Five days have passed since your return from Greenfast. It is night, and the evening dinner service is almost over.

Rain for the past several hours has kept the traffic light, but the restaurant still has customers, who will be leaving soon.
Fanny (earth genasi) is very comfortable in her role managing the dining room, and she doesn't have to bark out orders as often as when she was in the city guard.
Root (Quillary's awakened shrub) acts like a coat check near the door. The plant appreciates the extra moisture from the wet raincoats.
Lif (former inhabitant of the manor) moves the occasional mug from the bar to an ordering table, invisibly and intangibly gliding through the room.
There are a handful of waiters and kitchen staff milling about, that you still don't know their names yet, but are familiar enough that you nod and smile when you see them.

Pascal still gets the occasional itch for adventuring, but for now is enjoying experimenting in the kitchen. The chef still has to be reminded to tone down the spiciness of the food, as the lizard-man barely notices or reacts to the capsaicin in hot peppers.

Hildigrim (halfling mastermind and psionic wizard) sits down, tired but satisfied at completing the copying of spells he wanted into his spell book.
He gives a sigh, as he still hasn't found a bag of holding for sale. In his desperation, he even wrote to people he knows in Amphail.
Regis Brightgem wrote back that he doesn't have any in stock, but will keep an ear open for any houses where such a bag can be liberated... for a cost.
Marigold Butterleaf wrote back that she is unaware of such a magic bag, but has Hildigrim considered getting one of her friendly zombies? They make good porters and provide companionship!

Quillary (half-elvish-looking druid wearing a cat skull) and Drusk (half-orc Life cleric in elvish style clothing) are debating Hildigrim's recent suggestion to get more ghost servers and to push that in the advertising. Quillary doesn't object, but wants to make sure they are properly compensating, and not locked into a contract until they die stop existing. Drusk isn't so keen on the idea, as a Life cleric. He would prefer live waiters, who can cheerfully praise Lliira while visibly partying.

Jorin (human warrior) is getting a bit angsty. He is continuing his blacksmith work, especially after finding that small and somewhat hidden blacksmith building in the Trollskull Alley, but his recent works are not to his standards. All artists hit (and move past) the occasional rut, but he is still frustrated. Getting a distillery set up in the basement for Drusk's new hobby is helping, but perhaps some new adventure is what is really needed to give him some inspiration.

The last of the diners steps out into the rain, and it doesn't seem like anyone else is braving the downpour outside.
It is almost closing time.

"So, I was thinking I might pay Fala a visit tomorrow to ask her as well," Hildigrim says of their neighbor. "Herbalists need bags of holding, don't they? To carry roots and leaves and things?" As the door opens to the Road's End, Fanny looks over the halfling's head. Hildi turns to follow her gaze to the late-comer. He opens his mouth to tell them they are about to close, but something about the drenched individual causes him to be caught uncustomarily speechless.

One of the mugs Lif is carrying back from a table stops midair and redirects itself, seemingly, toward a table in the corner that appeared full of used plates, bowls, and cutlery. And empty of people... except there is (suddenly?) someone, who grabs the mug with a light brown hand, peers down into it, raises her eyebrows, and drains the remaining half tankard of cider. 

Dark brown eyes dart up to the others in the room, realizing this has likely drawn attention. 

"No use letting it go to waste," she says, in a smooth, cool, voice. Like a palm sliding along slate.

Her frame is small, her toes barely touch the floor and at first she seems a child. She's got black hair that seems to emit from her head in wild tendrils of varying length, from every angle, dotted with white streaks. Her gaze is bottomless, and it devours the room.

"You five came... recommended from on high. Lord Neverember, in fact. Anyone up for a little search and rescue underground?" she says, eyes scooping up Pascal, Quillary, Hildigrim, Drusk, and Jorin. "It pays. Gold and more if you go, plus salvage, and a bonus for anyone you find. And some sort of special bag they have as a downpayment. It might kill you to go, but there's certainly upside. Don't blame me, I'm just the messenger."

She leans back in her chair, taking in the room once more, and grabs the mug, tries to drink it, and realizes it's empty. She sighs, sets it on the table, and two long knives materialize in her hands. She begins running them across each other as if... sharpening them, and also looping them around her hands and fingers, somehow not harming herself. The movements appear almost unconscious, and... self-soothing? They aren't threatening, but they are probably unnerving.

Quillary blinks owlishly at the newcomer, then glances calmly at the others, as if to ask, is this a guest or a threat or what? She *thinks* it is not normal for invisible people to surprise you and then draw steel, but there was that time a patron threw a surprise party for a colleague that included illusory fireworks and Quillary’d turned into a giant snake and about squeezed him to death before Fanny had managed to explain it to her. So she keeps her seat.

Fanny (earth genasi NPC) sees the knife play, and moves between the newcomer and the party like a rocky barricade.

Seeing that people are wary but not fighting, she steps out of the way again when it doesn't appear there will be stabbing or bashing or snake squeezing.
A bit sheepishly, she explains to the party: "I didn't realize that a customer was still here. I remember she came in early in the dinner service, and seemed like a new customer, ordering a lot of samples from the menu. She was also asking about the people who ran the Bistro, but I thought that was just small talk at the time."

Jorin steps forward, one hand resting on a weapon pommel at his hip, and the other extended towards the stranger.  "I am Jorin, of the Bodt.  How did you come to hear of us?"

Jorin is unarmored, standing in a pale blue tunic trimmed in white.  His shirt has a wide neck leaving a bit of his upper chest and shoulders visible.  Light blue tattoos flow out from one sleeve and up his neck.  He has amber colored hair cut into a scalp lock running into a braid that falls to his mid back.  His face has a beard of medium length. 

"Jorin," the woman says, inclining her head in acknowledgement that someone had replied. Her hands freeze, and the long knives just disappear from her hands. She places her hands on the table, calmly. It seems she's realized that something had set the group off. She looks at his hand extended toward her, unsure if it is accusing, threatening, or welcoming. 

Insight: 13

"You can call me Spar. Like I said, I'm just the messenger, passing along a job, if you want it. The message I received said Lord Renaer Neverember suggested you five for the job. That you'd done work in the past, for him and for Vajra Safahr. That you were... unconventional. But you don't give up easily, and you've got some tricks up your sleeves, and you might actually find these poor lost scouts. Or I can check to see if Force Grey is available. Now..."

She raises one hand and reaches inside her dark cloak, revealing red and black painted steel plate underneath, and comes back out with a folded piece of fancy paper. She holds it out to Jorin, and if he looks at it, he sees an official-looking Waterdeep document, properly notarized, saying all courtesy should be extended to the honored guests by the Lord's Alliance, good for the next ten-day.

"Are you interested in hearing about the job, or should I make myself scarce?"

Spar has a magnetic, compelling affect. It's hard to look away from her once you realize she's there. She's not classically beautiful, and as you look closer, there are scars on her hands and face. But there's an otherworldly pulchritude about her. Like an off-white marble statue of an angel with spiderweb cracks. 

She looks at Fanny and says, "either way, how much to I owe you for all this amazing food? Is there any left back i the kitchen?"

Quillary bounces up from her seat and comes over as Spar is delivering her piece. Quillary takes the paper from Spar and gently puts it in Jorin’s outstretched hand with a kind smile, then turns back to Spar, sitting down at the table with her. “Spar, like the part of a boat,” she says. “Gold is only of interest to my friends because they are busy-ness people, and they have an establishment to fund. But we are always looking for people to save. Tell us more.”

Quillary is a half-elf, tallish, and quite pretty, but there’s something in her manner, in her golden eyes, that is just… off. Her skin is patchy, dark and pale, including across her face, like an imperfect mask. Her hair is curly and long, and today, relatively clean. There is a small animal skull woven into the front, over her forehead.  She is dressed in patchwork clothes, but serviceable boots, and the only weapon on her is a small knife of the sort you might peel a potato with. Her gaze is unsettling, like there’s something in there with her.

Quote from rkmobius >>

She looks at Fanny and says, "either way, how much to I owe you for all this amazing food? Is there any left back i the kitchen?"

Pascal (fire sorcerer lizard-man): "If this job offer you sayin' is interesting, then consider the meal on me. Be sure to recommend the Road's End Bistro to your friends as well.
"For food left in the back, I have some gumbo I made for myself, that I could split wit you. I call it my "Too Hot for Hades Gumbo".  Has a nice little spicy kick, I gar-un-tee."

Behind Pascal, Drusk (half-orc cleric) makes an "X" symbol with his arms (do not eat that).
He has had to use Lesser Restoration on more than one of the hired cooks, who developed skin blister from just the aromatic steam coming off that gumbo, let alone trying to eat it.

Spar watches Quillary approach and sit down, and the woman leans a bit further back in her chair, wary. Not to dodge blows, but rather enthusiasm. She hands over the paper, but keeps an eye on it. 

"Boat. Right. Something like that," she says. "Well, here's the long and skinny of it. There's some Lord's Alliance outpost in the Dragonspine Mountains. Northwest Moonsea region. Some men were scouting the Underdark, like you do. Got themselves lost. Job's to recover them, hopefully still alive. For some reason, the Lord's Alliance of official heroes can't go. So they have to go... independent contractor. Force Grey, honestly, probably isn't available, but the second choice after you lot is is a band of bugbears, worked for Volo. Problem is, I'm told, they kidnap and rough people up for gold so I came to you first."

She looks again at the five adventurers. She leans forward, just a bit, acclimatizing to Quillary. There's a nod of mutual, maybe not respect, maybe not understanding, but something. A similar unsettling gaze meets Quillary's, but then darts away.

"Anyhow, this outpost asked for help, and like a hot potato it got passed along to Laeral Silverhand. She's the one arranging things. So if you're up to it, you prepare for a day or two in the Underdark, show up at dawn at Blackstaff Tower. That's where you get that fancy bag I mentioned earlier, as a downpayment. From there, they'll send you to the outpost realquick. The commander of the Citadel of the Raven'll know more. Might want to be quick about it, they're getting worried about the scouts. If you return, you get 100 gold each, and a greater healing potion. You keep what you find in the Underdark. You get more gold for each scout you bring back alive. I get a small token of recognition for my efforts to locate the Big Damn Heroes, a finder's fee, let's say."

Eyebrows rise, looking at Pascal, Drusk, Jorin, and Hildrigrim. "So? You taking the job or do I go bug some bugbears to take it from you?"

She files away Pascal's offer for later, after seeing the reaction.

Quillary flat out growls and bares her teeth at the mention of the bugbears.

Jorin's face lights up at the mention of the mountains, "I haven't been in mountains in some time, and these lost adventurers would be better found by us than bugbears."

Drusk sees Quillary grimacing, and the newcomer tightening her grip on her weapons in anticipation of trouble.
(Jorin is temporarily in a daydream about snow-covered mountains, not like the slime-covered caverns underneath Waterdeep.)

With as much of a soothing voice as he can do (ie. still growling and guttural), and a bright smile (with sharp misaligned teeth), Drusk says,
"We've had an encounter with those bugbears, and they are unpleasant. Dimwitted too. Quillary's reaction is what we all feel, on the inside, about that lot.
If for some reason this negotiation doesn't work out, I suggest you skip them, and move to your next option on your list.
But please, keep talking. I for one like the idea of a good rescue.
And if Never-remember (what is his name again?) wanted us to do this, we can remind him of that when it is time to discuss continuing his patronage of this restaurant"

Quillary comes out of her growl quickly. “Oh, I like Spar just the messenger,” she looks back at the others. “We should do this thing.” She looks back at Spar. “You will come with us, yes? More than just a messenger?”

Spar's fingers do relax as she realizes that Quillary isn't going to attack. Blades do not return to her hands. She leans back a bit more.

She nods at Jorin, wondering if he enjoys what's under the mountains as much as the mountains themselves.

To Drusk, she says, "what more do you need to know?"

And to Quillary, she says, "they wanted five, and I count five of you." She points in sequence at Quillary, Drusk, Jorin, Hildigrim, and Pascal. "One, two, three, four, five. So looks like you're on your own, and I'm outta luck. Very sad. I'll console myself with my finder's fee."

Quote from rkmobius >>

And to Quillary, she says, "they wanted five, and I count five of you." She points in sequence at Quillary, Drusk, Jorin, Hildigrim, and Pascal. "One, two, three, four, five. So looks like you're on your own, and I'm outta luck. Very sad. I'll console myself with my finder's fee."

At those words, Fanny stiffens up. She tries to discreetly make her way over to Pascal (which is difficult to do with her size and muscle mass), and whispers to him.
Pascal murmurs back, "I tought dat was next ten-day." Fanny shakes her head no.

Since everyone's attention is on them anyways, Pascal speaks to the group.
"Youse in luck, 'cause I can't go. I signed for the Hot Wings and Chili Bake-Off, bein' held at the Yawning Portal. Fanny reminds me it is 2 days, so I prep tomorrow." (Gives a lizard tongue lick, which you've learned is his high-spirited competitiveness.) "And day after, when I win, lotsa publicity for the Bistro.

"Good luck finding those Lard Olliance peeps... I'll prep some travel snacks this night, before you leave."

Spar's easy, unconcerned air starts to dry up as Fanny and Pascal get on the same page. Her expression falls, and darkens. "Hot. Wings. And. Chili. Bake. Off." She says in a broken, self-reflective staccato, and smiles, viciously, at the ceiling. A dagger appears in her hand and she begins cleaning her nails with it. But, like, passive-aggressively? Muttering to herself.  "Couldn't just ... ruzzafrazza... easy job, no." *stabbing motions* "Tktktktkt...must have known." *stabbing motions* "Gonna mdrmdrmdrmdr ... when I fzzzzzzzz..." *more stabbing motions*

Then the muttering becomes more emphatic but less comprehensible. She slams the dagger (on its side, not the tip) on the table and looks up with an accusatory glare. "Well, looks like the joke's on me. I'll come with you, Quillary. More than just the messenger. I'm your new partner!" (Giving 'Marion shouting at Indiana Jones holding a talisman in front of a burning bar' vibes.)

She points at Pascal, with emotion, like you'd do if you were a child and wanted to threaten someone's life. "I want triple snacks, buddy. Your food? ... Is very good. You're probably going to win the bake-off."

In the lull of conversation, Hildigrim finally speaks up. His face is wide open and full of wonder. His fingers curl child-like over the edge of the table. And, of course, since he's a halfling — and a small one at that — his chin is almost resting on his hands. "Where are you from?" he asks dreamily. The others note a strange accent to his words. It sounded — though just a little deeper — as if the newcomer had asked the question.

Quillary follows all of Spar’s mumbling and carrying son carefully. At the end, she says quietly, “I think you must be frightening at times.” Then she hears Hildi’s question, and she turns expectantly to Spar.