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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Lazlow" data-source="post: 2576003" data-attributes="member: 24242">Another day, another tavern...The five of you walk back down the docks towards the Water Weasel.  The morning bustle of the harbor is in full swing now, with ships docking and undocking, cargoes loading and unloading, and sailors, uh...  Sailing and, er, unsailing.  Ahem.  Yes yes, so you arrive on the doorstep of the infamous Water Weasel, a right ghastly place compared to the welcoming arms of The Old Bald One-Eyed Salty Red Dog Tavern.  The door, if it could be called as such, is actually only a few planks of worn and worm-ridden wood suspended from the top of the archway by a few coils of dirty rope.  They swing aside, and you make your way to the main room - which, strangely enough, is very nearly empty.  Well, it would be strange if you were a local and knew that this place was where all the non-working drunkards congregated to greet the morning.  Or afternoon, or evening, as it were.  Suffice to say it would usually be at least half full.  But right now, it's empty, save for the bartender and a lone customer, a lean and hungry gentleman leaning against the bar, shot glass in his hand and a long length of cold steel on his hip.  "Well," the imbiber intones, "you lot are either eager to perish, or you're all madder than a bilgerat in wedding flowers."  He finally turns around and faces you, propping an elbow on the bar and a foot on a nearby stool.  "He's not here.  Probably in his villa.  But don't worry, he'll find you soon enough."  He takes a long, slow sip from his shot glass, draining it.It is at this point that you realize that there are actually six of you in your party, not just five.</blockquote>

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