Adysine cleaned off her blades and sheathed them, Groar just seems to have been full of himself, even with his "help" the Blades took them all down without taking serious injuries, bad injuries, yes, but not serious.

Nel gave out orders as she started checking Groar for valuables, telling the others to do the same, Adysine scratched her head, seeing the glimmer in her eyes again, knowing that whatever she's thinking, they'll find out in due time. Adysine turned and started checking the other corpses, starting with the first orc she felled, as she did so, she glanced at Mongiere, making sure he was alright.

The battle was by far easier than the Blades had expected. Within mere seconds their opponents had fallen. Draven stands with a grin over the headless body of Groar. An eerie grin that should not have a place in the situation. Mongerie stands still roughly ten feet away, near where the head of Groar ended. He seems to know that the battle has ended but doesn't seem to bother about the wound he got from the other orc.

Finally, Nel breaks the silence. "Well done everyone, well done." she says as she looks at her comrades. "On behalf of House Deneith, I place Groar the quite killable and his misfit colleagues bodies under confiscation of the Crimson Blades. Round up any coin or valuables the other's might hold, that we may pay the good barkeep for damages, and add to our own coffers." That being said she bows down to look at what Groar had taken with him.
She finds a belt with ten pockets which seem like they have been specially made for holding vials. In those pockets she finds nine vials with unknown liquids of several colors and properties. Two vials holds a green and thick liquid while one holds a bright red colored liquid. Three of them are bright blue and two of them is royal blue and sparkles in the poor light. The last one is black and thick as blood. Nel also finds some gems in Groar's belt pouch and some coins as well. Aside from Groar's chainmail armor, greatsword and ragged cloak, Nel finds nothing more of interest aside from a note inside the belt's tenth pocket. The note appears to have no special qualities but is written with a handwriting that may belong to a noble or at least someone with a fancy handwriting. The note is written in Orc, but the handwriting makes it hard to recognize as such language. The note only has few lines.

Nel d'Deneith
Lone Tower
Downstairs district, Lower Menthis
10th day of Eyre
Nel then raises her head and calls out to Discq who is still on the other side of the barcounter. "Could you be a dear and bring the owner out here? I think this could be an opportunity for a business arrangement." she says politely to him. While Discq opens the hatch down to the wine-cellar where the barkeeper had hidden himself, Adysine checks on one of the other orcs. Aside from his weapon and armor, he doesn't seem to have anything of interest on him.

The barkeeper slowly raises his head above the counter and what he sees strikes him with horror. His tavern is a complete mess. Although angry, he anger is overwhelmed by fright. "P-please don't harm me," he says with a whimpering voice. "T-take what m-money you want, but please don't k-kill me. You c-can even take the maid but l-leave me out of th-this."

Flashing a charismatic smile towards the barkeep Nel shook her head and spread her hands in a calming manner as she stepped over Groar and made her way towards the bar.

"No no good barkeep. You mistake those before you as common thugs, or perhaps a gang intent on vagantry but I assure you we are neither. My name is Nel d'Deneith, of House Deneith, I'm sure you've heard of it? These men and women behind me are the Crimson Blades, my personal escorts, honor guard, and dearest friends. Each one has the skills and strength of a half dozen common soldiers, And we would simply like to apologize for the damnable Daask bringing terror and damage to your fine establishment."

Hopping up atop the bar and swinging her slender, toned legs over to the other side where she sat cross-legged before the barkeep she smiled.

"We're not here to rob you, in fact, I'd like to pay for any damages accrued through our.. argumentative disturbance."

Nel pulled out a small coin purse feeling the weight of it in her hands. "What do you think it'll take to cover this?"

(Seeing how terrified the barkeep is, I doubt he'll try and rip her off and she'll pay a reasonable fee.)

Batting her lashes and continuing her famous smile she went on. "Actually, I was thinking perhaps this is a good opportunity for some... business of mutual benefit?"
She let the question linger a moment before getting serious. "I propose a business arrangement. You will pass any pertinant information, rumors, or descriptions of people of import, or interest to me or my Blades here. Or if we are unreachable, send carrier pidgeon or something similar to get the information to us. In return, I'll see to it that more reputable patrons know of this place, as well as do my best to ensure future events like this one don't find their way into your establishment. Of course information leading to a bounty, arrest, or other subject of value will put more coin in your coffers as well." As she spoke she leaned forward and let her hand graze the underside of the barkeeps chin, squeezing and shaking it gently. "I like this place. The people here are good people, intelligent people. I'd hate to see anything happen to it. Think we can strike a deal....?.. Oh I'm sorry what was your name?"

((Nel is trying to strike a business deal and open contacts to use when she get's Leadership later on Utilize bluff diplomacy and charisma checks as needed if any seeing how terrified he is... If anyone else doesn't post.. like Discq... Nel directs him to please heal Mongriere, and the continued looting of the other orcs.))

The barkeep looks at Nel. To most people this offer wouldn't sound unbalanced but the barkeep didn't seem to agree. His eyes changed into appearing more stern and angry. Nel had convinced him that the Crimson Blades wouldn't hurt him, and so his anger had raged up from under his fears.

"You expect me to believe your promises? Yes, I have heard of your House and your House does little to protect us in the lower quarters. They let us rot when criminals attack and kill us, instead of actually helping us! Respectable customers do not avoid this place because of the dirt but because they fear the muggers. I will have nothing to do with you, your House or your silver. Leave before you completely trash the place!"
After these words the barkeep walks away from the bar to clean up the mess in the tavern.

((OOC: Sorry man, rolled a natural 1 on your Diplomacy check ))

The man's sudden change in attitude was socking to say the least. Nel wondered where she had gone wrong. She had offered money, reputation, a chance to grow as a business.. And he had responded almost with outward hositility.

Nel could merely shake her head in disapproval. "The choice is yours to make good shopkeep. And we will heed your request and move out. Perhaps as you scrub the bloodshed from your floors you might come to your senses and rethink my most gracious offer."

Nel pulled out a single gold coin and left it spinning upon the bartopas she turned to stand before her colleagues. "That should cover my drinks at least." Walkingtowards them she patted Mongerie upon his uninjured shoulder, allowing her hand to snake down and find his own weathered fingers. "Blades, take what you can from the fallen, and move out. We're obviously no longer welcome here. We'll reconvene at HQ, and tend to what needs tending to there. My apologies friends if your evening's respite has come to an unpleasant end."

Nel squeezed Mongerie's hand reassuringly and moved to leave the bar. She would stop by the local bank or appraisal shop, have the gem's appraised, then make her way back to the HQ.

Even though I knew my wounds would require some tending, the events to come prickled ever more slightly than the dull thud of pain that came from my split shoulder. Nel and the others were busy pilfering through the bodies, or so I had assumed. It was after all, only fair that the possessions of the fallen become a part of our estate. I heard Nel call out in her most suitable bout of nobility, and I admired her words. I hadn’t ever been much of a public speaker. There were few words in my arsenal to convey my point of view. Surely, there were damages to the establishment. Broken chairs and tables, bloodstained floors, and shattered glasses. I could not know these things from a glance. I could not speak these truths with honesty.

Tenderly I ran a finger into the split of fabric where the blade had cut. There was still blood trickling out of my body, and my shirt was dampened by it. The edges of my skin felt cold. They did not hurt; it was a lack of hurt that concerned me. I had been told before that scars were the matter of the dead, that the skin would be the absence of sensation evermore.

Though Nel had made quite a compelling speech to the owner of the tavern, he rejected her proposals with vehemence. It was enough to make my hand clench around my spiked chain. The answer to her proposition was, nevertheless, one filled with rejection and disbelief. It was obvious that we had overstayed our welcome in this rutty place. I would have to venture out to see a surgeon before my injury became infected by the constant stagnation of this rainy season. Gangrenous decay could very well be the end of any man, regardless of his social status.

A small hand gently rapped upon my shoulder, flowing down my arm until it gently caressed my fingers. Her predominant voice reverberated through the air beside me. “Blades, take what you can from the fallen, and move out. We're obviously no longer welcome here. We'll reconvene at HQ, and tend to what needs tending to there. My apologies friends if your evening's respite has come to an unpleasant end."

She gently squeezed my hand, before unlacing our fingers. I felt the air pull away from me, leaving me to my darkness, so that it may follow the brightness of her lead. Still, the darkness didn’t seem quite so enclosing; my fingers tingled gently, as if they were asleep. Wrapping my chain around my figure and my uninjured shoulder with tender resolve, making sure the precarious spikes faced outwards and away from my flesh, I concentrated on my location in the bar, trying to make a mental map of steps, and the barricades of chairs and tables. I knew the direction of the exit, and would now be so inclined as to stumble my way out of the establishment. Once I was across the bridge I would recount my steps to the square, where I recalled a small temple in the northeastern corner of the courtyard. Priests had always made for good bedfellows. Perhaps they could mend my flesh to a satisfactory condition, without sponging my pockets clean of gold.

As the barkeeper cleans up the mess left by the battle earlier, the Crimson Blades slowly gather. Discq gently puts his hands on Mongerie's wound and a faint light shines from his fingertips as the wound forces itself to close. The team then leaves the Tavern and enter the raining outside. They have gathered what could be of any worth from the bodies they left in the tavern. Aside from what Groar kept on himself, the four orcs had nothing but their arms and armor and small amount of silver. This is where Discq says his farewells for the evening and goes the other way. For what reasons, no one knows.

On their way to the Crimson Blades's headquarters they stumble upon a dead Gnome in the middle of the street. It is the same Gnome as left the Tavern few minutes earlier, but his throat had been cut and his belt-pouch removed. He had been killed only moments ago, but the two women were nowhere to be seen.

They arrive at their headquarters, a rather small apartment in the corner of one of the larger towers. There is but one window and one door. On the other side there is a balcony with a poor view. The headquarters have a single fireplace with a large pot hanging over it, a single table and six chairs. A single lamp hangs above the table, providing extra light when needed. The room stretches forward into a hallway with three doors leading into three rooms. Through one of these rooms one can get out onto the balcony, but the week-long rain has made that an undesirable place to be.

((OOC: This last bit is pointed to you when you arrive to the HQ. If you had some other business before going to the HQ you can do that but there won't be much open at this hour))

Draven had enjoyed the slaughter…perhaps a little less then normal, considering his enemies confounding decision to keep his back turned, and focus on Nel..a woman…and not a fighter. Nomatter, the final swing of Grishnahk had sent Groars head across the tavern, and had graced Draven with a spray of black blood.

The battle was over, but for a long moment, Draven stood over the orcs fallen body. His eyes glowed an infernal yellow, from behind the veil of long, black hair, and his own blood continued to spill freely from his side. The pain, he could feel, was becoming much more intense.

Nel barked her orders, and Draven, as usual, ignored them. Turning to a nearby table, and grabbing a tankard from it, he sniffed the contents, wrinkled his nose, and wiped the contents onto a cloth that sat beside the tankard, before wiping the blood from his blade. In the aftermath of the battle, the runes that lined it’s spine glowed a faint, cold, white.

Nel, he could hear, was attempting to bargain with the Innkeeper, and when the man refused, rebukingly, Draven looked up. Surprise etched his face, but there was also a grin. A blow to Nels confidence. She couldn’t seduce every man she came across. Of course, Draven enjoyed watching her put in her place from time to time. However, the barkeep was still a fool. Nels offer would have benefit him well.

Strolling by the others, and behind the bar table, Draven brushed by the shorter, pudgy barkeep, and set Grishnahk heavily on the counter before the man. Keeping his gloved right hand on the hilt, and sneering down at him, Draven grabbed a select bottle of liquor, ripped the cork out with his teeth, and said

“Not all of us are house Deneith. She speaks for herself when she promises not to hurt an ungrateful idiot. Do you think House Daask would leave a fat innkeeper and an elf as witnesses to the murder of a member of house Deneith?”

Taking a swig from the bottle, cringing, and placing one bloody hand firmly and menacingly on the mans shoulder, Draven growled

“Be grateful we were the victors, shut your mouth, and get to scrubbing. When Daask comes in again in a week or two, and kills another of your patrons for reasons unknown, and your cleaning that blood. Remember your decision tonight.”

Looking up and glancing at the elf female, Draven added

“I would think an elf as yourself could find something more fitting to do then scrub orc blood off a tavern beside your bumbling master. Think on it.”
(Yes there is sexual hinting there..or tag along hinting…figure if she doesn’t go for a drunken, happy fool like Discq, then dark and masculine may be her type…along with the choices presented to her.)

Locking eyes again with the barkeep, Draven lifted his sword, swung it over his shoulder, and strolled towards the door, bottle hanging from the other hand, and blood still soaking his black cloak.

****

Draven looked down at the corpse of the gnome for a moment. Looked at the others, looked back down at the gnome, and let a chuckle slip. He couldn’t help it. Stopping himself, he looked back at the others.

“I thought I was the only one who wanted to stick him….that’s all.”

Though at first my stumbling was necessitated by blood loss, the sudden urge to fly overcame me when a very probescent tickle overcame my body. It felt as though pure energy flowed through my veins, it felt... good. It was a soothing blast of magic as well, I soon came to realize, feeling the wounded flesh around my shoulder begin to seal and flatten, the irritation and swelling waning. I knew of only one of the Blades that had the ability to mend in this manner, and that was Discq, the same man who even without raising a sword, had been his greatest ally during the battle, and indeed, many battles previous. Often it was his music that kept him going, kept the insanity of the pitch at bay.

I thanked him shortly before he addressed us with the proposal of his absence. It seemed quite odd to me, because he had been the first to sign up with our good friend the politician. We still had a murder to solve, and it seemed as though this fact bothered him not in the least.

I stumbled through the rain, listening to the footsteps of my comrades, allowing my trail to follow that of the ebb and flow of Draven's black gravity. He stopped momentarily and laughed, saying, “I thought I was the only one who wanted to stick him….that’s all.”

Did he mean Maurd... could it possibly be? I swelled up in utter confusion, feeling the dizziness of the situation unfold before me. Could Draven truly be so cold? My answer was somewhat answered after I stumbled upon the body of a small child. A child with facial hair? Perhaps it were a goblin, or a gnome. Though this was obviously who Draven had been talking about, or so at least I had hoped, I did not understand why he would have wanted to stab the little one at any rate. Perhaps he had seen something I could not have, which was to say he saw anything at all...

“Not all of us are house Deneith. She speaks for herself when she promises not to hurt an ungrateful idiot. Do you think House Daask would leave a fat innkeeper and an elf as witnesses to the murder of a member of house Deneith? Be grateful we were the victors, shut your mouth, and get to scrubbing. When Daask comes in again in a week or two, and kills another of your patrons for reasons unknown, and your cleaning that blood. Remember your decision tonight.” Draven's words strike a fright into the barkeep who says nothing in return. His eyes are fixed on this dark warrior, yet he does not want them to.
“I would think an elf as yourself could find something more fitting to do then scrub orc blood off a tavern beside your bumbling master. Think on it.” Draven's later words are aimed at the elven maid, who answers nothing but with a blush and turns away. The barkeep wants to yell after him as Draven walks out with his company, but holds his tongue instead.

They arrive at their headquarters, a rather small apartment in the corner of one of the larger towers. There is but one window and one door. On the other side there is a balcony with a poor view. The headquarters have a single fireplace with a large pot hanging over it, a single table and six chairs. A single lamp hangs above the table, providing extra light when needed. The room stretches forward into a hallway with three doors leading into three rooms. Through one of these rooms one can get out onto the balcony, but the week-long rain has made that an undesirable place to be.

It hadn't taken Nel long to make her way across the district to their apartment; a quaint little domicile that doubled as the Crimson Blade's headquarters. Her mind was swimming with a dozen different thoughts which all clashed and swirled within her head. Stepping out of the rain and running her fingers through her slick red hair, tucking the soaking locks behind her ear she sat at the main room table, taking out her specialized alchemy lab from her bag of holding. With a dilligence which showed this matter to be a personal affair, she gently took forth the bolt tipped in an unknown substance and set about trying to discover the contents.

Knowing what it was thatk illed Maurd might help her get a fix on suppliers or those known to use the product in excess. It was a start of what she hoped would be a road to justice, or at least vengeance.

Nel began her work. She started analyzing the poison on the tip of the bolt which had killed their comrade. She was determined to figure out who had shot Maurd with the bolt, but this was not some procedure that could be rushed. Figuring out exactly which poison was used would take some time, even hours.

The others of the group did not do much after they came in. They knew that whatever they would do next would rest on what Nel would find. And so they rested their muscles and bones. None of them said a word and nothing broke the silence except Nel and her tools, until a rattling of keys came from the front door.

It had been a busy week. An influx of visitors arriving on the lightning rail had led to business booming at her grandfather’s tavern, The Golden Tongues.

A special delivery from Zilargo had occupied the rest of Tally’s waking hours. It had been a quick job, a simple recovery of information for folks back home. But the work required a bit of advanced scouting before she could hit the mark.

So, while she had hoped to have met her “third” family, the Crimson Blades, for drinks earlier this evening, she had been unable to attend. Instead, she figured she’d be able to catch up with them back at their base of operations and hear about the new job offer that had come their way.

For the trip over to the Blades’ base, Tally had chosen the guise of a Gunther, dwarven soldier, a solid wall of muscle and steel… or… at least the appearance of muscle and steel. She hoped it would discourage the low-like cut-throats from bothering her.

Weaving her way to the apartment, Tally approached the door. She smiled as she saw light filtering under the crack of the solid wooden door. Drawing her key out, she unlocked it, and stepped into apartment, quickly closing the door behind her.

She turned and faced her companions with a big bearded grin, “Good evenin’, lads and lasses! Have a good night without me?”

OOC: Okay… well… here’s Tally! Only she don’t look like Tally at the moment. She’s used her Hairpin of Disguise to make herself look like “Gunther the Dwarven Soldier” – a solid, squat dwarf armed with a nasty lookin’ battle axe and a wooden shield. It’s a common disguise she uses, so you would probably recognize it.

Oh… and I edited your post Skari-dono, to state that the noise was coming from the front door. Hope you don’t mind.

Following the sounds of the other’s and the wicked pull of Draven, I crept through the rain until we had reached a familiar aperture. I knew that the place was our base of operations because I had left a series of tiny markings on the door, though they likely appeared to be nothing more than scratches in the wood to anyone else who gazed upon them. No, like most things controversial in my life, it was the sightless distinction of these discreet carvings that made the difference.

Nevertheless, I was glad to be out of the rain, and counted my steps four times and once to the left, before discarding my damp cloak into the void. Without feeling around, I set the wet cape upon the coat rack I knew to be before me at that very moment. Many hours of my life had been spent pacing and counting within these walls. My crimson friends knew better than to move things around, for it was the comfort of my life they jeopardized every time they did. However, sometimes I had found things out of place, tripped over a footstool, or a chair. These times, I had always assumed that the dark Draven had been watching me, laughing silently. There were times I almost believed that he relished in the anguish of others.

One, two, three, right, one, two, left, one. I had reached my comfortable seat in the corner of the room. When I sat down with my back arched against the wooden backing of the chair, I could feel the vibrations in the floor, as others moved around the household. It was the only chair in the headquarters that had hollow legs, and I attributed this to its vibrant qualities. An odd word for a poorly built chair, but vibrancy did not translate well into the language of the blind. Though to others it was spectacular colours and bold gestures, to me it was nothing more that a perk in perception, an aid in the resolution of living without seeing.

My ears twitched at the sound of the door’s lock grinding it’s metal in a circular shift, until it whined and clicked in a protest of becoming transfigured. Where the door had been initially a closed portal, a key had redefined it’s state of existence. My mentor had told me that before I had been introduced to language and motion, I had been a locked soul, enclosed in my jigsaw mind. He had helped me put the pieces together again. Still, my eyes were a lock without a key. I required another hole in the gateway of the soul. People say that it is possible to view another’s soul through their eyes. As I could not view them, I donned my blindfold willingly, for fear that my soul was less a mirror, and more an open door.

The familiar voice of a dwarf rung through my head, as the brazen attack upon my eardrums skewered into my darkness, penetrating it with memories of a duplicitous friend, and a many voiced stranger. “Good evenin’, lads and lasses! Have a good night without me?”

It was her all right, he would recognize the voice of Gunther anywhere. It was distinctly ironic that this lie of words was far more foreboding than most. Where he knew that many people lied explicitly through their tongue, this deception changed the entire likeness of the girl’s tone and pitch. She had been practicing him, for her accent was the quintessential version of a dwarf. “Tally… Talina Torrelyn ir’Korran. You’ve become quite the smuggler of personalities. There is much to discuss about tonight’s happenings. Why not take a reprieve from the evening rain?”

Though I was indeed blind, I gestured towards the chair I knew to be unoccupied, left vacant at the table, where Discq usually sat.