A scuffle in an alleyway. Three figures, surrounding a fourth, all of which are quiet large. One shadow shoves another, rammed into a wall, but the fourth doesn't stay there for long. He twists in place as if to use that momentum to bounce away and dart through an opening, but there isn't an opening, and large hands coming down to grasp the back of his coat and drive him into the range of another.
The thump of bony fist against clothed flesh, but not so well padded that the fourth being struck doesn't let out a wheeze. Then, light: green flame streaking through the tight knot of bodies, following a dagger that slashes out. It goes out again with a wink and a trail of smoke, steel clattering on the pavement. "I got 'im," growls a voice.
But for a less accidental meeting, you can also find Loxley where he calls home, an apartment atop a less than successful tavern called the Anvil. He doesn't normally drink there, but comes down in the morning for breakfast, parting with a copper for a full plate of food and a pitcher of beer.
The way up to his apartment is a series of rickety stairs along the outside of the tavern, out of view of the street, an ordinary door left unlocked during the day leading into a hallway, and then heavier-set looking doors braced into stone wall, oddly intimidatingly secure for a series of rooms above a tavern, but fit for some kind of purpose.
loxley; open.
A scuffle in an alleyway. Three figures, surrounding a fourth, all of which are quiet large. One shadow shoves another, rammed into a wall, but the fourth doesn't stay there for long. He twists in place as if to use that momentum to bounce away and dart through an opening, but there isn't an opening, and large hands coming down to grasp the back of his coat and drive him into the range of another.
The thump of bony fist against clothed flesh, but not so well padded that the fourth being struck doesn't let out a wheeze. Then, light: green flame streaking through the tight knot of bodies, following a dagger that slashes out. It goes out again with a wink and a trail of smoke, steel clattering on the pavement. "I got 'im," growls a voice.
But for a less accidental meeting, you can also find Loxley where he calls home, an apartment atop a less than successful tavern called the Anvil. He doesn't normally drink there, but comes down in the morning for breakfast, parting with a copper for a full plate of food and a pitcher of beer.
The way up to his apartment is a series of rickety stairs along the outside of the tavern, out of view of the street, an ordinary door left unlocked during the day leading into a hallway, and then heavier-set looking doors braced into stone wall, oddly intimidatingly secure for a series of rooms above a tavern, but fit for some kind of purpose.
Anyway, there's no secret password, just knock.