Selene's gaze drifts toward the rain-slicked window, her expression unreadable, carved from the same quiet shadows that hide the corners of the Bleeding Rose. When she finally speaks, her voice is low and measured .

“Every soul in this city carries a weight. Some call it power. Some call it pain. Some dress it up in duty, or drown it in drink, or hide it behind clever words and quieter hopes. But it’s the same weight we all feel pressing down on us.”

Her eyes glance toward the candlelight, casting just enough light to catch the curve of her lips.

“This city is rot gilded in gold. It sells illusions by the pound and names them truth. It teaches us to survive by shrinking, by kneeling, by waiting. Waiting for the world to change. Waiting for someone else to matter more than the last corpse in the gutter.”

She pauses, "Well, you matter, I matter. And as a matter of fact survival isn’t the same as living."  The candlelight flickers illuminating a dulling in her eyes. "And waiting? That’s just dying with better posture.”

Then with a trace of a grin beginning to form at the edges of her mouth she continues, slower now, each word deliberate.

“There’s opportunity moving beneath all of this, beneath the filth, beneath the fear. It call out to the ones who want more. The ones who have it within them to take more. And opportunity, it doesn’t care for birthright, for coin, for titles. It waits for those bold enough to take hold of it.”

She leans in now, only the glint of conviction in her eyes.

“The city wants us small. Wants us quiet. But the rain doesn’t ask permission to fall. So I say....lets make some rain of our own"

You've all managed to collate a few jobs that you could take on with ease, and some more...immoral deeds. Law is slim in Tempest City. All that stands are the Deathlocks that sweep the streets like spectres, their strings pulled along by the Thunder Lord. They'd hardly bat an eye if a man was stabbed to death in front of them, and then they'd step over the corpse, but the minute somebody goes against the Thunder Lord's bidding, they'll descend on the perpetrator like flies. The leads you've gathered fly just below this radar, but should bring in some profit if executed correctly. 

Jobs
Basement Needs Clearing: One Matin Dralps of Gall Street has recently moved into a home after its previous residents were...displaced. Apparently, the cellar contains several oddities which he doesn't dare touch himself, and they are offering 20 GP on completion, along with whatever the party finds, to have it cleared. 
Couriers Needed: One artist on the outskirts of the city has recently sold one of their pieces to a rich noble in the inner city. They need a group of couriers to transport this art piece to the buyer, and will receive 50 GP on return to the artist with the noble's signature as proof of delivery.

Leads
Poison Heist: Two moons from now, a skiff with two drow passengers and their cargo will arrive at the docks. The cargo in question is half a dozen bottles of finest drow poison, assumedly being bought by a professional mercenary guild. If you were to intercept the drow before the poison changed hands undetected, you would be able to keep it for your own personal use, or sell at a higher price.
'End of life assistance': Word on the street is that Old Mage Carrith, who owns a small lodge on Cambel Road, is sick and dying. The moment he dies, theives and squatters will assumedly descend on the place like vultures, so if you gave him a visit and 'hurried him along', you'd get to have first dibs on all of his possessions. 

"Power, influence, gold. The only things that matter in this city," Zifni says in his charged, breathy voice.

"We'll start with gold. The easiest of the three."

He leans in across the table, his eyes a deep, dark blue, almost grey like the storm clouds above them. They linger on each of his companions before being cast around their table, alert for any wandering ears or eyes.

"There's a trade going down at the docks."

Zifni is often at the docks, looking longingly out at the crashing sea and the freedom it promises that lies just beyond his reach.

"Drow poison. If we can get our hands on it quietly, we could set our own price," he suggests.

Selene tilts her head, as she regards Zifni across the table. The dim candlelight dances across her face, calm, focused, unreadable. She doesn’t speak immediately. Instead, she sits in contemplation. When she does speak, her voice is soft but confident.

“Drow poison…” Her lips curve into something just shy of a smile. “Not just gold, then. A message. That we’re willing to step into the places others fear to tread.”

She folds her hands on the table, the leather of her gloves creaking faintly. 

“It’s a bold move. Dangerous, yes, but this city doesn’t reward caution.”

Her gaze shifts around the table, meeting each set of eyes in turn. She’s not trying to convince them, they’re not pawns to be led. She’s waits, letting the weight of the idea settle across them all.

Selene leans back slightly, giving space, her voice softening.

“But this isn’t just about what I think. We’ve all bled enough in this city. If we take this step, I want to hear it from each of you. Not just if we can do it, but if we should.”

The smirk fades. In its place is something quieter. Steadier.

“We don’t get to climb out of this armpit by accident. When climb we do it together.”

"Poison shipment.  From dark elves."  Tanis takes another sip of ale.  A small one.  His dark eyes rest in the middle distance between Selene and Zifini.

"Probably end the same as any other job, best we know, so I'm game.  Not for nothing, though - drow aren't the best enemies to make.  Secretive, organized, implacable and all that."  A close observation of Tanis' very slightly tapered ears suggests (surface) elven blood somewhere in his ancestry.

"What about this courier job with some pretty picture?  Might make us an ally and contact instead of an enemy.  And let us scout the inner city better."

At the last sentence, Tanis' eyes come into focus, no longer gazing into the middle distance, but sharp and intense.  Glittering in the darkness.

"The currier job seems to be the biggest bang with least risk. A simple Risk Analysis clearly shows this is the most effective and efficient means of collecting currency. Though based on some of your expressions I sense you are after more then petty coins this time... I suppose we don't know the state if this "art" that was sold, who knows the size or how fragile it would be. Perhaps Mister Carthage could be persuaded to relinquish his abode, that would be a nice upgrade from flower picking,  which is noticeably getting  harder and harder to find."

Warrick leaned back in his seat wondering what noble would be buying art in this cities economy, and what artist would still be in business. Must be an important deal to offer 50 gold outright for delivery, which makes him wonder why so hard to transport? So large and meaningful that there woukd be fear of being jumped? Perhaps the piece could be seen as opposition to the Thunder Lord.  Old Mage Carrith house would be a nice upgrade, but you know the mage didn't live this long without a few tricks up his sleeves...

"We won't break free of our bonds without taking risks. Safe and sure is only good for surviving. Like Selene says, surviving isn't living."

Zifni leans further forward, the light breeze that tussles his air grows stronger and batters a loose shutter behind him. His eyes stare intently at his companions, not with anger or frustration, but with a sparking conviction.

He does not need to breathe to live, but he takes a deep breath anyway, using it to settle himself back into his seat.

"But we are in this together. If you would prefer we start small, then so be it. I will follow you."

Selene remains still through the back-and-forth, her gaze unreadable. The flickering candlelight casts shifting shadows over her sharp cheekbones and cold, calculating eyes. She lifts a single hand, gloved fingers idly tracing the rim of her glass, not to drink, only to punctuate the silence that falls once Zifni sits back.

“Tanis is right. The drow are not to be taken lightly. And Warrick, the courier job has appeal.”

She leans forward, barely. Enough to draw their attention without commanding it.

“But predictable cuts both ways. We don’t know the painting. For all we know something could be trapped inside the frame, or it could be a doorway that unleashes terrors beyond what we could even dream."

She continues.

“And as for our dear recluse of a mage, yes, tempting. But if his wards are clever enough to keep the city at bay for this long, I’d rather not test whether his home is furnished with chairs and drapes that bite back.”

Her fingers still on the glass. She glances towards Zifni, then across the table to the others, voice gaining strength, conviction tightening like drawn wire beneath her calm tone.

“But the poison job… That’s a known quantity. A shipment. A buyer. A target. A theft. There are rules to that game, unspoken, yes, but clear: they try to keep it. We try to take it. No illusions of civility, no fragile paintings or cursed chandeliers. Just action. Skill. Intent.”

She stands now, slow and smooth, casting a long shadow over the table. Her smile is slight, but there’ is a resolve behind it.

“And more than gold, it sends a message. A whisper in the right ear. That something new is moving in the city. Something dangerous. Something unafraid.”

Her gaze lingers on each of them.

“This is where we let the city know we’re not here to take scraps. We’re here to carve our name into its very soul.”

She pauses for a moment before continuing.

“Unless, of course…” Her tone softens, just enough to leave the door open. “…we think survival should still come before legacy.”

Tanis leans back and rolls his shoulders in a fatalistic gesture.

"I'm game for nabbing the poison.  Not so sure the courier job's going to end up safe and easy either.  As to legacy, can't rightly say.  Best case, only ones who know we did the heist'll be some dead dark elves.  Won't deny the power of mystery and darkness, though.  Leave 'em wondering."

The look Tanis gives Selene and Zifini is sardonic yet perhaps a touch rueful.  "Being honest, the main reason I like the courier job is getting a chance to scout the inner city.  But this drow job lets us scout the docks, so what do I know?  All ends in the same place, most like.  I'm in."

The dark-cloaked man pauses a moment.  "Wait... when was that poison shipment coming in?  Two moons from now, yeah?  Maybe we take another job between now and then.  You know, to pass the time and smell the, ah... flowers."  He looks in the general direction of the bar for Snizgore.

"I was thinking, the poison job needs planning, sure, but 2 days is a lot of time so how about we do a job in between. Who knows what is in that basement, doesn't sound like the owner was attacked yet, so might be the safest and quickest bet." Thamul chimes in with the others 

"A fair bit of recon as well as planning I would suspect, we would want to get to know the lay of tbe land as they say, determine where such a deal coukd go down, inquire about info, decipher parties involved to intercept dignitaries. I can't imagine the basement or courier service are more then day long gigs dispite they potentially harsh kickbacks based on hire out to one's such as us. I also may remind you that legacies are only so after one have failed surviving. There is something to be said about a long existence under the radar compared to a quick life that someone else gets to enjoy the fruits of."

Warrick gets back up seeing a few dismissed dishes and glasses at a table and goes to return them to the bar.

Selene watches Warrick rise with glance as he places the dishes and glasses on the bar. When Thamul speaks up, she turns towards him.

“Oh yes,” her tone with just the right amount of sardonic flair, “because nothing strikes fear into the hearts of Tempest’s power players like a band of elegantly dressed errand runners and glorified broom-wielders.”

Her smile sharpens, almost but not quite exposing her fangs.

“‘Deliverers of cursed paintings and cleaners of mysterious basements, at your disposal!’ Imagine it.” She gestures as if unveiling a grand advertisement. “We’ll be legends. Tragically underpaid legends, but legends nonetheless.”

The sarcasm hangs in the air for a moment, then she softens the delivery with a small, sigh as she reclaims her seat.

“But I suppose there’s something to be said for a bit of harmless ghost-chasing. Stretch the legs. Shake the dust off our boots before the real work begins.” She flicks a glance toward Zifni, then back to the others. “And if we can pad our coin purses and test our rhythm in the process, all the better.”

Her gaze settles on Warrick as he finishes tending to the dishes, voice lifting just enough to carry with theatrical grace:

“Fear not, dear Warrick. We’ll take our baby steps before the ballroom brawl.”

She lifts her glass at last, toasting the room with that same amused air.

“To haunted basements or chaperoning a painting. Humble beginnings, and coin in our pockets.”

"Aye legends," nods Tanis gravely.  "One of my mates on guard duty at the town wall was a legend to us all.  Or his good fortune was anyway.  Luckiest bastard you ever saw.  Dice or cards or steering clear of danger, right up until the end.  When he fell off the wall, he missed every damn spike on our palisade just outside it.  Fell right between 'em!  Course he was dead already from the arrow through his throat, but still lucky to miss all those spikes."

He makes a conciliatory gesture toward Selune, hefting his chipped mug of ale, still nearly full.  Acknowledging the weight of her sarcastic logic.

"Peace, Dark Sister.  We do the poison heist in two nights.  Take yes for an answer.  Question is which job we take before that.  Today and tomorrow, yeah?  Courier or basement today.  Doesn't matter which so long as we get up off our asses."  (Tanis is lying that it doesn't matter to him - he favors the courier job for scouting purposes, as he has said - but he'll go with consensus).  "Then the other job tomorrow.  Or scout the docks to prep for the drow."

"I'd say one job, one day of scouting" Thamul is thinking out loud

*wow, I left and forgot to make a character. Just rolled stats.*

Zifni is still sitting back in his chair. He has distracted himself by whipping up the ale in his mug with a small breeze blowing across the top. It chops up the dark liquid like wind across a night sea. He lets the breeze go and his drink stills once more.

"Very well. Small steps first."

He does not say it aloud, as he does not want to continue to sew division, but he is worried about trying to steal from the drow unprepared and that a day or less may not be enough.

Instead he says, "Let us escort the courier. It surely has greater chance for renown than clearing rats from a basement."

When the courier job is proposed Kain gives a slow nod. "Low risk, decent pay, and it gets us moving in the right circles."

He tilts his head slightly, considering.  "You’re right, small steps first. But we stay sharp. This city doesn’t reward hesitation." He pushes back from the table, "I can scout the route ahead of time. Less surprises that way."

[So, is the party favouring doing the courier job first, scouting the dock the next day, and then taking on the poison heist? If so, we'll move ahead to the first job!]

"So courier job first? Shall we head out to the meeting point than?" Thamul suggests, ready to get going.

The party, agreed on taking the courier job first, heads to the meeting point; the artist's lodge, on the outskirts of the city. It's across further east from where The Bleeding Rose is, meaning you have about 20 minutes of walking in the rain before you reach it. Your route fluctuates between the alleys; shielded from rain but prime zones for mugging, or the deserted, wide roads that, whilst being empty, leave you soaked through. It's fairly quiet at current. Everybody seems to be indoors, and the few people you do see skulking around in the storm don't even bother looking your way as you pass. Soon you'd like to change that though. 

Arriving at the artist's home, you find it is a dilapidated cottage, its wooden walls buckling under the weight of the stone roof, and each individual plank warped with fungus and rot. A smaller shed-stable extends from the side of the house, and its large, barn-style doors are loosely held shut with a rope around the handles. The windows of the house are shattered, and graffiti is smeared across most surfaces, though the majority of the washed-out paint has now ran down the house in the rain like tears. You wonder if it's a stylistic choice from the owner, or just plain vandalism on what looks like an abandoned old hut. The door itself is in the middle, and bolted shut with several locks. What's most intriguing is that it's only about 4 feet high, meaning you'll have to bend down to knock it. This could be because of the owner's stature, or it could just be that way because the builder wanted to save materials when creating it; a practice that isn't as uncommon as you'd think in Tempest City.