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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Desdichado" data-source="post: 2449767" data-attributes="member: 2205">The rain begins to slow to a slow drizzle as you head back towards the square.  The crowd has also largely dispersed; it's getting later, people are wet--time for bed.  There are still a few people out walking, talking loudly (and laughing) or drinking their mead, ale, beer and cheap wine, usually hunkered down under awnings from the rain and wind, but not many.  Your group gets a number of surprised stares; a large diverse group as yours is a rare sight in Greenblade, or anywhere for that matter.The sherrif's office is a small, dingy building made of old splintering and age-silvered timbers, many with the bark only sparsely or poorly removed.  There is no door, just a heavy multi-hued curtain covering the open doorway.  Inside the floor is hard-packed dirt, and a mildewy, earthy smell hits you, mingled with sour ale and sweat.  A rough-hewn unfinished wooden desk is front of you, and a gnarled and grizzled old street tough with an eye-patch and stubble that is more gray than brown is sitting at it with his feet up, and sound asleep snoring loudly.  Behind him is a row of iron bars with a door into a small room with three uncomfortable-looking cots.  Two of them are also occupied by sleeping men.  When you walk in, the snoring deputy's snore's miss a beat, and he sits up bleary eyed, trying to focus on you. "Eh?" he croaks, swallowing hard, then grabbing a clay jug and guzzling noisily a thick brown liquid.  He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and looks at you again, slightly more alert now.  "What is it you want this late at night?"</blockquote>

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