The Niche Inn

In one of the seediest parts of town, The Niche Inn is where many of the most notorious criminals gather to openly plan their next heist and enjoy questionable pleasures. Although it tends to be a familiar haunt for many, its ramshackle outside matches the facades of many of the sooty and refuse-covered buildings around it. Inside, the atmosphere is almost that of a smutty holiday. People of many species join into the almost constant barfight, gamble shamelessly, drink themselves below the tables, or enjoy the well-paid maids who are scattered strategically throughout. 



The only windows are shuttered holes, not large enough to let out the sweaty, smoky atmosphere, but just conveniently placed as to chuck out a particularly putrid puking patron. The bartender is a large, bald man who wears his empty eye socket proudly, winning it as he had in the same card game he had gotten the Inn in. Dirty glasses clatter under the hands of both the wealthy and poor as they mingle - for the most part. The upper floor is generally used for nighttime pleasures and a bit of sociable quiet. 



Patrons wishing for more privacy for their planning can be hurried off to the side rooms or, with a large group, to the catacombs below - for a fee, of course. Anyone they might need for their plots can probably be found upstairs, and with a heavy coin and a sharp bark, the richer patrons can have the wanted specimen wrested from the raucous crowd. No "Lawkeepers" have yet found the secret rooms - or at least those who don't participate in the tavern's many pleasures themselves. Buisness continues as usual, despite the constant warfare between class and species - As they say, "Quite frankly, we're all the same, so who gives a d---."

Gibbons picked his teeth languidly with the dull end of a toothpick, surveying his empire triumphantly. Buisness was booming. Some black market merchants were busy peddling their wares three tables from the back corner, the gambling tables were turning in his favor, and the ale flowed easily. He wiggled his sausage-like toes in his boots in anticipation still, though. The biggest haul was yet to come. Some pretentious noble had rented out three of the lower catacombs for some secret affair. What a rich man Gibbons would be after this night!

A customer called for another round of drinks and the slop that was currently being served as lunch. The barkeep looked into the pot and ladeled some out, doubting that anyone would really eat the gruel if they hadn't been already impaired. He mentally shrugged and fetched one of his waiters to get the customers' refills. Not his problem.

He leaned back against the back counter again, scratching his expansive belly thoughtfully. Who can say they have such a wonderful s***hole as this? He grinned his cracked, blackened teeth. He was waxing poetic today.

Nihilimeya walked into the bar casually. This world had at least some places that were dark enough to get a clear thought in. This city seemed to do the trick for her. And there was Ale and other sorts of alcoholic beverages that some of these pitiful wastes of creatures made that were fairly decent. Since it was all she had since her arival at Tiroch, she would make due with it. Perhaps she could find some useful information of the where-abouts of her dear Scyn here. After all, it would've been a shame to come all this way, hoping for a reason to whet her saber's appetites, and come back to her master empty handed.

"I suppose you're actually going to eat that fodder," she said to one of the patrons as she sat down near him. He looked up at her, mouth filled with the slimy grop, and gawked at her body. Curious as she was about the race, she found this certain one to be rather disgusting, and it was apparent on her facial expression.

"Maybe I actually like the sh**, milady. Now waddya want?" He said with a playful smile. Nihilimeya wanted nothing more than to rip his face off and smeer it in the grime he was eating. But she could feel the ounce of knowledge in his mind. He had come across someone who wielded the force. Which only meant Scyn.

"Well, the sooner you get your eye level with mine, the sooner I can make use of our time," she said, concieling a threat with her mild tone. The slob caught on quickly and examined her facial features. "Much better. Now, I know for certain you've encountered a rather special man who wields a special 'magic,' mister..."

"Tier. Name's Tier. And yeah, I know who you mean. Some bloke can make things move wiff'out touchin' em. He had a bloody cloak and hood made 'im all sneaky like. He asked me 'couple a years ago about some were named... Aw, I dunno. Somethin.' But anyway, I know who you mean." He said, being as cooperative as he could. A smile crept on Nihilimeya's face. The thing wasn't too rude, to say the least. He was a fool, however.

"Perfect. Do you know where he went when you ran into him?" she asked coyly. He seemed to buy into it, his eye examined her bodice once more. She looked over to the bartender and notioned for him. "May I get a pint of ale, please sir? Thank you," she asked politely.

"Methinks he went to Strid, but the doctors got a hold of 'im. Last I 'eard, he woke in a desert and traveled to Tiroch," Tier said.

"Thank you, Tier, you've been more than adequate." She said as she waited on her drink. She had all the information she needed. All she needed now was to track him.

Simmons frowned nervously as he handed yet another table of bawdy demons their booze. His face was a puzzle of pockmarks and zits, the bane of any teenager of his age. Almost beady, completely black eyes stared out and around the crowd from beneath a curly shock of auburn hair that seemed to thin out and roll over the poor boy's entire body. He scratched his chin a little where a patchy beard he was unproportionally proud of was beginning to erupt.

The tall, gangly ginger weaved through the packed and warped tables, quivering as he peddled drinks to the patrons. His thin, ratlike face blinked flashes of paranoia as he kept a close eye on the patrons. He towered over the majority of the crowd, but among the flood of un-humanity, he was as unnoticed as many of the other male waiters. He and other such demons or half-demons were often Gibbons' first warning system when something momentous was about to break loose.

Simmons almost jumped out of his skin when a woman caught his eye and called him over unconciously. She was as well-endowed and well-displayed as a couple of the barmaids that tittered through the patrons; something increasingly rare as many of the similarly attractive patrons were snapped up and consigned with the Inn. Not only could the barmaids be well-paid for their trouble, they also could take leave as they needed to go on mercenary work as requested by the more ambitious patrons.

"May I get a pint of ale, please, sir? Thank you," she had called to the bartender. Unfortunately, with the raucous crowd that had clambered in tonight, it was unlikely that Gibbons had heard the woman, so the boy scurried over - as well as someone nearly seven and a half feet tall can scurry - and whispered in Gibbons' ear.

"Tha' woman, there, she's a h--luva good looker, but she gives me tha' heebie-jeebies," Simmons reported dutifully, his eyes still roving nervously about the smoky, dim room. "She wan's some ale. I thinks we should gimmit to 'er and be done."

The mountainous man scratched his ample belly complacently, regarding the stranger in question lazily with his one, mud-brown eye. A chill tickled his spine slightly in a way that he only got when a more powerful demon than the general rabble visited the Inn. The waiter was still standing next to him, awaiting Gibbons' orders. "Whatdja stop to tell me for, y'oversized bean sprout?!" Gibbons bellowed at the boy, "Get 'er 'er ale and get 'er outta here before we get trouble!"

The boy scurried off to the back, drawing ale and promptly bringing it out to set it next to the woman's elbow quietly with a clink. "Yer ale, ma'am," he whispered before turning to scurry off again.

"Thank you, dear boy," Nihilimeya said to the child. She eyed the bartender one last time before she stood to leave. It was nearly that time anyway. Any moment, as her meditation proved, he would throw her out for some reason.

"Aye, hold it, dog," Tier called after her, "Ye better pay up for the information Ah 'ave ye! Methinks I need the company tonight anyways." Ohh, poor choice of words, and wrong request. Without looking back at the hound, Nihilimeya closed her eyes and listened as the mand started to choke on some invisible force. His struggles became greater as he grasped for air, but found nothing. He then fell to the floor dead. Nihilimeya finished her drink and started to walk out. Pulling her sabers out for these weaklings would be a waste of her much needed time.






To Erith Building

The woman glided out of the door with barely a twinge of notice. A couple patrons, watching the exchange between this woman and her informant simply averted their eyes as she passed, only to bore their gazes into her back balefully. There was no love lost between the fallen man and his loose companions, but any outburst of superior strength was threatening to them. Something in the woman's rigid back bespoke a power that these guttersnipes dared not reach for; they dared not touch her, and turned back to their table as she swept out of the door to nurse their drinks and mutter discontentedly.

Gibbons had already barked orders to a few of his 'enforcers' to get rid of the body in the usual way. Three hefty demons of indeterminate and rather mutilated forms were heaving the body to the hellhounds in the back when the bartender looked up again to mentally make his rounds. There was little change in the greasy atmosphere of the pub; the card game was roaring, the black market merchants rubbing elbows with nobles in dark corners, and the women enticing their preferred customers as if nothing had passed. Gibbons shrugged noncommittally and returned to wiping his dusty mugs with a greasy, stained cloth.

Simmons glanced at the door again a few moments after the woman had left, praying silently that she wouldn't return. At least not on my shift, the half-demon frowned, scratching a whitehead for a moment while he took a short breather. There was a screech for heavy beverage hurled in his direction, and Simmons was on his feet again. Nothing about the encounter was particularly distinctive for that part of town, much less for the Niche Inn; life, as usual, went on.