Stilted Gold Tavern, Groanmarket, in the territory of [Galjuran].

The faint sound of wooden hinges snapping above the loud, boisterous merrymaking signaled the familiar entrance of another patron to the Stilted Gold Tavern. Some would swear by the sound, that they could hear its soft groan and creakiness as it opened even from miles away. It was faint yet ever-present, or so the braggadocious spill-coins might say.

As eyes darted to the doorway from every corner of the tavern, a hush of quiet was the lowly greeting to a short-statured man of about three and a half feet tall - Well, three and a quarter really but don't be caught saying so. The [Halfling] man took an in-depth look around before he spotted his fellow and made his way towards the bar. Soundless in blackened leathers and with a cowl that cut the light just right, so his chiseled jaw and butt-chin could be partially seen.

No one greeted him at the bar, nor should anyone expect it. He tapped a gold coin against the counter and inserted it into a deep groove that ran the length of the smooth and polished wood.

"Two piynts o' Gladfill, keep 'em comin'," he spoke grimly and, as those that knew him would say, about as clearly as it got.

Two disembodied, lanky-long arms popped out from the deeper darkness that prevailed in the space behind the counter, which snatched up the stilted coin. Two mugs of the amber liquid, Gladfill, were then brought out from the pitch-black screen moments later.

He promptly made his way, mugs in hand, over to the table in a dimly lit corner where his fellow sat waiting.

"Tell me again why we always comin' to this Taven wheneva wei'sin G-G-G'roinmarket, B'ightface?" He said with a gnarled out, broken voice.

"What, are you still lookin' for yir cock, Illine?" 'Brightface' replied with large eyes.

"My cock was found in ya Motha' last night, ya Fatha helped me ta look," Illine said while lowering the cowl to reveal his head of slicked-back black hair and sharp thin eyebrows. His piercing blue eyes held in a deadpan lock with Brightface.

More than a few seconds passed while they searched one another's gazes in silence. After what felt like an over-extended lull before a beatdown, a loud, peeling laughter boomed out from Brightface, the two smiling in turn as they clasped arms while patting each other vigorously.

The two sat down moments later while clinking their mugs together and taking a long drink of the Amber beer in tandem. Brightface snorted, passing a hand over his bald head and straightening out his purple and gold embroidered Jerkin.

"This is the best Tavern in all of Groanmarket. It's comfortable and even has a fun lil' mystery to pass the time pondrin' while we drink," he said while gesturing towards the black space behind the bar counter.

"it's clea' ta'me Gimmick Magic is at play. I jes' think is alata wo'k foe a bah," Illine spoke like a man who deeply hated the letter 'R' and more than a bit bouncy in spots.

As always, Brightface took a few seconds to parse what exactly Illine had said.

"When the tavern first opened, it garnered a lot of notoriety from this, as you say, gimmick. Over the years, folks have been spinnin' yarns about the place. People go missin' in a dark alley after tearin' it up, the people swearin' they saw a pair of arms for a split second before no one ever hears from 'em again. Made the bar famous that hardly seems like too much work."

"Ai. I guess ya cannot put a piece on note-iety."

A sharp glint passed through his eyes as he stabbed a dagger through the tabletop. A pitiful squeal was heard from below as a rat became impaled to the floorboards. The blade returned with a twirl through the air in an arc that saw it snatched up within Illine's lazy hand.

As the conversation between the two continued, there was a quiet murmuration going on amongst the other patrons.

"'Ooze this one now?" A man asked in confusion.

"That's Illine 'Ill-end' Wollie, the Halfling [Deep-Dagger Assassin]!" Another man whisper-exclaimed.

A woman also whispered over her mug in a lean, "That other man is Saffin 'Brightface' Kincade [Bright-Sword Drifter]! They're both members of the Ghastly Half-Hearts!" She squealed towards the end, which prompted shushing gestures from those around her.

"I 'ere once Illend stabs a Motha 'is Dagga remains within 'is victim 'til deaf." The patron gulped before leaning in further to whisper, "then, poof, 'is Dagga returns ta 'im whe'eva 'e be inna World."

"I hear he likes knowin' there's someone sufferin' out there wherever he goes, and each of his 13 daggers be numbered."

"I hear..."

"I hope ai neva meet'im inna alley..."

The quick looks and tampered conversations went on as the two members of the Ghastly Half-Hearts stood, making sure everyone could see them.

Brightface spoke through pursed lips, "Well, we've shown our faces in the area. No one can say we were nowhere near the meeting-site. Let's get outta here."

"Whatov' ow 'itty-bitty' Junio'? Anysome Nyathamon found int'estin outta be fun," Illine said like pouring smoke from a bucket.

"That'll just have to depend on him, won't it?" Saffin smirked. His brown eyes rolled across the crowd as they stepped towards the doorway, out into the bustling avenues of Groanmarket. They made sure they would be talked about. People paid a lot of money to keep tabs on notable individuals no matter where one was in the world.

It's just that Groanmarket was even more aggressive about it.

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