Lace tries to see if anything suggests this guy is Silver Dagger

Perception 7

She glares at the misname and as usual, gives the silent treatment.  She steps away but looks back and waits till Fayson isn't looking to give Asbestos a "come hither" nod.

"Where are my manners? I did not mean to ignore your lovely friend all dressed in lace." Fayson takes a slight bow, "I am known as Fayson my lady."

"Can we just get this over with so I can burn someone alive and to death?" Gotu scowls, his eye twitching with pent-up frustration. He needs to vent soon before he explodes, both figuratively and literally, to everything around him.

'Ah, oops,' Asbestos stared up at Lace, feeling ever the more smaller than his halfling form would admit. Right... calling her the wrong name results in the silent treatment. He remembered he had tried it once before; it was the day when he first into the Night Ravens and he copied it after someone else had called her that. Bad move because it took him months to realize that the reason she ignored him was due to the name-calling, not in fact due to the way he came in smelling like fish and alley cat that day. Why, you ask? Because he may or may not have been dumpster diving by the docks that day, and for what reason? He could not recall. 

The changeling went on to follow her lead, coming over to where she led him, and looking with scrutiny at Fayson. He just couldn't figure this man out. He left his mouth agape a little when Fayson asked to be introduced to his friend. He nervously smiled up at Lace to wait for her to give herself an introduction, but from the corner of his eye he saw Molly's large sewer rat coming this way.

'Oh no.'  The rat was scurrying all over the place, zig-zagging across chairs and tavern guests in haste. 'No, no, no.' 

The stinking rat practically was doing a bee-line towards the dice game with Molly tailing it only a few feet away. 'Don't come here! Don't come here!'

The druid wished these thoughts were telepathic or the very least regretted his decision to not master Speak with Animals. The druid training him always said 'with great power comes with great responsibility' or something spiritual like that, and he had purposely slacked off in that regard. Animals seemed to hate him anyways, and to hear how much a lion wanted to eat him was not a situation he felt like was in any which way fun. Maybe for the lion, perhaps, because he was pretty sure the last time he came near that cat its eyes seemed to gleam with mischief as it sunk its teeth into his leg without him doing as much as move in its direction to feed it. 'Hmmm maybe I was the food that time?' His thoughts started to wonder. And with that the rat was upon them.

'Ah' was all he had time to think as he braced for impact. The rat was right between Lace's and his feet. 

The big man lets Fyn off his lap and pats the wizard on the head as he stands. "Tell ya wha', cat. You hol' 'ere, help Ol' Lace 'n' Smit'y get a good look in tha' ship. Me 'n these three'll," he gives a general sweep of the nearest changeling and the wizard, "take our leave o' here n' help some sailors "spend" their pay. Heh. Heh-he. Hehehehe..."

He turns back to the tables as he finishes his drink, ignorant of the suspicious fella talkin' to Lace and the other changeling. "'Sbestos! Come! S'time to go to work!"

In the bustling chaos of The Falling Goat, Molly's antics formed a bizarre tableau against the backdrop of plotting and scheming. With the fervor of a child in a macabre game, she darted and weaved through the tavern's patrons, her eyes gleaming with a mix of delight and madness as she pursued an elusive sewer rat. The chase, a fitting metaphor for the night's unfolding mischief, a silent yet vivid reminder of the guild's tangled pursuits.

"Mist!" she cursed softly in a whisper, as the rat dodged between the legs of a startled merchant, her words a strange blend of her unique dialect. "Quick, kleine Ratte, lead mich to your dark Versteck," she hissed, her words painting her speech with a surreal quality.

Despite her focus on the critter, her ears caught fragments of the scheme being whispered among her comrades. Her head tilted slightly, a silent, knowing smile curling the corners of her lips, as if delighting in the secret knowledge of chaos to come.

Finally, tiring of the chase, Molly drifted back towards Fist. With a fluid, almost spectral movement, she approached him, her expression enigmatic and wild. Without a word, she once again settled onto his lap, her actions as unpredictable as the path of the rat she had chased. Here, in the lap of the guild's brute, she sat quietly, her silence a stark contrast to her usual eerie mutterings, ready to follow into the shadows of the night’s endeavors.

Her presence, though silent now, was as potent as a whispered curse, reminding all of the Night Ravens' gathering darkness and the roles each played in the intricate dance of danger and deception they wove so well.

As the time to depart drew close Molly smoothly slid from Fist's lap. Her movements were fluid, almost ghostly, as she drifted over to align herself with Lace, Smitty, and the rest of her designated group. Her presence, though silent and somewhat eerie, was punctuated by the clinking of the bottle she still nursed, now almost empty.

"Zum Schiff we go, meine lieben," she whispered with a sinister grin, her voice a chilling echo in the bustling tavern. "Let us unearth the Geheimnisse it holds," she added, her words a tapestry of foreboding excitement.

As she stood with her group, ready to depart, Molly’s gaze lingered on the shadows dancing at the edges of the room, her mind already weaving through the possibilities of what they might find aboard the massive ship. Her excitement was palpable, a dark aura enveloping her as she prepared to step into the night with her companions, each step echoing with the promise of discovery and danger.

'Huh?' Asbestos opened one eye when his name was called, realizing he had them shut the whole time since the rat was there. No fall, no push. Strange... He slowly let his body loosen as he pivoted around on his heels in what felt like slow motion. 'Ah, she stopped. Good.' He felt like he could finally breathe for a second. Right, but the man. He resisted the urge to call out "coming~" to Fist as he stood up on his tiptoes. He clasped his hands together and looked at Fayson with pleading eyes, "Ah, yes. Well. It is best if we get going. Was quite nice meeting you-"

The rat. It had crawled its way up to his shoulder and its tail had whisked around his nose like a kitten batting a toy. After a silent stare-off between the rat and Asbestos, the changeling sneezed. "Achoo!" he shouted, his voice momentarily cracking and deepening. Did he ever mention he was allergic to, like, every animal? In the midst of it, he jumped back, somehow flicking the rat from off his shoulder. It landed on Fayson. Its tiny claws gripping onto his shirt for dear life. 'Run. Now's the time to run.' 

And so he did, skittishly scrambling to his feet, Asbestos made a mad dash towards the group, leaving Lace surprisingly behind. He swerved through tables and chairs that didn't seem like they were there moments before, but now were. He had almost made it to the group, but. No. Oh no. Just seconds away from them, his foot got caught on a lose floorboard and (in a moment that seemed like forever) he was in the air and toppled. With much arms flailing and cloak flapping, he landed right into Fist's chest. His face just buried into the large man's shirt. 'Ah, yes, right were we started.' 

In an instant he pushed himself off Fist's body, wiping his face, his hair, and everywhere in utter disgust and embarrassment. "Sorry! So sorry!" He tried to catch his breath, but all he felt like he could do was await punishment. He didn't even want to look at the scene he left behind, so even when he was done cleaning himself up, he just kept his cloak up above his eyes so he didn't have to see it.

Oh? Fist was in too good a mood to be deterr'd or d'stracted for long. 'Sbestos' little fumble does nothin' to change this. He says nothin', but stares the younger man up 'n' down. With a devilish grin, he pinches the little changlin's cheek condescendin'ly and turns to continue out, wavin' his hand to follow and waxin' his favorite lil chuckle.

Oh, tonigh's gonna be fun...!

Steel law just shrugs “Why not, nothing else going on to profit from.”

Fyn, after standing up, stretches. "Everyone ready to go?" 

Goto said what was needed to be said, as he wait for everyone else.

As the night continued to unfold, Molly remained curiously detached, her focus seemingly tethered to the ethereal plane that her mind often wandered. She watched Asbestos's comedic misadventure with a peculiar tilt of her head, her eyes glinting with a mix of bemusement and dark delight. The rat's unexpected gymnastics and the changeling's allergic fit drew from her a series of soft, throaty chuckles, each escaping her lips like the whispers of a ghoul in the night.

"Ah, das kleine Chaos, so entzückend," Molly cooed quietly to herself, the words slipping through her lips in a haunting melody. She swirled the last drops of wine in her bottle, peering through the dark liquid as if divining omens.

As Fist gathered his composure and signaled the readiness to move, Molly drifted closer, her movements as fluid as shadow. "Sind we ready zu gehen, my Freunde?" she murmured, the sinister lilt of her voice barely rising above the tavern's din. Her gaze flitted across the group, landing briefly on each face, gauging their readiness, their fears, their excitement.

Without waiting for a verbal cue, Molly adjusted the grip on her doll, Drusilla, pressing the inanimate confidante close to her chest. "Let uns tanzen with the Nacht, and lassen the Schatten be our Bühne," she whispered to Drusilla, her tone a blend of endearment and conspiracy.

With a final, sweeping glance around the dimly lit tavern, Molly's figure seemed to absorb the surrounding shadows, her presence a chilling reminder of the night's dark promises. Silent as the grave Molly followed along behind her group, her steps muted yet each one echoed with the weight of impending mischief and macabre adventure.

Quote from Brian_Avery >>

"Where are my manners? I did not mean to ignore your lovely friend all dressed in lace." Fayson takes a slight bow, "I am known as Fayson my lady."

'Those who wish me to speak to them call me Lace, Mister Fayson", she says with a side eye at Asbestos. 

Only to see that Asbestos is positvely panic stricken over…a rat? No, he’s panicking no doubt because Molly is stalking the rat. A reasonable reason to panic, Lace thinks to herself.
By the time the rat has run between herself and Asbestos, Molly has lost interest.
The rat sits on its hindquarters and looks from Asbestos to Lace to Fayson.

Fayson draws back his foot as if to kick the rat.

Lace looks it in the eye and says “Meow!”

Asbestos is silent. Lace can see why, his eyes are tightly closed. Seeing no threat in one direction, the rat starts climbing Asbestos leg.

“Should we…” she says to Fayson.
“No. I want to see what happens”, he replies.
Soon, Fayson is frantically trying to remove a rat from his chest.
Lace shrugs. “You saw what happens.”

Lace thinks about what Molly says, her lips moving as she mentally translates.  With difficulty. Then, “Ja, lets go. Another day Mister Fayson.”

"Ah, yeah, I guess I'll see you later." Fayson scratches at his head not sure what to make of that exchange. But since he has some gold and the night is young he shrugs it off.

You break into your groups and head off into the night as you leave 'The Falling Goat' behind for now.

And just so there's no confusion, even though it may be redundant, there are now 4 in each group? Brothels and ship, right?

[Yep, yep, and yep.]

The Dock District is South of where you currently are, it is actually the southern most part of the city.

There is a regular brothel and a more exotic one that caters to select kinks.

The docks and wharf area is where you would find 'The Cracked Pearl.'

Smithy walks along with Lace, Molly and Steelclaw towards the docks. Not the first time they have been there, as ships bring merchandise and merchandise makes for good profits.

"So, how do you all want to handle this, we got x hours till sunrise so quite some darkness left for us to play with."

Asbestos took Fist's little taunt without a word. He had really been expecting the worse, so the cheek-squeeze wasn't all that bad. He actually sort of smiled haplessly after and slowly peered over his cloak to see that Fayson took the exchange quite well too, nearly chuckling a bit at Lace's comment of 'you saw what happens.' He wondered what had really happened since he spent most of the time with his eyes closed. He sniffled a bit and wiped his nose to get off some of the rat's dander that was still on his face.

The changeling followed Fist's lead out the tavern, giving it a mental wave goodbye. 'Ah well, I'll be back again soon to water you.' He thought about his tomato plants growing in the attic. And so they slipped off into the night, the changeling saying not much of a word as they walked there. He shifted back into his regular form, a pale, muted white humanoid with long white hair going past his waist. He was surprisingly pretty tall compared to his other forms, not enough to rival Fist though, but nearly 6 feet; but he always slouched. He looked as though his arms and legs didn't feel proportionate to his body as he walked it looked like he was being dragged by an unseen puppeteer, with his arms dangling nearly limp at his sides. Don't worry though because (unfortunately) that's how he always looks. His face and limbs were all scuffed up from all sorts of animal bites and claw marks that still had a long ways to healing because of how much he fussed around with the scars that even though they were years ago, but they just never fully healed.

What's new though were a couple of mosquito bites he had gotten along the way towards the graveyard which he kept itching throughout the journey. Once he shifted back, he could really feel it, and boy were they itchy. The smell of the docks brought a soothing aurora onto the changeling, and he calmed down a little. His mind had been filled with all sorts of dangers the job might bring, but now he was ready. "I do have a good outfit for this, yes." He rummaged through his bag a little, then looked up at Fist, awaiting commands, "Ah yes, yes, I do"

((the best I can describe how he looks like is a pale Abraham Lincoln if you wanted a good visual))

For the uninitiated, the Docks District was all it could be. For those in the know, like ol' Fist, the Red Light District was in full swing come nightfall. Men of all shades walk the stone streets along the wharf, laughing and carrying on as scantily clad ladies and men of the night hang off their arms, caressing and talking their Johns up for good times ahead. Various "tastes" of folk stand about, showing off "goods" and advertising fun nights and warm beds -- the lot are primarily humans and tieflings, derring do in their efforts to net a little extra cash or plying a trade they find themselves a natural fit for.

There're rarely elves or fey about, most of them getting picked up by the local madames and being given premium attention by the most privileged of customers. Fist knows a good many. Good stock, bit stuffy. For every brothel, there's a different "taste," and for every taste, there's a different client willing to cover exorbitant prices in pursuit of such things. Again, Fist knows a good many, and if they want their tastes to remain only his to know, they pay out the arse to keep it privy. As the quartet moves off to the seedier side of things, the atmosphere changes. 

Laughter is replaced with silence on the docks, as taverns become pubs, become shanties. Men lay about, either slumped in a stupor of their own making or in the process of emptying their guts of whatever swill they've imbibed earlier in the night. Fist chuckles at this. One can never be too sure what poison folk pass for good drink these days. Well, again, except Fist.

Smells of vomit, stale beer, salt brine and fish hang in the air. It's an all too potent reminder of the wharf's primary businesses, and a testament to how well it does at any given time. As the gang round the corner, however, empty streets and foul smells give way to new sensations. A wide boardwalk sets before them, adorned with lanterns lit In crimson hues, and hordes of sailors crowded about in all colors. There's laughter about, a merriment far more raucous than the main streets they'd previously passed. Rows of large parlors line the boardwalk, their windows lit behind colorful translucent shades of pink, and purple, and blue. The scent of whiskey and the caress of perfume overpowers beer and salt, mixing with the pungent aromas of musk and sin. There's even a warmth in the atmosphere, as if one could find themselves intoxicated simply by drinking the scene in before them. As they walk, soft voices waft from every window; gregarious laughter, long muffled moans, loud repetitive grunts, the din of bouncing springs and scores of minstrel music fill the ambience with an unabashed air of pure lust. 'Tis a place like enough to stir anyone's loins. 

For the uninitiated, the Docks District was all it could be, all it should be, and all it would be. For those in the know, like good ol' Fist or tasty lil' Fyn, this place was a lil' slice o' te heavens.

"Welcome, lads one n' all, to te Red Ligh' District."

Quote from BoldHand22 >>

"Welcome, lads one n' all, to te Red Ligh' District."

 "I could have sworn I burned this place down before..." Gotu looks around, confused. "Could be another similar place..."