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((Approved - Be welcome.))

All around the Harpy's Head Tavern, customers were chatting over mugs of ale or glasses of wine, waiting for the afternoon entertainment to begin. The place wasn't full by any means, but obviously there were plenty of people intent on drowning the day's troubles. Female servers made their rounds methodically, taking empty dishes or bringing full. Watching them from her position behind the bar, Grella let out a drawn-out sigh, the endless polishing of cups endlessly boring today. She couldn't keep her mind from wandering back to the other aspect of her job...

The Wolfkin's ears caught the sound of a bar stool creaking and her head automatically swiveled toward the sound. A welcoming smile stretched her lips across her teeth, at first the rehearsed "this is my job" grin, but easing into a more natural curve of appreciation. The fox had been quiet enough that she hadn't heard him come in- not easy, even with the hum of conversation in the common room. She jumped slightly in surprise when he banged his hand on the counter. As he made himself comfortable she set down the glass and cloth to approach him.

"Good day to you, sir," she said pleasantly, her single green eye sparkling with unspoken interest. "How can I serve you?"



Micarst exited the soup kitchen with a fair number of misgivings. Not about the soup kitchen; that, at least, was a community service, right and good no matter how you sliced it. No, it was going into a job with the intention of bungling it- not just enough to possibly get caught, but enough to certainly get caught. Obedience to the Mask was ingrained in her as surely as the passion for her line of work, the fierce delight in taking things from the rich they didn't deserve equal to ending an unjust magistrate's life.

Of course, it wasn't really a question of what she was going to do. It had to be done, and she was qualified for the task. Anyone could bungle a theft, but the Mask trusted her to keep her poise under interrogation. As she climbed swiftly up a wooden gutter to the rooftops, she snorted to herself. Just leave the thinking to Jæcil, she told herself. That's what he's there for. The rooftops were the quickest, least-visible path to North Side, and that was important. There couldn't be any hint to link her exploit tonight to the chapter house.

The feline ran across the roofs easily, hardly noticing the improvement in her stride. Her sprain had been fixed in a matter of minutes by a simple healing salve, thanks to the apothecary's apprentice. Now her biggest concern was making the leap from one rooftop to another without scrabbling on the tiles. Shortly, she came to a stop overlooking a street corner, the opposite of which was her target. A jewelery shop fit for the nobles, the only sort allowed in their section of Crescent Cove. Probably protected by wards and guards too, Micarst thought sourly as she settled down to wait.

At least nightfall was only a few hours away...

"Gladly," Grella replied, signaling with a raised hand for someone to come mind the bar. "It just needs a quick sweep and set-up." She strode toward the platform, stopping to requisition a broom, and climbed up the stairs. The noise level dimmed slightly with anticipation as the wolfkin gave the surface a once-over with the broom, and opened the folding chair in the approximate center. Last came a cunningly-made wire music stand, ready to be extended to an appropriate height if needed. As she hopped back down to the floor, disdaining the stairs, she glanced toward the bar. She almost groaned aloud.

Dena the feline was doing her best to make conversation with the fox. "Are you Pashkana's replacement? She was due to show up about an hour ago, but hasn't," she said, cleaning the same section of bar over and over again as she watched the male's preparations with big blue eyes.

((OOC: Still working out a few details for Micarst's attempted burglary. It'll be up before the 3rd though, assuming I have time to finish writing it.))

Dena's white tail fluffed up with indignation, and her eyes flashed. "Of course I'm interested," she said sweetly, but the sentiment was ruined by the mischievous cast of her face. "I'm interested in everybody." What she didn't add was that her nightly tips depended on appearing to be interested (even when she wasn't, which was actually pretty rare), or available, or both. She was on the verge of leaning on the bar to display herself at an advantageous angle, when she realized Grella was striding directly toward them. "Ah, I better... go back to work," the feline said weakly, and fled into the kitchen.

The wolfkin nodded briefly at the fox as she took up the abandoned rag and started wiping the bar, unknowingly starting on the same spot her employee had already covered four times. "The stage is ready," she said calmly. Unlike Dena, the wolfkin moved along as she completed an area. She lifted her voice slightly to make up for the growing distance between her and the fox. "Are you one of the Silver Strings guild members? If not, we can discuss compensation whenever you please."

Grella chuckled softly at the fox's theatrics. It was amusing, a nice change of pace to the guild-bound musicians who mostly clung to their dignity as though naked of anything else. She came out from behind the bar to sit on the stool nearest the stage, her head nodding slightly to the imagined beat. It wasn't a tune she was familiar with, but she didn't mind. New was always good, in her line of work.

When the fox held the rag out toward her at the end of the tune, she hopped to her feet and jogged over to take it, smiling gleefully up at him, hardly able to hear herself think with the wholehearted applause from the clientele. At least he knew how to capture their attention. "Carry on," the wolfkin said, just loud enough to be sure he'd overhear. Then she turned to take the square of cloth to the laundry chute and grab another from the kitchen. When she came out, she lay the cloth down neatly behind the bar, ready for the next round of cups that must, of course, be polished before they could be used. A standard of cleanliness was expected, but the owner had told the staff to strive for excellence. And so they did.

((OOC: I love it! I lol'd!))

The patrons of the tavern pounded their tables loudly, or clapped, or just yelled to show their appreciation. Grella finished dropping coins down into the slot to the safe and swept the rest back into her apron pocket for making change. She took a clean, crystal-clear glass to the water tap and filled it, and brought it unobtrusively to set on the corner of the stage for the performer. Sooner or later he would surely want to take a break, and by then the customers wouldn't mind if the wolfkin took him aside for a few questions.

As Grella went back to her place at the bar, she growled at Dena and Dana; the feline twins were standing in the kitchen doorway, giggling and obviously gossiping about the performer. "Work, or I'll use you both for barstools!" the barkeeper spat furiously. The white cats would have paled further if possible, as it was they laid back their ears and scrambled to obey. The wolfkin scowled so hard as she was brought orders from her workers that most of them stammered and wouldn't meet her eye, though she filled glasses with the same care as always. Crazy felines, she thought to herself. They need a vacation badly, if they're so caught up on males they can't focus on the job.

The light through the windows had been gradually fading, so the chocolate-furred female went to light a candle in the kitchen with which to light the lamps in the common room. As she passed near a lone weasel, he cleared his throat and made a gesture with one hand, and shoved an envelope across his table at her. Grella pocketed it with a low bow and continued her circuit around the room, though she burned with curiosity.

When finally she got back to the bar and discreetly read the envelope's contents, she almost laughed out loud. The cat is out of the bag, it read, and stranded up a tree. We need a ladder. An ambiguous enough letter... if she didn't know exactly what the code meant. It was going to be a busy night.


As the shadows lengthened near full sunset, Micarst pulled back from the edge of the roof to do a few quick stretches. When she resumed her position, she noticed that the jewelry shop was closing. Someone was going around hooding the magelights the wealthy used for nighttime illumination, and the interior of the shop slowly went dark. When the only light remaining was in the hand of the shopkeeper, the person went to the door to lock it. Then the light wavered as the individual went upstairs, then reappeared behind a window before heavy shades were pulled. Excellent, the shopkeeper was going to bed. (The goods were too valuable for the shopkeeper to sleep elsewhere.) Micarst waited long enough for someone to cross the intersection and walk well away before taking a deep breath.

Time to go to work.

The feline grabbed the edge of the gutter and eased herself over until she dangled by her grip. Then she dropped from three stories high, ending the fall with a quick roll to ease the shock of landing. She bounced upright and pressed her back against the wall of the building, rapidly checking her peripherals to make sure nothing had changed. She darted across the intersection diagonally and didn't stop to mess with the locked door, instead leaping forward horizontally, hands balled into fists, to smash quite loudly through the display window. The noise didn't stop there, as a shrill alarm pierced the night repeatedly, probably magically activated. A thunk and a yell from upstairs told her the proprietor was awake.

She felt like time was in slow motion, dragging like molasses in winter. She grabbed items without looking, necklaces, rings, torques, jeweled belts, even a few raw gems and a half bar of gold, all disappearing into her pockets and down the tops of her boots. The display cases were all lined up with customer convenience in mind, but it served just as well for robbery. In less than five seconds she felt she could hold no more, and whirled to attempt an escape.

Two spectral figures slid up out of the floor to bar her way, gray mist with just the slightest definition of shape which was anything but humanoid. With all those arms and legs, they seemed more like insects than anything. Micarst whirled and ran up the stairs, ducking under the slash of a dagger as she passed the shopkeeper coming down.

She felt something take hold of her foot midstride and fell forward, landing painfully on various trinkets hidden away inside her clothes. She kicked furiously, looking over her shoulder, and squealed in terror that was only half pretense. A misty gray appendage was protruding from the floor, clinging to her foot. She caught scent of something foul, gagged, abruptly lost control of her body from the shoulders down, and glanced in front of her. The second specter was bent over her, reaching with three arms: when they touched her head, blackness overcame her sight, and her chin dropped to the floor.

"Unconscious," was thing she heard, the word dripping with angry satisfaction. If Micarst had been aware enough of herself, she would have been frightened, though satisfied. Getting caught went against her nature, but then, it wasn't necessary to burglarize the most upscale jeweler's store in town to steal a full pocket. She would have chosen a place of middling success and taken maybe the best three or four items, not enough to ruin the establishment - that would be as foolish as a gardener pulling up an entire tomato plant to harvest a few. But... orders were orders.

As applause again shook the air in the tavern, Grella frowned and started looking wildly around. A sense of inexpressible wrongness had overtaken her. She couldn't see anything to be concerned about, but she felt a rush of adrenaline as her heart thudded away as if trying to escape her chest, her fur standing on end as though charged with static electricity.

Five black-hooded figures started down the stairs, the sound of their footsteps untraceable beneath the sound of clapping. The wolfkin narrowed her eye, unable to recall these guests claiming a room. All five form a line at the bottom of the stairs, gray-furred hands extending from the wide sleeves of their cloaks as they raise them skyward.

Then the patrons seem to notice them, and for a moment silence reigns... and all light in the room is abruptly extinguished.

"To arms!" Grella howled, leaping over the bar and running approximately toward where she'd last seen the figures. She regretted her dress for the barest moment, and then the utter darkness; then she slammed against what felt like a wall, no more than two strides from where she assumed the figures still stood.

((Please roll initiative; d20. Your Cunning will positively affect your roll, one bonus point for every two ranks of Cunning, in this case a +5. This is pretty much just going to be a test run to see how future encounters might work. Tyllaid may choose to run, if you wish.
Personal reference-
First 3 rolls = m1 (9), m2 (3), m3 (4). // Roll 4 = f1 (12) // Roll 5 = f2 (1) // Roll 6 = Grella (14) // Roll 7 = fx (3)))