swallows.  "Damn your eyes this 'urts," he says, turns his face to spit into the crowd, and then curses again.  "'ow the 'ell I deserf this fer youh fuggin' crimes any'ow..."<br/><br/>"Shut up you sot," says the guard in back of him.  "He's just a boy.  You ought know better, ya sapprophitic vermin you.  Now say one more word I'll break your nose the other way."<br/><br/>The father laughs, turns, eager to spill his secret, EAGER to spill some kind of shame, even if it's a risk.  "BOY, EH?  Well let me--" And the butt of a halberd gently taps his exposed, swollen nose-- just a tap, a poke... enough to renew the gush of blood and cause the man to cry out in fresh pain.  "Shut.  It."<br/><br/>[Oxenbridge]<br/><br/>Even as he turns away from the felled fighter who sprawls with long arms like ships-knots flailed awkwardly over his thick, heaving torso, Ox is jostled and cajoled by fight-betters and dwarven companions with tankards, a bucket and sponge, long-stemmed pipes, and long-fingered hands eager to search pockets in the throng.  Crow, it seems, is trying to pick his way through the press toward the door for a rapid escape, but he's not the only one heading that direction.<br/><br/>[Ox and Nephele]<br/><br/>Within a foot of Nephele's entrance, a long-beaked man unshaven and smelling of rye tries to bustle for the door from the crowd pit-side.  His gangly legs are clad in sackcloth dyed gray, as is his torso-- the same threadbare fabric as his traveling cloak but without the greasy sheen of rain-pitch to keep out the weather.  "Away, whore," he spits, trying to shoulder her aside in his hurry, but the doorman makes no move to stand aside.<br/><br/>"Well well, lookit here," says the big half-orc with an officious bow.  "Master Mowbry Fezziberk, I see, trying to leave in an hurry.  How comes this eager passage this evening before even the grand finale of our night's revels, hm?"<br/><br/>"It's CROW now, you oaf, now loose the door."<br/><br/>"Oh, Crow--" the big man glances over at the crowd, then at Nephele again.  "Think you're being a bit rude to the ladies 'ere, aren't you Crow-bry, hm?  Apologize to the missus, if you please."  The big man cracks his neck with a simple angling of his head, the sound like popping firewood.<br/><br/>Crow looks back nervously over his shoulder towards the fighter's pit again.  "Bugger all... right.  Right.  Sorry miss.  I'm in a hurry, I've an appointment.   Please."<br/><br/>"What appointment this hour of night, eh?  Everyone decent is here, your loooordship.  And you didn't even look the lady in the eye..."<br/><br/>Ox is able to see the exchange, and the doorman indicating an incredibly beautiful woman that Crow has pushed past, whom the doorman is indicating in conversation... incredibly beautiful, but worn-looking, as if she's traveled a long way to be here, and whose efforts to travel unnoticed have, perhaps, served only to make her lovely features all the more pronounced among those who either flaunt their wealth and lack of beauty or flaunt their beauty to those with wealth.<br/><br/>"Here here-- TAKE it, take some, er, here- coin-- there's silver for you, now OPEN the fucking DOOR."  A few coins spill onto the floor-- coppers and a couple silver pieces, with some of the sort making their way into the big doorman's palm as he gestures to the girl.<br/><br/>"Oh, well, a<i>tip</i>, that' mighty fine-- let's see here.... there's one copper, two--"<br/><br/>"OPEN the FUCKING DOOR!"  Crow yells, his voice inaudible to the masses who are still drunk with the liquor and blood of the night.<br/><br/>[MINA, MALIA]<br/>Having barely been given time to finish their attempts to clean up, even if that WAS their unanimous intention, the guards return and shine light from a beacon-lensed lantern piercingly into the alcove that serves as the young women's cell.  "Alright, you murdering little tarts, time to face the scythe!"  Two guards stand behind the blinding light, the glittering torches and amber lanterns beyond drowned by their figures as the rattle of iron and mechanism becomes the herald of their march to exhibition on the killing floor.<br/><br/>An announcer of sorts has taken stage somewhere, and her voice is beautiful-- a clarion call down from the rafters of the nobles' section on high down to the gallery below, booming off of stone in a recitation like a chant and song.  There are manacles, and the seizure of the two women begins.<br/><br/>[if resisting, Mina and Malia must overcome both guards to escape, either through bullrush or unarmed combat, or improvised weapon at standard penalties with either the bucket or jug.  Both have the fragile quality and damage 1d3.  The low ceiling makes everyone in the chamber at -3 DEX since no one has a wonky combat maneuver or rogue trick to make a phenomenal low-profile fight, and that applies to AC or ranged combat maneuvers.  The ladies are both at Fatigued (-2 STR and DEX, cannot run or charge) thanks to their deplorable conditions... sorry guys) and they face grapples.  If successful, they'll have manacles slapped on them and screwed down uncomfortably.  They will each get an AoO on their guards, who are flat-footed with ACs 14 each.  Basically... if your character resists and hits, describe for dramatic effect, but your PC will get grappled and manacled on rounds a and b.  Again, sorry to railroad you, but it's for the story.  Describe your journey to pitside, behind Cris and Cris' father, at your creative leisure.]