The Belly of the Beast

[Rumor]

Regan wandered through the streets of Flea Bottom, head down and hood up. He had long since given up on avoiding the sludge that filled the narrow alleys of the warren-like district of his childhood, and his black cloak trailed along in the muck as he thought.

His life was a mess. Cast out of his sellsword company, returned to the city of his birth, and deeply unsettled by his previous encounter with one Serafina Swann, the ghosts of his past were coming back to haunt him with a bloody vengeance.

A sign creaking in the wind caught his eye, and he couldn't help but smile at the familiar name. The Belly of the Beast. Now there was a place a man could forget his troubles for a while. His stomach rumbled loudly, and he patted it absently. Not to mention a great place if one searched a questionably filled pie and an honest days work.

Or not so honest.

Pushing the inane thought from his head, he shouldered his way past the door and out of the cold, staff in hand.

[The Flint]

The unfamiliar face earned a series of stares from the denizens of the bar. It was not a crowd accustomed to outsiders. Eventually Darke found a seat, and soon a black haired wench in a bodice which left little to the imagination approached.

"What can I get you sweetling?" She asked with a pleasant batting of the eyes.

[The Flint]

//////////////////////////////////////////
In the back room of the Belly of the Beast, Flea carefully examined the parchments and scrolls that his agent Templeton had acquired. He was looking for anything which might prove a clue to the Cult's intentions or the locations of its leadership.

[Rumor]

Sept 16, 2008 9:44:02 GMT -5 The Flint said:

The unfamiliar face earned a series of stares from the denizens of the bar. It was not a crowd accustomed to outsiders. Eventually Darke found a seat, and soon a black haired wench in a bodice which left little to the imagination approached.

"What can I get you sweetling?" She asked with a pleasant batting of the eyes.

Regan did his best to avoid the appraising glances thrown his way as he found a seat.

When the serving woman sauntered over to his table, he made a real effort to keep his eyes fixed on hers. He really did. Fights in Flea Bottom had started over less.

"Just an ale please, love," he murmured, though in truth it was more of a muted shout as he strained to be heard over the hubbub of the crowd.

[The Flint]

The woman sauntered away before returning a short while later with just an ale in a pewter flagon.

"Enjoy." She said with a smile.