Warlock! Something is Rotten in Grim Biskerstaf...

With the stool successfully wrenched from the hands of the opposing priests, Rausimod takes it upon himself to instruct them of the ways of the Dragon. One of the first lessons he had learned was that power was everything. And in a bar brawl, the one with the weapon had the power.

The cleric in the crimson robes tries to fend off the blow from the makeshift weapon, but Rausimod thumps the man with the stool solidly!

Over where the leader of the brigands is yielding to Trusova from the floor, his friend -- still on his feet -- moves to the other man's aid, trying to both help him up and block further attacks.

Banio tucks his bloodied dagger beneath the fall of his cape; it gives the impression that he has one hand perched jauntily on his hip. He raises his free hand a jabs a stubby finger at the club-wielder's accomplice.

"Does that one yield as well?" Banio snarls. "What's your business with us? You came armed, so you must have come to some purpose."

Phelbt chooses to overlook the fact the he, too, is armed.

The impact of the stool isn't quite as much as Rausimod had intended, but brawls never went as planned.

The scene in the Manky Mermaid is one of complete pandemonium, with punches and dockers being thrown, with fishermen laid out and innocent patrons bloodied. But when the door to bar slams open and several guards from the city watch storm in, every single combatant freezes in place. Wide-eyed glances are directed towards the armored, switch-wielding watchmen, and the enforcers narrow their eyes at what they see -- until Barthros, the wooly-bearded dwarf who owns the bar, ceases punching an unconscious dockworker who owes more than a little coin to the proprietor.

"And to what pleasure is all this owed?" the burly barkeep calls out as he stands up and wipes his bloody knuckles on his apron. To his customers, he raises his arms and says, "Right. Back to raising a glass, everyone. That's enough hellraising for one night!"

One of the watch is about to open his mouth, but a colorfully garbed character pushes their way into bar through the broad-shouldered men.

"We seek a thief!" the olive-skinned man says loudly, in his accented Fesslemarkian. Banio recognizes the mustachioed Hissainian instantly, though the anger writ on the man's features is new. "A robber! A villain who dared to pilfer the Sultana's treasury!"

Quietly, the three men who'd come for Trusova try to melt into the crowd. "No business," one of them says as they go, and across the tavern Rausimod also finds his dance partner is withdrawing, glowering but moving to join the other two priests.

Well that's not good.

Banio's diminutive stature makes him hard to pick out amongst a standing throng of revelers and combatants, but that advantage will evaporate as soon as the patrons start returning to their seats. Even if he tries to hide, the Hissainian will find him eventually. As has so often been the case in his venal and unprincipled life, Banio Phelbt's only hope is to rely upon guile and the prejudices of the Biskerstafian mob.

In the precious moments remaining to him, Banio fingers open his money pouch. As surreptitiously as he can, he retrieves the seven Hissainian coins and presses them into Trusova's palm. "Hold onto these for me," he murmurs. "If I'm not arrested and hung, I'll be wanting them back."

That done, he steps away from Trusova and Foghorn. The would-be necromancer's table is empty, so Banio makes for it as if it were his own seat prior to the brawl.

Rausimod scowls and skinks back into the shadows. How could this day get any worse? First a whole day on the water, then losing his mace and coins, then being unable to properly trounce the rival priests before the guards showed up! It was not a good day at all.

Trusova isn't certain what's going on with the coins Banio has placed in her hands, but now is not the time to suss it out. The man came to her aid in the fight, after all, so she stows the coins quickly down the shaft of her riding boots, pretending to adjust them.

It is clear now that the men who assailed her were related to that bloody scroll she carried for Lord Kelberond. Damn it all, they were persistent. She considered chasing after them with her spear and stabbing them dead in the street. They'd have a much harder time following her after that. But, with the guards right here, it was probably best to avoid murder.

The guards were just an obstacle. They were here for Sultana's coins and wouldn't give two shits about her problems. She'll retrieve her spear and flat bow, and walk right out the front door, trying to reconnect with her allies once outside. She hopes that having her hood and hair down will be an asset in avoiding trouble with the guards, since she looked very different back at the docks.

"We seek a thief…"

"Ain’t we all?! Place is full of em!" Lambert shouts as he moves through the crowd, hoping to get a laugh from the crowd to cause a distraction.

"Welcome to Grim Biskerstaf!" he shouts again, linking up with some of the others.

"There! There he is!" the exotically dressed man near the door shouts, pointing at the diminutive and slightly rotund form of Banio Phelbt near a corner table. When the guards move, though, Wolke makes his comment and the crowd erupts. The din rises when he shouts his welcome to the city, and then cries are going up from all over.

"Go back to where's ya came from, fancypants!" one of the sisters shouts. One of her siblings spits and chimes in.

"Fuck off! You're the thief, you wet weasel! You're the fucking thief!"

The big doorman bars the way of one of the guards as he says, "No trouble now, we want no trouble in here!" and then a man on the floor piles on.

"My toebones! Where's my toebones!"

Trusova seizes upon the confusion and makes to retrieve her weapons from the stand near the door, and after she does, the watch does not bar her from leaving. It's difficult to say if the Hissanian doesn't recognize her with her hood and hair down, or if there's just too many people shouting and gesticulating now for him to pay her any mind at all. He and his entourage move further into the tavern, into the press of drunks and hooligans.

"Right, time to piss off." Lambert says to himself as the crowd erupts. He slinks his way through the throng until he meets fresh air and cobbled streets.

Lambert prowls around outside the Manky Mermaid, wondering if he might spy one of the red priests alone. He’d done enough for one day. Enough excitement. But if an opportunity presented itself, it was his professional obligation to jump on it.

Trusova exits the Manky Mermaid, gently probing at her ribs to make sure nothing is broken. Still alive, she thinks to herself. She tries to breathe in some fresh air, but is quickly reminded of where she is. Grim Biskerstaf, she remembers, does not have any of that fresh air, only different varieties of dirty air. She coldly rejects the flooding memories of the country breeze from her life as a Road Warden; that would do her no fucking good to dwell on.

Despite her tough thoughts earlier about hunting down the bandits, Trusova realizes that she is actually pretty tired and a little bruised, and would rather not run into the hit squad right about now. And the aftertaste of whatever that drink was that Foghorn bought her was somehow getting worse.

Either way, she resolves to reunite with her crew quickly. Safety in numbers. Who's made it out of the Manky Mermaid? She finds Lambert first, looking like he's just coming off the hunt. She approaches him, spear in hand. "Full dance card tonight, Lambert?"