The setting sun begins a slow descent down over the horizon as the city of Anvil grinds to a halt in activity. Guards ready their torches to make their nightly rounds and the taverns leave their doors open for potential patrons. All in due time a group is supposed to meet at The Flowing Bowl. A dark shadow encircles down below the water beneath the dockside of Anvil, the Gold Coast's light reflecting over the shallow waves. Onasha has abandoned her armor and only wears a cloth medestly cinched around her slim hips. The argonian frame is meant to be streamline, making them easily a naturally swift race. Moreso underwater than on land although their powerful legs can help them leap to their goal. Onasha flexes her webbed toes and clawed fingers, eyes keen on a large fish hiding at the bottom of the dock. The creature's minor nightvision and thermal vision helps her detect where it is, along with tasting its scent in the water by filtering her hidden gills. She dives and cuts the chase short; long snout splitting to trap the hapless meal inside of needling jaws.

After shredding the fish and swallowing a great deal of it Onasha lingered at the bottom. Her muscles have begun to ache from the weight of the cold water enveloping her roughly scaled body. Perhaps it is oddly comforting as she imagines the Night Mother bathing her in the dormant blood of their enemies. Or so the Shadowscale would like to believe. She has worked her way up to Executioner in the Dark Brotherhood and still Onasha cannot bring herself to warm up to the Night Mother so easily as her Dark Brothers and Sisters. It's distressing nearly. Does it make her any less of a Dark Sister? She cannot abandon the Hist in that manner. The sun has sunken lower and the water warms as the air changes. Still Onasha reluctantly hauls herself out of the sea to return to a discreet area nearby, hidden by foliage with her stashed armor and weapons nearby. She dries slowly with droplets sliding down the grooves of her azure and magenta scales. When her eyes close she blends in with the shadows that begin to swell up.

She remembered when her Listener arrived with the special message. An assassin has been required for a noble in Anvil. The huntress pulls on her armor and enshrouds her kaleidoscope colored face with the trademark black hood. Pulling the mask over her narrow muzzle (all the better to eat you with) she recoils her horrendously long tongue inside of her throat. After eating it gets somewhat out of hand. Onasha crouches before exiting her safety zone, wary of anyone who may have attempted to follow her. The argonian slinks inside of the tavern calmly and makes her way to a table, her longest talon down on one of her feet tapping the floor methodically. It's a habitual instinct for argonians to seek out their prey after all. On her person is a silver dagger sheathed in ebony and steel arrows clumped in a dark quiver, an argonian bow carved from a sacred Hist tree. Wistful notions from her homeland of Argonia. Onasha crosses her raptor legs, thick, finned tail drifting down below tall, thorned heels. As instructed in the letter the femme wears a yellow colored cloth around her right elbow in order to be identified by this future employer.

The darkness grew around the dark-skinned woman that rode along the dulled stone path that ran to Anvil, the elder horse underneith her slowly making it's way towards the gates. The large, black wolfhound tracked behind the horse, it's huge pink tongue hanging out of it's mouth. Penelope took her heels out of the horse's flanks as she slowly rode upon the stable outside the walled city. Her mithril mail clattered and jingled as she threw her leg over the aged pinto horse, planting her booted feet on the ground. She leant against the horse, closing her eyes and rubbing the horse's neck, murmuring complements towards the fatuged horse. She released her grip on her steed, which let out a light whinny, before trotting forth towards the stable. The stablehand opened up the gate for the horse, which almost wobbled inside, and knelt down inside the small shack like covers, ready to sleep. The ebony skinned woman reached down to run her gauntlet covered hand across the furred head of the wolf, which loyally greeted her hand. With a nod towards the stable worker, she headed towards the gate.

After entering the city, Penelope watched as the guards readied themselves for the coming night, the remnants of the populous of Anvil heading into their homes, lightly damaged and marred in appearance. Her mithril mail glimmered brightly as guards sparked flames, and beared torches. It truly made her glimmer in the increasing black that was slowly coming over the world. The light clanking and clinging of her armor kept her movement from being any-what silent, along with the panting of her canine companion. She passed through yet another gate, welcomed with the wafting smell of the salty sea. There was only one boat docked in the port this day, not that it gained much attention of the armored Redguard. She turned left, walking along the wooden planks that ran alongside the port...untill she arrived at the building she believed that was her destination: The Flowing Bowl. She turned her head, her semi-puffy cheeks looking towards the dog that followed her humbling.
"Stay. Stay, boy." She said lightly, patting his head heavily, before pushing in on the door.

The woman looked around as she pushed the door open, the cozy interior taking her mind off the night. The smell of sea was washed away by food, and ale. She smiled at the keepers, walking past the patrons and up the stairs, not even going into one of the rooms. Standing in the hallway, she began to remove her armor, starting with her shield. Her hands came up the oppisite shoulders, unlatching the pauldrons, lying the mithril plates down on the nearby table, followed by her spaulders. . This exposed the leather strap running across her back that kept her breastplate on. Reaching behind her, she tugged on the strap, unbuckling it with a few tugging pulls. Loosened now, the woman pressed against the plates, which overlapped barely to hide the strap from plain view. She pressed hard against the armor to pull it away from her cloth covered chest, which protected her from being rubbed raw by the metal. She reached up under the hem of her underarmor, and up to her brassiere (being the ever so classy woman she was), and withdrew the note from it's place of safekeeping. Still in it's torn envelope, she withdrew the yellow cloth provided. She crudely tied it around the joint in her armored arms, before readorning the light arrangement of plates and mail. Making sure she was properly adorned, she headed back down the stairs, happily choosing a place to sit.

She found herself scanning the small crowd within the Flowing Bowl...untill she found something that caught her sensitive brown eyes. A yellow cloth, fastened around an elbow. If her letter wasn't unique to her, she had guessed that other people summoned here had the same attribute about their person. She slowly moved over to the table at which the form sat. She was, (or at least Penelope thought it was a 'she') quite honestly, a little shady looking. The dark armor, and the hood made her just seem sucpicious. But far from her to judge the woman, especially as this was her first time seeing her. She was clearly an argonian, the scales that decorated her face with a plethora of color showed this clearly. Making sure the longsword on her waist, a finely crafted steel blade sheathed in a glass-adorned leather sheath, was not in her way, she sat down. The glinting glass that sat in the pommel of the blade made it look even a tad regal.

She didn't say word to the Argonian across from her. The shady female looked like she rather enjoyed her almost solem seeming tranquillity. The last thing she needed was a loud redguard trying to get superfriendly...

Puff Puff Puff

The Dunmer in the corner of the pub puffed on his pipe as he turned the page on the book he was reading. Withershins. Looks like the Dunmer felt a bit whimsical tonight. He chuckled lightly as he came upon a humorous tidbit, and as he laughed the smoke spilled from his nose and swirled above him. The Dunmer wore the standard Redoran style bonemold, the Gah-Julan style with the white scarf wrapping around the collar. His quiver and unstrung bow rested against the chair beside him and a pack hung from his hip... No doubt storing the tools of his.. Trade.

The Dunmer inhaled another breath's worth of the smokey sweet tobacco from his pipe and flipped the page in the book. He opened his mouth begin to blow smoke rings to the side. The elf looked as nonchalant as could be and held a calm air of pride. In front of him laid a half full bottle of Flinn and a plate, holding the remenants of Steamed Guar garnished with Kreshweed. A rather expensive and fine meal, however the fine clothing that could be seen under the Dunmer's armor told the story that he could afford such extravagances. Whatever the Dunmer did for a trade, he must do it damn well.

He looked up and recognized something... Yellow bands. The same thing that the cryptic letter asked him to wear. He looked at his own arm, and the matching cloth. Seems as if these were to be his partners. The Redguard and Argonian must have had slipped in when he wasn't looking. Quite a surprise considering his profession. The Dunmer merely peered at them over his book and waiting to see what they would do... And it looked like nothing. The Redguard simple sat down across from the Argonian and just sat. How... Boring. The Dunmer took another puff from his pipe, dog-eared the page of the book, tucked it under his arm, and made his way to table with like arm-banded individuals with his quiver.

The Dunmer spun a chair from a nearby table with a flourish and sat down among the ladies... Both of whom looked like they could kill him in a moments notice. "Ladies," The Dunmer began, "I see by your bands that we are to embark on the same journey together. So, I must introduce myself," He said with a formal and polite tone, "I am Belas Andrano, Gentleman Thief," The Dunmer said with a nod of his head and a puff of his pipe. He made an effort to blow the smoke away from the ladies... It just wouldn't be the politest thing to just blow it in their faces.

Coming back to meet the eyes of the ladies, Belas continued, "And who do I owe the pleasure of this meeting to?" He asked, charm infectious.

Agnes had always found sunset a particularly frightening time of day she wasn’t sure why but it always made her connection with her magicka feel…strained. The Breton held up her fingers and peered at the sun, giggling at the silliness of the appearance. “I’m holding the sun!” she exclaimed, using her other hand to push her wild rust colored hair out of her cloudy blue eyes. She jumped as she heard a chuckle in front of her.

“Is that so?” a friendly voice murmured, the female moved beside Agnes, mimicking her to take a look as well before smiling. “Interesting, well, greetings fellow Breton.” Agnes quickly looked to the ground for the box she had set down after she’d knocked on the door.

“I’m, ah, selling potions, m-ma’am.” Agnes located and opened the box, holding it out for the woman to see. Luckily her old tan robes were relatively clean since she had paid to have them washed the day before, so she looked more respectable than usual. Wandering Alchemists weren’t really in high demand, and Agnes had to use all her skills to make sure she didn’t go to bed at night on an empty stomach. Her potential patron looked through the potions as Agnes stumbled through various facts about them, explaining what ingredients she’d used.

“Elisa, lend me some money, ya?” a tall Orc stumbled over, clearly drunk, to grab onto the small Breton woman’s shoulder. Agnes’s eyes flickered uncertainly between the two. As the Breton, apparently called Elisa, tried to pull herself out of the Orc’s grip he latched onto her neck causing the female to cry out as he said, “Don’t be stingy you little whore. You think I don’t know how often you spread your legs for a little coin!” Agnes took a deep breath, feeling her currently weak magicka supply and calling it forth, scanning the ground she found a nice rock less than thirty feet away. Not breaking eye contact was crucial for this spell.

“Ah…” Agnes started to speak, “Wh-what’s that guard doing?” she could see in her peripheral vision the Orc starting to turn around just as the rock hit him square in the face. The Orc roared and charged at the Imperial soldier.

“What the…!” the guard barely managed to let out before bringing up his shield to deflect the charging Orc. After that, things ended pretty quickly. The other guards who had united on the Orc upon hearing their fellow Guardsman shout, whispered to one another about what could have possibly caused him to commit such a stupid crime.

“I-I-I…” spluttered Agnes looking in horror at what she’d done, Elisa just gave her a cool look. The Breton took a potion from the box and placed a couple gold in Agnes’s hand before walking back in her home and shutting the door leaving Agnes on her porch staring at the still warm corpse of the Orc, decorating the street. The woman had given Agnes three-times more than the potion was worth. The torchlights gave the street an eerie feel with their flickering glow, shadows growing and shrinking at their behest. Agnes hopped off the porch to walk through the pool of blood to make her way down the streets of Anvil, her gold-trimmed shoes flickering gleefully in the light cast by the torch flames, red foot prints following her path to the Flowing Bowl as she tossed a heavy black stone into the air before placing it back in her pocket.

By the time Agnes had arrived at the Flowing Bowl her hair had settled down some and she had a yellow scarf tied around her elbow. She frowned to herself as she wondered about her employment, working this close to others for who knows how long could be a problem. As Agnes turned her darting eyes around the room she quickly found a group of people with yellow scarfs as well. They all looked extremely capable, her stomach clenched with dread. “Just my gods be damned luck,” she muttered under her breath. She quickly turned to exit only to run head first into a plate of armor with a loud and resounding, clang.

Over the din of the tavern and the myriad of aromas the chime of metal is easily detected by her covered ears. The dark cloth enshrouds and comforts her visage as she awaits for others to arrive. One such member appears before her, an experienced looking Redguard female. Judging by the choice of armor she is obviously some form of amazon. The Argonian makes no motion to be warm nor friendly, instead drumming her tail against her high ankles. She is placate enough to simply bask in the presence of the unknown woman. As an assassin Onasha has done well to work either alone or at least with two other entities. However she knows this noble is on some expedition. Perhaps he wishes to impress his city, his mother, or even a female he is courting. Either way it will be frivolous and Onasha will be surrounded by clumsy fools getting undertalon.

Her draconic eyes study the Redguard politely. If anything at least she'll have a meat shield should they fall under heavy attack. Another reason she does not wish to gain too much air of...personality with this group. A great deal of them will most assuredly die and the crafty Shadowscale does not plan on being one of them. Instead she can use them, perhaps the noble himself, to get away from this all the richer if need be. As the two females soak in each other's silently comfortable presence a figure slides into a spun chair at their table. The Dunmer did nothing to assuage any second thoughts about this group in the Argonian's mind.

Still while she is obviously much more of an animal than person, her instincts coax her into using a shred of mannerism taught by her mentors. It was both strange and impressive to be referred to as a "lady". Personally the Argonian will never understand such terms simply because they are not commonly given to Argonians. Namely from a Dunmer. She feels inclined to speak as an introduction and a question were given, but beyond that nothing more would seek passage from her scaled lips. "Onasha Smokessskin, fresh from Black Marrrrsh. My ssspecialty lies within shadowss and poisonsss." her voice is notably feminine, but still retains that lingering hiss so apt to her ilk and bold with a rasped accent. While she cannot directly say to these strangers what she is entirely she is allowed to be less than subtle if she wished to hint at anything further.

Onasha keeps her dark cloth around her head and muzzle, plucking at the skirt around her waist to cover her dagger jealously from the proclaimed thief. She will not underestimate Belas nor anyone else to sit at the table. Before she could focus on listening to the Redguard speak a crash in the room earns an unhappy hiss from the disturbed argonian. The amphibious lizard flexes her tail and stares at the robed Breton. However the flustered and nearly aghast expression on the mage's face earns a clucking hiss, a giggle, from the Argonian whom then lowers her snout and distracts herself by rubbing the palm of her claw at the end of her long and clothed jaws. After a brief moment to calm herself she looks up again and inhales loudly, snuffling the air with interest. "I ssmell blood." Onasha remarks lightly as her eyes narrow to observe the flighty Breton.

"I'll be fine, Danek." came the exasperated reply from a cloaked imperial. The armoed man next to him, despite not wearing the tabard of Anvil, was quite obviously a gaurd of the city. Bearing the same armor that the gaurds wore, right down to the weapon. "My lord, I mean no disrespect, but you are hiring thieves! Cut throats-" a hiss form his companion to "Keep your voice down!." reminded the man where they were and at what time. He quietted his words, but continued his speech nonetheless "There's not a shred of good in any of them, just let me round up the gaurds and take them in, set this fool notion of some lost Ayleid city to rest and go home. Lady Umbranox will be worried sick."

A final sigh came from the cloaked imperial. Giving the man an annoyed look, he turned back to the tavern his mind made up "No, Danek. I'm not some naive noble going off to slay some great beast. I've done research on this place, it's there, and I'll need their skills to navigate it. And besides, you can't arrest any of them, they haven't done anything wrong yet. As far as you know." The imperial added that last part with a slight grin. The gaurd grunted at that, glaring back at the man "They're thieves, murderers, they'll jump at the chance of a better deal and turn on you in an instant!" he hissed. Kalek just shrugged at the man, a move made difficult thanks to the armor he wore beneath the thick cloak. "That's why I'm offering the better deal." he replied, pulling the cowl over his head to shadow some of his features. The son of the current ruling family showing up in a tavern would attract quite a bit of attention. "If you're that worried, stay by the door and watch them." The Imperial relented a little before heading towards the tavern door.

Kalek Umbranox figured he'd given the group enough time to gather. Assuming that his missives to certain employers as well as individuals would be answered by at least some of the groups he'd contacted, Kalek opened the door to the tavern to take his first step that would lead to the start of his journey. Taking the plunge into the unknown, and right into the path of some Breton woman that was apparently trying to make a quick exit. Danek had insisted that Kalek wear his plate armor to the meeting, that it would offer the best protection from the 'lowlifes' that he was going to be hiring. In the candle light of the tavern, the bulky armor stood out beneath the thick traveling cloak that Kalek wore over it. Unfortunately for the poor Breton, Kalek had listened and decided to wear the heavy set of armor. Kalek quickly placed a steadying hand upon the woman. If the noise was any indication, she'd hit his breastplate hard.

"Well. So much for inconspicuous." Kalek deadpanned. He slipped an arm behind the woman to help support her in case she fell back and grimaced "Apologies for my haste, are you alright Lady?" when he looked down though, his eyes caught the yellow band, and a brow raised "Are you perhaps here for the job opportunity?" he asked quietly, taking a step back to let her stand on her own "I would greatly appreciate it if you at least stay for the explanation." The pair were getting a few stares thanks to the noise, and the now blocked door. Kalek glanced over, the table that was currently taken up by those that answered his summons was almost full. He motioned back towards it as if asking her to just have a seat.

A man that seemed to be in a foul mood stood behind Kalek, slipping past with a bit of difficulty to stand next to the door frame, watching the woman with suspicion. Bumping into someone was a common pickpocket strategy, had she just accidentally stolen a coin purse from a noble? His eyes drifted down to her hands to make sure she did not try to steal anything, though Kalek didn't pay any attention to the man who was dressed in the armor of a guard. Kalek would allow the Breton to make her own choice, stepping around her to go towards the table, he flagged a barmaid on the way, gesturing towards the table "Bring them whatever they ask for." he placed a couple of gold coins upon her tray before pulling a chair out for himself, and another, in case the woman decided to rejoin the table. It was ingrained since he could walk to be polite.

Kalek took a measured glance at the inhabitants of the table, as he was sure they'd be measuring him up. Kalek figured that he'd have more to work with, but if this was all that answered, then so be it. Feeling a twinge of nervousness, Kalek let out a quiet breath. They were experienced in their trade, all of them, and Kalek told himself, could likely sense fear and insecurity, would pounce upon it, lose confidence in their employer. He would be at their mercy then. So he bolstered himself by willing his doubts away, this was to restore his family's good name, more important than any fears he might have. This was bigger than just him, and so he could not be allowed to mess it up with his doubts.

"Greetings, and my thanks for answering this opportunity at such a short notice. I've instructed the barmaids to bring whatever food or drinks from the menu you ask for. Don't worry about a bill." Kalek thought he was being generous with that, maybe to win them over, though he hoped that they'd be professional enough to not drink themselves into a stupor. "All that I ask is that you consider my offer, and if it is not to your liking, you are allowed to leave." The cowl of Kalek's cloak overshadowed some of his features, though the fact that he was an Imperial was obvious "For now, call me Riven." Kalek inclined his head slightly in greeting, his movement slightly stiff thanks to the heavy armor. He knew some of the names of individuals he's sent letters to personally, but had not introduced himself. Though it wasn't doubtful that some had resources to find out his identity, or that he was at least as affluent as the messaged offered.

The long-haired Dunmer, had been perched most of the day near the flowing bowl, watching as people came and go. His eyes only searching for those with the yellow cloth around their elbow. He had to have looked quite odd standing there just watching people go in and out, his attire wasn't exactly the vision of friendly encounter either. The tattered black cloak masking his appearance, the cowl of the cloak hiding his already obscured features The glowing gold eyes were all that were visible underneath. A shift in his weight caused the cloak to part slightly to display his armor beneath. The armor of the Dark brotherhood; shrouded as it was named. The armor he still wears even though exiled from the guild. A story left for another time and another place. Hidden below the cloak as well, rested his Akavari Dai-katana; enchanted by a member of the guild to cut with the heat of eternal flames. thus well hidden below the cloak, and kept in it's sheath; the sheath carved of some elder tree of an unkown type; polished to a sheen and steel casings covering the opening and the bottom.

The day dragged on into night and yet still the unwavering Dunmer moved no where from his perch. He watched as an Argonian; a rather familiar one at that entered first, then came a redguard woman dressed in mithril, interesting. Both showed that they were to; unique to be frequent visitors of the establishment, so his wild guess was they would be his cohorts for the duration of his employment. He watched as another woman entered the flowing bowl; again his curiosity peaked, but only in the slightest, his eyes continued to watch; his body much like a statue. The next person to arrive, well it was quite obvious he had to be their employer; traveling with another man dressed in full armor, and likewise for the cloaked one; the clinking was a sure sure sign. He could never understand why most people over-compensated their lack of agility or reflexes for cumbersome armor; oh that was why, the answered dawned on him slowly, once it seemed the cloaked man was inside he finally broke away from his spot, his lengthy limbs carrying him quickly to the entrance. He moved inside looking to the side where the second man stood, giving the foul mood man an evil grin, though from him even just a regular one seemed down right ill in nature. He also brushed quietly by the woman who he guessed was the cause of flesh against plate armor. He moved to the table slowly quietly, assured he had not been noticed by any except the Breton woman, and the guard-like man. (well other then those at the table; they didn't have their backs to the entrance)

He stepped to the side and walked past their employer, who gave the name Riven; he doubted that was his true name, no one ever gave their true name when they delt with people like him, or the argonian for that matter now at closer inspection he could tell she was an assassin. He grabbed a chair from a neighboring table and sat it down taking a seat. he moved his cloak ever so slightly to display the yellow cloth around his right elbow, and then once again it was hidden beneath it's folds. He looked around; he had never noticed the entrance of another Dunmer, probably came before he perched near the tavern. He shifted slightly uncomfortable to be around people he did not know; paranoia of an ex-assassin. He listened to the rest of what the man had to say; taking into account everything, but remaining silent none the less. He'd speak when spoken too though, but in this current situation he doubted words on his part were necessary.

"Greetings, and my thanks for answering this opportunity at such a short notice. I've instructed the barmaids to bring whatever food or drinks from the menu you ask for. Don't worry about a bill."

Their apparent employer had finally found his way with him before a Breton and another Dunmer found their way to the table... Upon the man's, now identified at Riven, generious offer of food and drink, Belas whirled around in his seat without waiting for the Imperial to further explain himself. He immediately caught the attention of a pretty little Bosmer lass who was ferrying drinks between the bar and it's patrons. As she approached Belas, he smiled politely as can be and spoke, "Hello there, Can I have a bottle of your finest Cyrodilic brandy," He said pausing looking around the table, "... And A couple of glasses I suppose," He added.

He turned back around in his chair and smiled at his employer, "No faster way to a man's heart than through his gullet, hmm?" Belas said, humor dancing in his eyes, "I approve," He said, taking another drag on his pipe. Moments later, the Bosmer had returned with the dusty brandy bottle with a couple of glasses. He set about to set the glasses in front of those who sat at the table, using this time to finally gauge his... Companions. First came the ladies, obviously, He sat one crystal glass infront of the Redguard. She fully embodied the ideal of the storied knights, mythril armor and shield laying on the table and beside her... No doubt she could cut his head off with no second thought.

Next came the dark Argonian. She was wrapped in midnight black leathers with a cowl and mask obsuring most of her face... However, the way she held her self and her raptor eye belied the fact that she was, indeed, an Argonian. He sat the cup in front of her and nodded. No doubt they were of similar lines of work, however opposite ends of the spectrum... He was willing the Argonian could sneak around shadows themselves... And then kill it. He smiled softly at the woman and then laid the next cup at the final female who had entered. She just screamed mage... Eccentric, shy, attribute a mage could have, except perhaps the haughty manner in which some look down upon others... She was more of a mystery than the others however. Belas winked at the breton as he laid another cup in front of the next contestant, a fellow dunmer.

Another newcomer and mystery. The dark elf was obsured mostly by black cloaks and cowls so Belas did not have much of an opinion of the man... As it stood, Belas went as far as to make a mental note to be on the watch for the man.

And finally, he sat two cups in front for his employer, Riven, and his Breton friend. "You didn't think I would have forgotten about you, would you?" He said smiling and taking to cork off of the dust bottle. Before pouring he took a sniff of the contents, enjoying the brisk aroma emanating from the aged liquid... It was divine, and no doubt the bottle was expensive... But hey, he wasn't paying for it. He began to pour the contents of the bottle into the various cups he had laid out. Finishing this chore, he replaced the cork, and sat the bottle down on the middle of the table and picked up his glass. He held it up for toast, "To mister Riven here, and for a profitable venture," Belas said before taking a drink of the crimson liquid, the smooth burn accompanying it down his throat.

The red-headed Breton’s cheeks turned almost as red as her now bruised face as she stared at the cloaked but armored man she had slammed into. As he steadied her, her eyes widen as to liken the saucers nobles used. Staring unblinkingly at him, Agnes started to move her lips to speak, but her tongue, thoroughly bitten was making that impossible. She simply clutched her box to her chest, as if to ward off evil spirits.

“Well. So much for inconspicuous.” The Imperial deadpanned. Her eyes got larger if possible when he slipped an arm behind to help support her, he grimaced, “Apologies for my haste, are you alright, Lady?” she started to make a gurgled reply when he spotted her yellow band, and he raised a brow. “Are you perhaps here for the job opportunity?” he asked quietly, taking a step back to let her stand on her own. “I would greatly appreciate it if you at least stay for the explanation.” As he looked past her into the room, Agnes’s eyes flickered about realizing how much attention her little ‘run-in’ had drawn. Whymewhymewhyme! She screamed in her head. She looked up just in time to see the man motion her to the table of yellow bands. She finally blinked and turned her head slightly to see a cranky man slip past to stand next to the door frame. Is he g-glaring at me? She quickly whipped her head around and froze again as a cloaked Dunmer brushed past her causing her to flinch. After gathering her now frayed wits she stiffly made her way to the table, dragging the chair closer to Argonian giving the Imperial and second Dunmer a slightly dirty look while she did so. She wasn’t used to strange men she didn’t know randomly touching her, even if they were helping.

“Riven,” She silently mouthed to herself, what a stupid name… Maybe he had a strange mother… or even worse, a crazy cultist father. She audibly gasped as the thought went through her head, it was soft luckily and barely audible to most of the people at the table. Perhaps he is also a cultist and planning on using our bodies for some daedra worship ritual! She had heard of these things before and her mind was racing, completely distracting her from what was going on at the table until a glass was placed before her. She jumped slightly in her seat and looked up at the gift giver; she started to smile at his manners, that is, until he winked at her. Her mouth resembled that of a fish gasping for air, she was shocked. She gave him a timid glare when he poured into her glass, whispering out a small, “Thank you, Sir.” She kept her eyes lowered on the table, wiggling the glass to cause the liquid within it to spin before taking a well-practiced sip.

“To Mister Riven here, and for a profitable venture.” The cheeky Dunmer said before he took a drink. She barely contained an eye roll as she took a large gulp of her cup.

Agnes tossed her arm over the back of her chair, slouching, crossing her legs as she drank more. Her personality seemed to change to that of a harsh woman with the more she consumed. Nothing like a nice cup of liquor to ease the nerves, she narrowed her eyes as she took another sip and started to evaluate her companions.

First, the Argonian to her right and raised an eyebrow. The woman was well-equipped, no doubt. She looked as though she’d be toned under her concealing robes…quick and dangerous. Glancing to her left she looked at their employer, the Imperial. She really hoped he wasn’t involved in a crazy cultist scheme, he looked the noble part, not that that meant anything anymore. She next looked over at Dunmer one and Dunmer two, both men looked like they could do their job well. Agnes decided she would make a point of never being caught alone with any of these shifty types, even the Argonian. I may practice Necromancy, but I’m not looking forward to having my own soul summoned by some idiot any time soon. And lastly, the Redguard, she looked very noble and knightly… and shiny. I wonder if she ever cooks on that thing…Agnes pondered for a moment before realizing she had been staring too long. She turned her gaze up at the ceiling as she finished off her cup; it wouldn’t be a good idea to be caught practicing black magic by any of these folks. She sighed lightly looking over all of them again and then down at her shoes wrinkling her nose at the Orc blood.

“Gross.” She muttered.

Maknok gro-Khash had finally arrived at the Anvil gates, the guards nodding to him in recognition. This wasn't his first time coming through the city, and he'd made a name for himself wiping out marauders and bandits that had threatened goods being exported from the docks to the Imperial City. The burly Orsimer pushed up and off of his mighty black warhorse clad in steel armor, and then landed on his feet with ground-shaking force, his own dark-colored, orc-made armor ringing out in protest at his sudden movements. Gro-Khash led his horse to the stables, slapping gold into the stableboy's hand and then heading for the gates without a word. The guards no longer seemed to mind his weapons, the jagged-edged longsword sheathed at his side, and the fierce, shattered-looking battleaxe hanging loosely on his back. Small cracks were spread all through the glass axe, giving it a spider web appearance, but repairs were not needed. Gro-Khash hadn't particularly listened to the guard's greetings, but he snorted acknowledgement towards them, and then walked through the gates.

Anvil, the same as always. But he was here for a slightly different purpose than usual. He had never been directly employed by a noble, and had never met the nobles of Anvil. Not that he cared. All it meant was that he was getting a large coinpurse in exchange for services rendered. This noble probably didn't even have any particular task he wanted completed, he probably just wanted to have a rugged, veteran orc standing at his side during some meeting or whatnot. Maknok's deepset eyes rolled as he thought how tedious that would be, and he stomped down the cobblestone street to the gate leading to the docks.

The orc stopped in front of the water, and then looked down at his wavering reflection. His lower teeth jutted from beneath his lower lip, the two largest ones coming up to vicious points. His dark, greenish skin shone slightly from the setting sun. The black ink tattoos on each of his eyes resembled war paint, as he had intended when he did them, completely surrounding each of his eyes individually, and then going outwards from his nose to the side of his face, and then dropping down in teardrop-like design. The row of golden rings pierced in his right ear glittered brightly. He smiled, in the Orsimer fashion, baring his teeth and scrunching up his face into what would easily be mistaken as a snarl to any of the 'civilized' races. Of course, a fellow Orsimer would be able to tell the subtle differences between a smile and a snarl, but the passrsby that gave slightly perturbed looks at the orc snarling at his reflection in the water had no clue.

Maknok snorted again, and then reverted back to his blank facial expression. That's why my kin can't smile in public. He thought vacantly, then pulled out the envelope and the yellow cloth. He didn't bother tying it to his elbow, he just walked into the now packed Flowing Bowl holding the yellow identifier in his steel covered fist. He strode past a familiar guard, a guard who had no identifying marks on his armor, and had a particularly displeased look on his face. He had worked for that guard once, he thought. But gro-Khash didn't much care for committing human faces to memory, not unless they could really hold their own in a fight. His black, shiny eyes quickly focused on the table of yellow cloths, and he walked up to it, dragging a chair from across the Flowing Bowl with him, pushing through a thick crowd of puny ones without any difficulties.

The six and a half foot orc slammed the chair, without meaning to, into position at the table, next to a robed woman, a Breton, definitely a mage, and then threw his cloth onto the very edge of the table, so as not to risk getting it into their drinks. He knew the scent of the brandy from across the room. He spun his cracked glass battleaxe over his shoulder and off his back, and then planted the head of the axe on the floor in front of the chair as he sat down. He leaned forward over the table slightly, both his hands resting on the tip of the handle of the axe, and he studied all those gathered, not caring if they felt his eyes on them. No point in hiding what they all knew they were doing to eachother.

He hadn't heard the Imperial's introduction, but he was the only one that looked like a noble, aside from the Redguard, but she was definitely too familiar with combat to be one. He knew that was the employer. The Breton next to him seemed to already be under the influence of the brandy, those little people never could handle much drink. This made Maknok smirk, not that any race other than Orsimer could recognize the expression as a smirk, but his expression immediately became empty as he inhaled the scent of blood. Orsimer blood. Had this puny Breton killed a brother of Malcath? He took that into note, and then studied the others at the table, not bothering to introduce himself, as it seemed no one had gotten to that yet, except perhaps for the decent-looking Dunmer. His gaze shifted to the shadier looking Dunmer, eyes narrowing as he studied him up and down, and he did the same to the Argonian. He was always dubious of the other races, but more so around shady types. Not that he didn't like them, or that he didn't like the way they fought. It wasn't their fault that they were inherently weak and worthless in real combat. Maknok gro-Khash waited for someone to speak, his fingers tapping impatiently on the back of his other hand's gauntlet, making a metallic ring.

Ryuker had stared at the drink offered to him, pushing the glass away calmly. He hated anything that dulled the senses, assassins needed their entire arsenal of senses; sight hearing smell touch. He wasn't going to risk that on some act of friendliness. It was then that in strode an Orc, though not wearing a yellow cloth around his elbow it was clearly on his person; in his hand more like it. He closed his golden eyes, the clanking of metal and the loud; almost clumsy footsteps of the orc bring to his attention; that like most of his race, he was warrior bound. His attention only stayed on the orc long enough to watch him join the table, thus he returned his gaze to the rest of the group; though mostly the Argonian.

She seemed very familiar; could she be someone from his travels? or something of an associate in some mission or quest. He couldn't quite place it, though before his thoughts could continue the dull ringing of metal upon metal entered his ears. He tried to ignore it at first, the senseless and annoying tapping of the orc's steel covered fingers on the back of his opposite gauntlet. How original, an orc that didn't have any patients; ugh this was going to be a long mission if he had to be paired up with the likes of him. His mind continued to ring with the sounds of metal, before finally it irritated him enough, to cause him to speak. "By the Mercy of the Nine, will you stop that...if your so impatient why don't you go carve up some unexpected patron and save us the trouble of dealing with your annoying clanking" He scorned, he never usually spoke out of turn, but this was to much.

He had spent his entire life as an assassin; knowing nothing but patients, nothing but the wait, that was what an assassin had to deal with on a regular basis; the wait, one movement out of place, one swing of the weapon to far away from the killing strike; would make the assassin, the dead one. He waited for a reply, or a remark or a growl and a swing of that battle axe. Though the only thought that stayed in his head for the entire time was "least when he attacks the ringing will stop" Ryuker was all about the silence, all about a battle being about the hunt; not necessarily the kill, no the better the hunt; the more satisfactory the kill would. Though, for now that wasn't the point; there was no way their employer would let them fight, and if he did not in here. So he just continued to stare down the orc from the shadow's of his hood, waiting; hoping the ringing would cease.

Maknok gro-Khash's mouth spread wide in a smile as the shadier Dunmer spoke, "By the Mercy of the Nine, will you stop that...if your so impatient why don't you go carve up some unexpected patron and save us the trouble of dealing with your annoying clanking." he was greatly amused at the idea of disturbing his type, as it was usually he who was disturbed by them. Their silence, their lack of feeling, no emotions behind their strikes! His tapping sped up, falling into a wild rhythm, a drum beat of charging war-hordes in the homeland, and then he suddenly ceased in the tapping, his eyes locked onto the Dunmer, glittering with amusement. He twisted in his chair as if he were about to get up, lifting his axe effortlessly with one hand.

Still smiling, the huge Orc asked mischeviously, "Did one of them catch your eye?" in a loud voice so that everyone could hear. He turned to look around at the nearest patrons, pretending to size them up and find one that could offer a potentially good fight. A nearby group of people heard gro-Khash, and could only wonder exactly what it was the Orc was speaking of. Coincidentally, they seemed to catch the gist of what Maknok was talking about, even though he wasn't really going to attack any of them, but they knew no better. The group quickly retreated from the table of yellow cloths to the other side of the Flowing Bowl, eyeing the orc warily.

Maknok burst into hearty laughter, shifting back into a more comfortable position in his chair, and resting his hands on the hilt of his battleaxe just as they had been before. Still smiling, the Orsimer paused for a moment. He looked back at the annoyed Dunmer, and then slowly... so slowly... lifted his index finger over the back of the gauntlet on his opposite hand... and then dropped it down, causing one loud metallic ring to reverberate across the table. And then gro-Khash happily resumed his previous rhythmic tapping, at least until there was something better to do, a half-smile still playing across his face.

They were getting restless. Annoyed with each other at the lack of action. Kalek thought that the promise of food and drink would keep them quiet until everyone had arrived. He hadn't expected so little a turnout, but it would have to do. Keenly aware that his personal guard was not so far away, likely with a hand on his weapon looking not so subtle, Kalek figured he'd better start before the group was at each others' throats. The proposed toast had gotten his hopes up a tad that such a mismatched group could work together, now that didn't seem to be the case. "Now now.. gentlemen." Kalek was aware he was using the term in the loosest way possible, but had didn't think of something else to call them without insulting someone. "I've sent for some of you personally, and others from the groups you serve." the noble leaned forwards, glancing at each member of the group before speaking again.

"You see, for some time now I have been planning this expedition to the far reaches of Cyrodiil. I've studied maps and lore, and I believe I've found the resting place of an ancient, enormous Ayleid city, rivaling the Imperial city in size." Of course, that's what the legends said. Kalek was still not sure what they'd find, but all reports of the ancient city pointed to it being one of the greatest. "We will be traveling to the farthest east of the Nibenay Basin, to the very edge of Cyrodiil itself." Kalek paused to take a sip of the brandy that had been poured for him, letting his words sink in to the gathered party, gauging their reactions to his words. "The journey will not be easy, it will be tiresome and long. When we reach the ruins, they may be protected by ancient traps and magic, but, as of yet, this Ayleid ruin has been undiscovered, hidden away for thousands of years. We will be the first to discover the treasure within, and everyone will be getting an equal cut of what we find amongst artifacts, weapons or armor." Again, a pause to see if he'd piqued the interest of any of the gathered. "If any of you do not wish to accompany us, then you may leave without judgment." Kalek waited, letting them decide for themselves if they wanted to risk their lives for this venture. "Now that that's out of the way, have any of you ever heard of Varsa Baalim?"

An orc? Oh, looks like there were going to have a grand old party. The Orc began tapping on his menacing battle-axe, but Belas felt no ill towards the orc, however, the same could not be said for the other Dunmer. Belas chuckled gently to himself and took another sip from his cup. That was damn good brandy. Perhaps the fact that it was free added to the taste? That had to be it.

The Orc took the Dunmer's comment in jest and threatened the nearest table, causing the patrons to skit across the bar. Another chuckle and Belas leaned back on his chair. Oh, now it was going to be interesting. Belas awaited to see how this confrontation would settle itself out. Alas, nothing violent happened, as the Orc merely resumed his seat, albeit shooting a metallic tap at the nearby Dunmer. The Gentleman Thief cracked a smile and muttered, "Cheeky bastard," under his breath. Further conflict however was doused by their employer. He explained the job he wished to be done, where they were going, what to expect. Belas took it all in stride.

"Dungeon diving?" Belas looked up from the glass pressed to his lips. "So we were summoned for a bit of dungeon diving?" He asked, setting the cup down on the table. He assumed a more relaxed posture, his elbow wrapping around the corner of his chair, his legs crossed under the table. He was completely aloof and informal, but his manners were, as always, impeccable. "I can handle that, Sera. Dungeons have a nasty habit of containing ancient traps. Ones that will either smash you into the ceiling or spike you in a pit," Belas spoke, apparently from experience. "Not that much difficult from those in Morrowind, Sera," Belas said, using a respective with his employer. It was obviously clear that the man was some sort of noble or esteemed individual. Not many have the coin to have such elegant armor. Though why would he try and hide it under a cloak? Silly Imperials... Always looking out for their status quo.

Belas looked at the man square in the eyes and rubbed his beard, seemingly deep in thought. "Equal cut? Hmm... No doubt the place has a collection of artifacts. Artifacts that could sell for no end of money," Belas said, removing his hand from his beard and took another sip of the brandy. "Alright Sera, you have my skills at your disposal. When do we leave?" Belas asked, eager for a sport of adventure. He wondered if he could find any ancient literature in the bowels of the dungeon. Perhaps artwork, or maybe even a ceremonial bow. "Yes... Yes, this little venture has the promising chance of being quite lucrative," Belas said aloud.