Faraldir spat, and a chicken bone skittered across the wooden board set before him. He sat at the head of the table, a long thing of roughshod driftwood fit for a dockside tavern like the Flowing Bowl. He was joined at dinner by his prospective party, a ragtag group of a dozen men, mer, and beastfolk. He knew some of them by name already. Lijah Cuu, the Breton from High Rock, good with a blade, better in the shadows. Allectus Valeres, a swordsman hailing from the Imperial City. Gog gro-Magog, wolf-friend. And Brother Gaius, priest of Arkay, who sat at his left and picked at his venison with knife and fork. Their meal was coming to a close. It was time to speak, Faraldir knew, and some of the men had turned their eyes to him. The Nord took a long draught of ale, and set the goblet down on the table. He offered them a wolfish smile. “Gaius,” he said after a moment, slowly and surely, “how much do our guests owe for this feast?” he asked. A feast it was. Fine wine, venison, roasted chicken, mead and ale. No expense had been spared, and there had been plenty of expenses. “Nothing,” Gaius answered. The wolfish smile struck him again. “Nothing,” Faraldir repeated. He took another draught of the ale. “All this, paid for with my own gold. Me, a poor Nord, a sellsword who lived by the meager profits of his blade for the better part of his life.” He paused a while, turning his eyes to the dark brew in his goblet. “And I was poor. Before I went beneath the earth.” Faraldir stood, draining the goblet of ale and reaching for a bottle of Alto wine. “This man to my left is Brother Gaius Tarso,” he said as the wine flowed. “He is a priest, a man of the Divines, and a learned man of great knowledge. In our travels, he told me of the Ayleids, the ancient elves who once ruled these lands. He told me of their ruins.” Faraldir set the bottle of wine down and drank of the gold liquid. “He told me where I might find one near to us, and I descended into those dark depths.” He drank deeply once more, and set the goblet back on the table. “You see the profits of my expedition before you. You have eaten of it. Drunk of it. And I am offering you an opportunity to take it for yourself. Join me, and you’ll see a great many feasts more.” And Faraldir sat, leaned back in his chair, and smiled that wolfish smile.

Sheila sat at the table, nursing a fourth tankard of grog. The feast laid out before her had been entirely too rich for her tastes; she has always preferred tougher stuff, and more importantly it wasn't food she had obtained through her own deeds. The grog, however, was less watered down than some of the seedier watering holes, and its bitter taste was enough to keep her in her chair. The orc half-listened as the nord went on about riches in some caver or other. Him and the priest were being far too dramatic about his job for her tastes -- it sounded as if they were trying to sell her a horse -- so Sheila cast her eyes on the others Faraldir has gathered for his little "expedition." A shady-looking Breton, who looks like he'd happily stab her in the back if it suited him. The Imperial might as well be a walking caricature with his austere visage and that stick that had quickly lodged itself in his ass the moment he saw the orcs at their table. Sheila bet that he'd go out of his way to find a way to stab her in the back, even if inconvenient. The young orsimer was the one who Sheila deemed the most respectable of the lot; but that wasn't saying too much. He was a still a man, and a fairly young one at that. There was something in the orc's eye that annoyed her; what it was, she didn't know. A ramshackle group if ever she saw one. It'd be a miracle if they could cooperate when danger reared its head. So, all in all, they were your typical co-workers. Sheila turned her gaze back at the Nord as he finished his little speech -- Sheila wondered if he had stayed up last night preparing it for their sake -- and watched the man lean back and smear a shit-eating grin over his face. "Gratitude for the meal," Sheila began, "But if you would hire me on I would ask that you pay me in more than feasts. I would ask that we come to specific terms of payment before you ask me to risk my life exploring some abandoned cave. You offer coin? Or share of presumed treasure to be found? If the former, what is the sum? The latter, how do you intend to compensate us in the case your Brother's ruin is naught but an empty tomb?" There was no point in wasting words; if you don't clearly agree upon terms, some slimy human or elf will cheat you out of your fair reward.

Gog had switched off to the words of the Nord somewhat early in the sales pitch. Typical human, he had thought to himself. Nevertheless it seemed like a good deal. Gog had wandered near these Ayleid ruins and yet had never steeled himself to go inside of one. It would be an understatement to say his innate curiosity was getting the better of him. He had heard tales of the ruins, of the creatures that are found within their walls. Not to mention the more unsavory and... supernatural. Ultimately he was brought back to the present by the blunt words of his fellow Orsimer. Gog knew none of his would-be companions, however the presence of an Orc reassured him slightly. Though Gog knew better than to trust anyone on face value, he also knew that an Orc was more likely to be hardy and ready for the dangers ahead. He felt safer knowing an Orc - and one older than him as well - would be fighting on their side. Her point in this instance was clear - she wanted an obvious agreement on how the loot would be split and how the companions would be paid. A fair point and one he would happily second. "I too, would like to know what our agreement is. I'm more than ready to delve into these ruins, as is Wulf. But for what exactly am I risking my hide for?" Gog sat back in the chair and took another bite from a chicken leg he had been gnawing for the last few minutes. The Flowing Bowl wasn't the worst tavern he had been to, and the food he had sampled tonight was acceptable. However he couldn't help but feel that the usual customer experience was less than stellar.