Kev: Sounds like you left. You've got more than enough Streetwise to know that there are a bars everywhere in Dura, the borough in which you find yourself.
Looking for information about strangers, travelers, crime, and shifters points at using the Tooth and Nail, in Lower Dura along Middens Alley.
The Tooth and Nail is one of the more popular boozeries; it's not famed for its mystic confluences, political speeches, or food. It's just a dimly-lit place for the Shifter community to hang out and be marginalized, together.
The smell of wet fur was even less pleasant in an enclosed space than it was out in the open. The conversation was furtive, but you're an old-hand at being an unobtrusive, friendly, and above all receptive conversationalist.
You found that your eyes didn't adapt to the poor lighting as well as those of your newfound drinking buddies did.
You were reminded that it was only a fortnight until Fathen's Fall, an ethically- and emotionally- complex festival celebrating the wholesale slaughter of evil lycanthropes by the Silver Crusade, 150 years ago.
Northedge is going to be a bad part of town for the next few weeks, as the holiday stirs up otherwise latent feelings, and Fathen, the martyr at the center of the festival, was killed there.
More locally, the troubles center on some turf complaints between the longtime slumlords and the embedded goblin tenement-holders, versus the overflowing Shifter population.
A few robberies, a little black-market trade...
Business as usual, and you were owed 15 shilling from petty cash by the end of the night. You've enough information on some of the robberies, at least, to pass along the information to more mundane authorities.
The Traveler was meeting, that moon, via the exchange of messages beneath the bronze statue of Kol Korran, in a park in Lower Tavick's Landing.
The litter between his bronzed, divine toes consisted of semi-mystical, semi-poetic, semi-idiotic nonsense. Nothing juicy, anyway.
Valandil: The Shield, a thickset man with a ginger-colored handlebar-mustache, promised to take very good care of Our Kara, and sheltered her with his enormous oilskin from the rain.
He clearly took his duty seriously; by the end of the night, a few deliciously greasy wrappers of the Brimm brother's finest treats found themselves in the Old Bailey's wastebasket, and the mounds of paperwork marginally less formidable.
(we'll miss you, Aristeas! Use your mighty brains to break the tests/work!)
The staff was a straight four-foot length of fire-hardened, varnished black wood.
The crystal was a red lozenge the size of a thumbnail, set into the side of the staff above the grip.
It was a wizards staff, but no more unusual than that would otherwise imply.
The window had a few jagged shards of glass remaining in the frame almost at random, but none along the bottom edge of the frame. The glass had fractured into large plates, rather than little shards, and most of the debris is on the floor close by the window frame. Something only slightly larger than you came through this window.
The outside wall is stacked rounded stones with a 3 inch deep gap between oblong stones. Not the *best* handholds in the world, but not the worst, either.
You locked up and left.
Darrien: The girl was the youngest daughter of Porem and Helen Renemir.
The unfortunate human-shaped collection of nervous tics that called itself Porem was a librarian at Morgrave University; his blonde wife was a schoolteacher here in Middle Dura.
As you stopped by they were just settling in for a cup of tea; they cautiously open the door to your knock and ask what your business is. They seemed guardedly willing to hear you out.
(If you're going to try to force the issue: They're polite enough, law abiding people, but they don't want to have anything to do with police matters. You're gonna have to use some sort of skill check, your call as per methodology, to get past their cautiously-opened front door and to pursue your duty.)
