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<blockquote data-quote="nothingpoetic" data-source="post: 5337804" data-attributes="member: 63112"><p>After leaving the Tavern, Chaucer headed to a general store 5 minutes away from the Waterfront. A few minutes afterwards he walked back out with another small pouch attached to his belt. His face was set, serious and grim, and gone was his jovial facade that he normally operated under to attract attention. Now, a simmering anger could be seen brewing just below the surface. Almost as if this job was personal.</p><p></p><p>He traveled across the city with no incident and arrived at the Grand Piazza in Incudine, the artist district within minutes. He spends a minute taking in his surroundings, glancing at the people in the Piazza, the buildings, and trying to spot the others from the Tavern. Seeing none, he stops at a bench, pulls out a bowstring from one of his belt pouches. He puts his left foot near the bottom of the staff he was walking with, braced his feet against it, and bent the staff. It bent nearly a full foot, and formed the shape of a stiff, black polished bow. Attaching the bowstring the bow formed itself, and he looked it over, and nodded when he was satisfied.</p><p></p><p>Chaucer looked around again, took his pack off, laid his bow on top of his pack, and unstrapped his Djembe, and started playing a beat while waiting for his companions to arrive.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="nothingpoetic, post: 5337804, member: 63112"] After leaving the Tavern, Chaucer headed to a general store 5 minutes away from the Waterfront. A few minutes afterwards he walked back out with another small pouch attached to his belt. His face was set, serious and grim, and gone was his jovial facade that he normally operated under to attract attention. Now, a simmering anger could be seen brewing just below the surface. Almost as if this job was personal. He traveled across the city with no incident and arrived at the Grand Piazza in Incudine, the artist district within minutes. He spends a minute taking in his surroundings, glancing at the people in the Piazza, the buildings, and trying to spot the others from the Tavern. Seeing none, he stops at a bench, pulls out a bowstring from one of his belt pouches. He puts his left foot near the bottom of the staff he was walking with, braced his feet against it, and bent the staff. It bent nearly a full foot, and formed the shape of a stiff, black polished bow. Attaching the bowstring the bow formed itself, and he looked it over, and nodded when he was satisfied. Chaucer looked around again, took his pack off, laid his bow on top of his pack, and unstrapped his Djembe, and started playing a beat while waiting for his companions to arrive. [/QUOTE]
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