To say that the street was shady would be accurate. It did not just have a feeling of danger from the wet, creaking planks that barely held together as buildings, but the way that they leaned inwards over the street, slumping in a way that was halfway between looming and exhausted left shadows for any number of unfriendly creatures hid inside. Darkness was not a commodity, even at mid-day on the street, and as such, the Black Seagull was hard to find for those who didn't know where to look. The entrance was tucked away inside an alley that slanted off the street that itself was mistaken for an alley by those who were not at home in the shadows. The muddy stains on the young man's black coat blended in with the blackish brown of the planks and the muddy path as he made his way down the street. His backpack with most of his valuable posessions sat safely back at a more respectable tavern in a rented room. Less to keep out of the hands of pickpockets. He would re-stock on provisions and find a shovel later in the day, but for the moment he wanted more information, and this tavern was the only place he knew that might have a lead. At least, a lead that wouldn't cost more than he could pay. He was searching for the storyteller that had come to the port months back, back before he had gotten into his adventures. Adventure. He still was new at them. It had been one tale, a tale of a stone obelisk that would whisk men away to fields of gold. A tale of a magical rock, a key, that opened the way to wonders.
The light in the tavern was dull, like it had died and the pale echo of light was all that illuminated the dozen or so faces that drank beer, murmering to each other. If the street had been any brighter, the young man's eyes would not have been adjusted for the gloom. It was the same as it always had been. A thin, long room sandwiched between other slightly more reputable establishments in the dock district, wall sconces burning low. The old man wasn't there. He walked to the back, passing conversations that went quiet as he passed, then started up in hushed tones. The barkeep looked young for how old he really was. Black, matted hair and a trimmed beard with dark eyes that looked like they were made of polished rock. He had been the barkeep since before the young man was born, since before the rifts had been rumored to open deep in the wild lands of this unsettled continent.
"So you return, young master Thistle." The barkeeps voice was low, with the barest hint of harshness. "I expected you to have died wandering about after that silly tale, but fools have their luck." The young man, thistle was not his true name, only smiled and pushed a small bag across the counter, jingling with a few coins.
"When was that storyteller last here, Greggory?" His voice was quiet, just above a whisper.
"So you're looking for that one again? Going to pay him back for the wild goose chase?" Greggory leaned back, chuckling. "No, I can't tell you that, the man has a high priced deal you can't match up against." The young man's face tightened, eyes sliding downwards in thought as he reached forward toward the bag. "But, what I can tell you is who else is looking for him, for that price at least."
The young man's hand stopped , hovering over the bag. Greggory grinned at the hesitation. "And where I can find them."
"That will cost you more. An account of the route you took before coming back." Greggory eyed the bag of coins.
"I'll draw a map of half of my journey and throw in a few more coins."
"Well. . .that might be acceptable. How many more will depend on the quality of the map." Greggory ducked down behind the counter, a few glasses clinked against each other as he rummaged into the back. He straightened up, setting parchment and a quill pen on the table before stooping to grab a well of ink.
The young man nodded. "A beer then, while I'm working," he said, digging out a few coins from his pockets and placing them on the bar. He retreated to a small table, scratching out lines on the parchment, labeling parts, and drawing in small graphic representations where they were needed. It became a long flowing line that ran from one edge to another. Satisfied, he returned to the counter. "Will this do?"
"Come back in two days. I'll have a few people I know check it for accuracy as well as they can and I'll have your information ready."
As the young man left the Black Seagull, a few eyes tracked his progress, making sure to remember his face.
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