In under an hour, they have reached something of an agreement. In exchange for a hefty cut of their valuable cargo looted abroad, Kask will lend them the use of her Undercity pilot. The man knows the ruins like the back of his hand, and will see their hard earned spoils smuggled safely in under the city's walls and brought to the surface. Ordinarily, Madame Kask explains, she wouldn't take a chance on them without some substantial form of collateral. Her claim that this is practically charity might ring less hollow where her percentage in the deal less outrageous.
It's possible that they strike her as a little desperate under the swaggering and the appearance of certainty—two men feigning confidence to while they whittle down the terms from outright highway robbery to a simply back alley mugging. But if that's the case, then they still leave her backroom secure in their actual aim, so what difference does it make?
Thus decided, they are unceremoniously restored to a familiar position: waiting, set up at a table, with a bottle of wine (and not a pipe or pan of the house's primary trade). If one were to ignore the rowdy crowd of this particular section of the house, which would be impossible, it might be possible to pretend they had found their way here directly. That there had been no addition to the bodies in the bay's bottom. That there is no blood on the inside of of Flint's coat front. That the flesh of John's palm remains intact.
There will be no travel to the Undercity tonight. Their guide is otherwise occupied this evening, to say nothing of the fact that it sounds as if the going will involve a considerable amount of walking over difficult, dangerous terrain. There are other members of Riftwatch here with them in Baldur's Gate who can both play at being the sort of crew secretly thoughtful, prudent men might send down into a ruin with a stranger and be trusted to extort the route to the auction house's smuggling route out of Kask's man.
Flint breaks the wax seal off the bottle. He fills their cups. The little flame tongue dancing on the wick of the snub candle melted onto the tabletop is left to its performance without interference.
no subject
It's possible that they strike her as a little desperate under the swaggering and the appearance of certainty—two men feigning confidence to while they whittle down the terms from outright highway robbery to a simply back alley mugging. But if that's the case, then they still leave her backroom secure in their actual aim, so what difference does it make?
Thus decided, they are unceremoniously restored to a familiar position: waiting, set up at a table, with a bottle of wine (and not a pipe or pan of the house's primary trade). If one were to ignore the rowdy crowd of this particular section of the house, which would be impossible, it might be possible to pretend they had found their way here directly. That there had been no addition to the bodies in the bay's bottom. That there is no blood on the inside of of Flint's coat front. That the flesh of John's palm remains intact.
There will be no travel to the Undercity tonight. Their guide is otherwise occupied this evening, to say nothing of the fact that it sounds as if the going will involve a considerable amount of walking over difficult, dangerous terrain. There are other members of Riftwatch here with them in Baldur's Gate who can both play at being the sort of crew secretly thoughtful, prudent men might send down into a ruin with a stranger and be trusted to extort the route to the auction house's smuggling route out of Kask's man.
Flint breaks the wax seal off the bottle. He fills their cups. The little flame tongue dancing on the wick of the snub candle melted onto the tabletop is left to its performance without interference.