The Crooked Sword
At the table
The approach of Aril and Luke is met not with alarm. The dwarf unmistakably Slavic in tone ((You can roll knowledge the planes to know more)) looks up from his ledger with a knowing glint in his eye. A cutter could tell at a glance this wasn’t some clueless prime; this was a blood who knew the dark of Sigil. “By the rule of threes,” he rumbles, his smile splitting wide more pleased than surprised. Behind him, the back door creaks open. First comes the orphan girl, thin as a bad promise, eyes darting like a street rat’s. Then a second figure steps through the threshold, a warrior wrapped in winter leathers, his frame draped in feathers and furs, war paint cutting harsh lines across his face. He looks like something dragged straight out of a war between the winter court and the wild hunt. “No need to slip the knot,” the dwarf continues easily, holding up a calming hand. “I’m not laying out the red carpet.” His words are meant as reassurance, though they do little to soften the sudden presence of the painted warrior looming behind him. "Join us, sit." he gestures at the feathered warrior. He studies Aril and Luke openly, unbothered by their jaded expressions, his tone making it clear he’s got no fear of a couple of berks with hard eyes. “So,” he says at last, voice blunt, “what’s the need, Jinx or Travel? I can provide both.” With practiced ease, he reaches back and presses a heavy sack of coin into the orphan’s hands. She just nods once and vanishes into the backdoor. In the same fluid motion, the dwarf snaps his ledger shut and slides it into his coat. For a split second, the shift of fabric reveals what was hidden beneath, an axe of exquisite craftsmanship, its edge catching the light with a promise of violence well honed and well used. The message is clear enough for any blood in Sigil to read. This cutter does business, and he’s ready for whichever kind they’ve come for.
Mr. Black
You look over your coin, before dropping the illusion, you have eight gold coins and eleven silver pieces left in the pouch. No more, no less. The false image dissolves, It takes only a moment for chaos to bloom. Shouts rise as the cutpurses realize the pouch is gone. Accusations fly faster than knives, and soon seven of them are at each other’s throats, hands gripping collars, blades half-drawn. Trust here is thinner than the copper coins most folk live on. The barkeep raps the counter once hard. “Take it outside.” The words carry weight, not because of his voice, but because the room suddenly goes still. From the corner where shadows gather invisibility peels away. A large black scaled demon steps forward, horns curling back like polished obsidian, eyes glowing with a patient, murderous calm. Silence slams down across the tavern. No one wants to test whether this place is warded against bloodshed. The seven cutpurses scatter immediately, spilling out into the street in a rush of curses and fear. As they pass through the door, they brush by a half-folk mounted on a riding dog. A small crowd, four then three, has begun gathering around the tout, drawn in by low voices and the promise of coin or purpose. Business is moving.
Bimble
You ride in expecting eyes on you curiosity, suspicion, maybe mockery. Instead, you’re met with indifference, flat and weary no one blinks at a halfling on a ridding dog. Someone’s always stranger. The air inside the establishment is thick with smoke, sweat, and old despair. A bar fight threatens to ignite, but it dies just as quickly when the bartender intervenes and when a towering black scaled demon steps out of nothingness itself. You get the sense this isn’t a performance. It’s a warning. Seven thugs push past you in a hurry, faces tight with anger and embarrassment, eager to be anywhere else. You file that away as you begin taking in the room. That’s when you spot him. A dwarf, broad shouldered. A small crowd, four then three, has begun to gather around him, drawn in by low voices and the promise of coin or purpose. Business is moving.
