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Message: <blockquote data-quote="OneCrappy DM" data-source="post: 9814541" data-attributes="member: 7033788">Mr. BlackOut on the streets, you notice a pair of men in drab, colorless robes moving methodically along the cobblestones. They sweep around in the shadows, peering beneath shanties and overhangs in search of anyone trying to sleep out of sight it looks as if their checking the bodies for something. You've seen one or two get dragged away by these men, in an almost nonchalant walk as if this is normal. As you set down your bag, the door of a nearby building bursts open you see the dim household door close as the figure moves. A drunk Aasimar stumbles out, wings sagging and feathers unkempt. He lurches toward you, breath thick with ale and something far more acrid. Pale faces stare out from windows, most people shuttered inside hiding.“OIY! BITER!” he bellows, jabbing a finger in your direction. “You lathly quiper… a crude rube—hic—ye smell o’ Styx, you do! Oughta earn a page fer that lathly face o’ yours!”His slurred insults echo down the narrow street, accompanied by another unsteady hiccup as he sways in your path. ((Edited))</blockquote>