| With a clearly set purpose, the group exits the room and plods down the stairs, though Talashia is sure that her graceful steps can be considered anything but plodding.
The scene downstairs has grown almost uncontrollable, as the patrons have more of the drink in them to keep them going. The tables are full, as is most of the floor, with the drunken townsfolk, rowdy and spirited as ever.
The bartender seems to have overcome his initial joy of a full bar, and a fuller purse; he’s obviously unequipped to handle a crowd of this size, and his nerves are starting to show it. As you push your way through the thick crowd you overhear many comments like “if the Harpy were still open,” and “Maybe ol’ Ezra oughtta get a daughter of his own t’bring me a mug, might get it faster that way!”
You finally manage to push your way out onto the street. The sun, full and bright, hangs low in the sky just over the horizon. The magistrate’s stage is still intact in the square, though the square itself is empty, save for a few children reenacting the day’s events. Dyspeer sniffs at a large pool of dried blood on the dirt and whines.
Talashia catches a movement from the corner of her eye, and like a moth to a flame her gaze is drawn to Shazi’s form, landing soundlessly on a rooftop of a small building around the corner. | 
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