Warlock! Something is Rotten in Grim Biskerstaf...

As Phelbt glances down towards the dead dockworker, he sees that the city guards have removed his boots, taken his purse and are in the process of dragging him to the side of the wharf -- clearly intending to throw him into the river. The guards have already thrown a blanket or two over the horrific mass on the dock, and there's little question that their next move will be to dump it over the side as well. In fact, Banio and the others see a raftsman approaching. He'll be paid to pole the body and the blob out into the middle of the Vessen, where the swifter current will hopefully carry them downstream, to the ocean.

Opening the beautifully embroidered bag he wears like a sash across his shoulder and chest, the Hissainian retrieves a single coin and waits until his oarsman move him close enough to flick the shining object towards Banio, who catches it. It's a coin unlike any the man has ever seen, with two metals fused together. Silver and hexagonal in shape, the center of the thing is gold, and there's where it bears a royal crest and writing the man cannot read.

"For the berth," the Sultana's spokesman says, squinting one eye towards the mess on the wharf. "But we will not pay for you to scrub the blood and viscera from your rotten wood! That was not our doing!"

Banio flicks a glance at the coin, just long enough to guess at its value. He does his best to keep any surprise or interest from widening his eyes or quivering his jowls. Yes, your worships, he thinks to himself as he tucks the piece into his own pouch, I see Hissainian coins every day. An equally brief survey of the dock finds his leverage for the maintenance fee swiftly evaporating. Best not to be around when it does.

"Right then," Phelbt says, and shrugs. "Your worships may land." He squints towards the setting sun, then adds, "The berth is yours until tomorrow sundown."

Banio turns to go, then pauses, as if a thought has struck him. He glances back at the Hissainians in their launch and quirks a brow. "Unless you'd like to pay in advance? The docking fee is daily."

After flagging his ship to raise anchor and put in, the standing man in the rowboat surveys Banio with an increasingly suspicious eye. "We do not yet know how long we will be in port, friend. But paying this outrageous fee in advance, surely there will be a reduction if I pay for multiple days, yes?"

Banio Phelbt heaves a long-suffering workman's sigh.

"I don't make the rules, your worship," he says, feigning disinterest. "I am but a humble instrument of Magistrate Navari's will. Pay or don't, it's all the same to me."

While Banio deals with the man in the row boat, Trusova gathers the crew around.

"I'm heading back to the Manky Mermaid, anyone care to join me? After fishing that thing out of the murk, I could do with sharing a pitcher."

Her tone doesn't hide that the sharing is as important as the alcohol is; she doesn't wish to be alone any more than she wants to be sober after seeing such a sight.

"Aye, to the Manky Mermaid."

"The Manky Mermaid, right you are!" the thief confirms, as he begins to keep an eye out for someone.

"I’ll meet you lot there in a bit. Keep my share of the coin safe, yeah? And a stiff drink waiting for me, if you’d be so kind!" the flicks the road warden a coin, enough to cover something strong, and gets ready to rendezvous with his ex-employer!

"Aye, anywhere with ale. Let us be on with it." And they are off!

After the oarsman brings the Hissainian boat right to the edge of the dock, the man Banio has been bartering with mutters to himself, then reaches up to hand over six more of the unusual coins. "For six days, then. Robbery! Our own ports charge a fraction for such services!"

Past the man, Phelbt now sees the foreign ship making its way to the dock. It has a few long oars in the water on each side, and the woman he noted before still stands at the prow. She is beautiful, he can tell even at this distance, as the wind tousles both dark hair and silk alike. The setting sun silhouettes her form beneath her gauzy garb, but then a splash draws Banio's attention as the guards dump the docksman into the water. As they turn towards the much larger mass that has to be dealt with, both men scowl as the agitator overhears his companions making their plans.

---

The Manky Mermaid is not far from the dock, and Wolke has not yet split off from the group as a dozen screaming children suddenly burst out of a dark, narrow alley formed between two lopsided, multi-story buildings. They wield sticks and wear face paint and amusing hats as they come wailing.

"Goblin raid!" the one in front shouts, a girl a head taller than most of her dirty-faced, barefoot fellows.

"From the Crags w'come, to razes the city!" another cries, and still another lets loose with, "We've got a dragon, we 'ave! He's gon' burn you alls up!"

Lambert falls to his knees on the grimy streets, cups his hands together and pleads with the raiders!

"Not me, not me, your greatnesses! Take…" he looks around frantically at his companions "… take the dwarf instead. Tastier, by far. I beg you!"

The thief winks at the rascals. They’ll make for a fine street gang before long!

Banio strolls along after the group, with his chubby hands stuffed into his breeches pockets and whistling to himself a merry little tune. For all that the evening started poorly for him, it has come round, financially speaking! When he catches sight of the urchins, a thought strikes him as to how he might profit further.

Phelbt snatches his hands from his pockets and slaps them to his cheeks hard enough to make the flesh quiver. "Gods preserve us, goblins!" he wails. Then his dismay melts into what he hopes comes across as a fond, even paternalistic smile. "Say, now, which one of you little monsters would like to earn some real money?" Banio scans the gang for eager expressions or a show of hands.

To nobody's surprise, Rausimod perks up at the mention of a dragon! He grins a wicked grin as he says, "I would be much obliged if'n ye took me to this dragon. You see, it is of some interest to me," the dwarf drawls as he taps his helmet. The iron cap with draped chain bears wings raised along the sides, that could either be bat or dragon wings. The painted dragon upon his shield, bloated in size and faded in color, also suggests an interest in the scaled drakes. So far, none of his searches had panned out. But still he searched and paid tribute.

And these kids could be useful, as his companions were suggesting.

They said they wanted drinks, now they're messing about with street brats! Fucking hell.

Trusova taps her chest to make sure her purse is secure where she hung it this morning, tied around her neck and tucked down the front of her shirt. It'd be uncomfortable if she had more coins, but she'd be happy to deal with that problem if she ever came into it. Entertaining street kids was a great way to lose a hard days' wage, and she wasn't about to let that happen. Too much was riding on it.

She taps Foghorn, who seems to have also distanced himself from the urchin riff raff.

"What's good to drink in this town, Foghorn? You been here long?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Lambert notices the two that weren’t entertaining the goblins!

Great way to lose you coin purse, that… he thinks, sucking through his teeth.

A little banter always kept these types on-side.

"The ale ain't bad," Foghorn grunts. "Yeah, been in this shithole a long time. Let's, I say, let's go on inside and leave these fingerlings out in the street with these three fathers' o' the year."

Trusova gives a good, strong laugh at that one. Been awhile, that. She'll lead the way, trying to keep her spear inconspicuous (If she gets any guff for it, she'll let them know with a wink "fishing hook is all it is, mate"). She'll grab a table big enough for six, and then head over to the bar.

"Two ales!" she calls as she scans the counter for signs of a barkeep.