Through the alleyway of a smithy-- closed during the day, its forges will fire after dusk-- and a tannery (one that benefits mutually from the nearby foot stalls), Alphonse can see the double-hinged 'batwing' doors of the Devil Ray Tavern, and can tell the obvious-- the recorder music is coming from within, as is the chatter of half-drunk men.  Through the slats of the heavy wooden shutters, which will stay closed until the rain falls, Alphonse can tell that the place is half-full.  While he is no stranger to this human outpost, he does recognize anything of great import there yet.  A human youth edges up, barechested and barefooted, to ask "oi, where'd you get the fishin pole there, rich-boy?" Alphonse, of course, sees this coming and recognizes that the asker has mistaken him for a lad.  And might try to play the part of a bully, actually...<br/><br/>Down the street about thirty meters, Fiera's approach toward the young woman makes the girl stop in her tracks.  Approaching, she can see that the girl is, most likely, in her mid-teens.  She's dressed in a simple cotton tunic and brown skirt, the material wet and stained with orange-red clay dust.  One hand is wrapped around her midsection protectively, the other cautiously flutters at a drawstring bag that hangs from her shoulder-- a simple rucksack of brown leather.  The girl's skin is the color of strong tea, and her hazel eyes regard Fiera with something like fear, but perhaps verging on shock.  "Are you the jeweler?" she asks flatly, her voice dry.<br/><br/>Tak, in the meantime, has aquired a quantity of vinegar-pickled alligator eggs.  The jar, almost as tall as he is, with a mouth that he can fit his head into, is far too valuable for the vendor to part with, but he does pour out the fermenting broth and its bulbous, slightly-squishy passengers into a widemouthed clay jug.  "Right.  That's er...  good eating."  He passes it over carefully so as not to lose any fingers in the process, then double-checks the fistful of silver coins skeptically.  "And what for you then, armsman?" he says to Quinta.  "You're not wearing the Stewers' crest any more, I see?"  (The Stewers is a derisive nickname for a local mercenary company... comparing their t-shaped cross-bone emblem to a pair of pork soup bones).  The lanky butcher continues.  "What happened, they find out you didn't bathe in pigshit like the rest of their lot?"