Styrmsthal Tyrbsyn sat uncomfortably in the shadowy back end of a bar in the uncomfortable, shadowy back end of town.  He was not practiced in intrigue, however many intriguing sorts he did business with.  Big man for big work was his byline and no one wanted a screaming battleaxe for quiet, precise work.  And so he sat and he waited.  Sitting there cloaked in smoke and darkness, anyone else may have looked subtle, serpentine, a denizen of the darker sub-city that underpinned Lominsan history and economy.  But not Styrmsthal.  He looked like a man trying to look like a more mysterious man.  He looked, in short, just like what he was: a desperate man out of his element.
Solitaire nursed his drink at the bar, sizing up the roegadyn with an unseen, practiced side-eye. Â Now that he saw the big man, he liked this business all the less. Â Desperation made a man unpredictable, and unknown variables were anathema to a man of his profession and ambition.
It had taken little time to catch the tail of the rumors and less still to follow them to their source. Â Discretion was barely a concern, clearly, and time seemed to be at a premium. Â He took one last swig from his dusty mug and left some loose gil sliding and sinking into the thick, ruddy oil coating the surface of the bar.
He sat down across the table from Styrmsthal and the bigger man started. Â His big hands coming onto the table and his eyes widening and darting before settling on the man in front of him, intent, focused. Â Solitaire was annoyed.
"So what do ye know and what do ye want to know?" he asked.
"'Bout what?" Styrm huffed in reply, still staring.
"'That crook-tailed bitch, Mr. Tyrbsyn," he sneered. Â "What else?"
Styrm gaped stupidly for a long moment before closing his mouth hurriedly. Â His jaw set in irritation. Â He wanted his next words to sound cool and aloof. Â He failed.
"Aye? Â And who's it what's lookin' fer 'er? Â An' lookin' t'me, no less."
Solitaire nursed his drink at the bar, sizing up the roegadyn with an unseen, practiced side-eye. Â Now that he saw the big man, he liked this business all the less. Â Desperation made a man unpredictable, and unknown variables were anathema to a man of his profession and ambition.
It had taken little time to catch the tail of the rumors and less still to follow them to their source. Â Discretion was barely a concern, clearly, and time seemed to be at a premium. Â He took one last swig from his dusty mug and left some loose gil sliding and sinking into the thick, ruddy oil coating the surface of the bar.
He sat down across the table from Styrmsthal and the bigger man started. Â His big hands coming onto the table and his eyes widening and darting before settling on the man in front of him, intent, focused. Â Solitaire was annoyed.
"So what do ye know and what do ye want to know?" he asked.
"'Bout what?" Styrm huffed in reply, still staring.
"'That crook-tailed bitch, Mr. Tyrbsyn," he sneered. Â "What else?"
Styrm gaped stupidly for a long moment before closing his mouth hurriedly. Â His jaw set in irritation. Â He wanted his next words to sound cool and aloof. Â He failed.
"Aye? Â And who's it what's lookin' fer 'er? Â An' lookin' t'me, no less."
