Hildigrim turns a little further, adding Carl to his and Hex’s conversation. His eyes brush the empty area behind the dwarf, wondering where exactly Auriel might be, but then settles on the two he can see.

“If the Crown is now a Welcomer safehouse of sorts, the front door won’t be a death trap, but don’t mistake it for safe either. The Welcomers don’t waste steel on the unwary — they just mark your face, your purse, and your secrets for later. Best we go in with eyes wide open.”

His hand involuntarily goes to his purse, thumb tapping the drawstring before he pulls it away.

“We may need to pay a tax to enter — with coin or information — but I believe we will be welcomed—” The halfling’s face flinches at the unintentional pun. “… with the truthful explanation of seeking Glevith at Aya’s suggestion. Hopefully the fact that he already has a history with the Harpers will also soften their defense. Getting caught sneaking in another way will most likely hurt any chance we have.”

He turns to watch the door, but as another thought crosses his mind, he looks back again. “Auriel should follow Hex, with Carl last. That will reduce the chance of him getting caught outside.”

He doesn't like their chances, but in desperate times such as these, a positive outcome is worth the risk.

Hex nods and stands back up to full height. "Sounds good. Lead the way. And I hope you heard that, Auriel, wherever you are." 

Hex hears a whisper close by. "I'm here. I heard that, yes."

Carl gives them each a nod, looking in the general direction of the voice and nods, then starts to follow Hex and Hildigrim in, readying his next steps in his mind if things go south.  

Hildigrim leads the group toward the Cracked Crown. While his eyes are trained mostly on the inn’s front door, he doesn’t allow himself to become oblivious to the rest of Scholar’s Square. Every alley, every shuttered window, every figure loitering too long at a corner earns a quick glance. The square has always been the city’s cerebral heart, and now it feels more like a dragonchess field. Thieves in the form of frightened citizens scuttle to and fro while unseen unicorns and knights wait in shadow.

He adjusts the weight of his bow. A Harper must never allow a single point of focus to become a blind spot: observe peripherally, act centrally. The Cracked Crown may be their destination, but Scholar’s Square is the test — and he means to pass it without blundering into a waiting snare.

Still, his pace doesn’t falter. To dawdle would be just as dangerous as to rush. The halfling takes measured steps, posture upright and deliberate, signaling calm to his companions while his mind catalogues threats and routes of retreat.

Hex's insightful eye notes that the robed men and women seem to be more interested in leaving than staying, while those moving into and out of the Cracked Crown move with swift purpose. She is unable to easily discern whether any are affiliated with the Zhentarim. Auriel and Carl can't see what is written on the papers, as most are folded or held too close to the carrier, and Carl doesn't determine any singular location that the carriers may be coming from - those that he sees emerge from alleys and side streets in several directions before crossing the square to the tavern.

The Cracked Crown itself looks less like a tavern and more like a war room. Several tables have been pushed together, and a map of the town is spread over them. Documents are stacked in piles around its edges, held down by the occasional mug. Seeing you enter, a burly, bald Turmish man moves quickly to block your path, and your view. "We're closed. Go away."

Hildigrim stops and gives a quick nod of greeting. "We need to see Glevith," he says. "Aya sent us to fetch him." 

He can't help but look around the man to the center of the room, attempting to identify anyone he might recognize.

"And why should I care that you 'need' to see Glevith?" the man grumbles, moving along with Hildigrim's eyes to block his view further into the room. A few muted voices bounce off of the rafters, but the bulky man blocking the entrance keeps anyone from seeing any of their sources.

Hildigrim scowls up at the man, weighing his words before deciding that honesty will cut straighter than guile.

“Because the city is under attack, and every heartbeat we waste risks another life. We need people out of here quickly, and Aya told me the Welcomers know how to move things unseen. That’s what we need now — not secrets, not games. Safe passage, before that monster outside slaughters the lot of us.”

He pauses, breath tight in his chest, then suddenly remembers. “Ah —!” He plants his thumb behind the crescent-and-harp pin on his chest and pushes it forward so the light catches. “I’m Harper. Aya said he's worked with us before. If that’s true, then take us to him, or at least send word. We don’t have time to bargain.”

He exhales through his nose, turning his head toward Hex with a muttered grumble. “Hainard’s hairy toes …”

Hex steps up besides Hildigrim and puts a hand on his shoulder, staring down the Turmish man with impatient eyes from underneath her hood. "We're also here on behalf of Knight Aleyd Burral of the Black Fist. I've personally worked with Glevith through the knight about the theft of some books that would've been pinned on the Welcomers if we didn't find them. This isn't the time for petty squabbles. Let us through."

(Using inspiration) 

Carl steps forward, starting to lose his patience.  His eyes flicker and go dark for a moment, he looks at the man and starts waving his arms around.  "We don't have time for this.  Have you seen what sits on yon castle, burping up poison gas up and down the streets?  We have urgent business here, as he says.  We are here on authority, the city is under attack and time is tickin'.  So quit bein a problem and be part of the solution, why don'tcha.  We should be aligned in this..."  He plants his hands on his hips and feet are shoulder width apart as he glowers at the man, looking right through him, his hands are clenched.  

Intimidation (1, 10) : 17

Auriel feels that his companions have already said more than enough—more than should be necessary given the circumstances—but he can't help but whisper, low enough that the Turmish man can't quite place the voice, yet high enough for him to hear: "Are you with Phlan, or are you with them ?" 

It sounds as though the bulky man's own conscience has spoken aloud.