Fal looked over the balcony at the smog smeared district below. Though obscured by the black smoke of the furnaces, the district was avid with life: the clank of machinery, the squabbles of tradesmen and gypsies debating over prices, the horn blast of a coal boat slowly crawling its way upon of the wide canals that cut the districts apart, making islands of them. In the far, far distance he could make out the shining spire of The Rapier: The Lord of Swords stronghold, looming above the rest of the city; its pinnacle the watchful eye of this lands God. Or so the Lord thought.

With a sigh, Fal turned from his view back to his office inside the East Watch Barrack, where his guest was waiting.

“Roman, what did I tell you about talking to the other guardsmen?”, asked Fal in a stern voice.

“Captain, I meant no harm, only I needed to get hold of you as soon as I could.”, stuttered Roman, his face red from anxiety, yet fear was absent in his eyes.

“Fortunately for you and I, you spoke to someone who was already in on the game. If you had been less lucky, I think we may have found both of our heads on spikes.”

Roman gulped. “Well, I’m here now, and I know who I must and mustn’t talk to.”

“What news do you bring?”
“They asked me to send for you.”
“Ah, our patrons in your pub, I presume?”
“Yes, Captain.”

Fal stepped to his desk and began to decant whiskey into a crystal glass. Having lit a cigarette, he turned with a grey exhalation, “I have given them what they want, Roman; I’ve given them the blind eye they wanted. My part is played, what more could they want from me?”

“Sir, you see...”, Roman puffed his chest forward: a mixture of pride and a brace against the reaction to the news he brought.”They’re planning to take North Watch.”
Fal’s reaction was one of shock, only traceable through his rough exterior by his paralyzed contemplation of what he had just heard. “You can’t be serious? Their funding is triple ours, the Lords fist a thousand fold tighter, have they gone completely mad?”
“No, sir.”, spoke Roman.
“This does not explain why they need me, Roman.”
“Trust me, Captain”, replied Roman, stepping forward to look over the balcony as Fal had done. “They need you.”

The Crossbowmen of the Guard Houses usually worked in small groups - most often 10 men, but today there were noticeably larger concentrations of the men wearing their long black tunics and gray breastplates. The officers were discerned from the regular rank and file by the blue feathers on their wide hats and high collared cloaks.

One member of a group of officers however stood out with her breastplate having the emblem of the House Crow and the hat had a bright green feather. She had pulled the long collar of her cloak up and made sure her hair also covered the left side of her face.

Two nearly identical men followed after their commander and actually were deep in a rather pointless conversation about the lack of good wine in the current part of the city. Ramia let out a rather exasperated gasp and brought the unit of 20 men to a halt. With a little movement of her hand she motioned the rank and file men to form up in to two rows on either side of the road. "Since the noble twins Avar seem to have no love for cheap wine the lot of you have half an hour to reach the closest winehouse, enjoy two goblets of the cheapest wine they are offering and be back here. Am I understood?

The small group of Crossbowmen lifted their fists to their chests and let out a syncronous "Yes, Lady Crow." before they began running up the small hill towards a winehouse. "I still don't get why you keep doing that..." Caerin mumbled as he adjusted his blue feathered hat and spat on the cobblesstones while ever so slightly stroking his thin goatee. Ramia flashed a little smile "Well, dear Caerin. It keeps the morale of the men up - besides..." She lit a cigarette while leaning against the wall - though the lady did noticeably flinch as the paper began burning. "...It gives me a moment to clear my head before I have to meet the Lord of Swords himself."

Dion let out a little gasp "You are going to meet the Lord of Swords today? Why didn't you inform us earlier?" The twins glanced at each other like they had been betrayed ever so slightly. The black haired woman just forced the most innocent smile to her lips. "I just told you, besides I intend to go there alone - so you'll have the command again."

Caerin rolled his eyes "For what, half an hour? Or are you going to barricade yourself in one of the more shady winehouses again?" Though his tone was warm and humorous the look on his face changed in to a very apologetic one the very moment his eyes met with Ramia's. The Lady Crow blew out a ring of smoke and gave the blonde haired men a rather nasty look. "If you keep using that tone with me Caerin there are going to be consequences."

"Like sending us to bed without dinner?" Dion mumbled under his breath. The rather unnerving silence was broken by the three friends bursting in to laughter.

Trask was tired. He was always tired. As he picked his way through the streets, past vendors and patrons alike, squabbling over bargains on cheap junk, he pondered why he was always so drained. Was it the life he had led catching up with him? Was it simply age? Or what is the accursed smog that hung over the whole city like a caustic veil robbing them of sunlight and placing dark fingers around the cities throat, choking the lfe from all who dwell below it. His train of thought was broken by a man stumbling backwards into him. Wincing as he was forced to put all his weight on his weak leg, he grunted and pushed the man back upright. There was no apology, but then, Trask didn't expect one. Not these days.

"Watch where you're going, you imbecile!" He shouted after the man as he once again disappeared into conversation about some trinket or other, the next in a long line of shiny placebos the man will buy in order to fill the void that's left in the absence of any real freedom or happiness. People fill their lives with useless material things, convinced that one day they will be content, but they never are. Trask hated those people. Whether he hated them for their avaricious nature, their poorly thought out, illogical delusions or simply the fact that they still had the will to chase some kind of contentment in their lives, he wasn't sure. All he knew was he hated them.

Turning a corner, he relaxed a little, the alley into which he had turned as far less crowded than the main street and he was finally able to relax his shoulders ind fall into a decent walking rhythm. The noise of the market died down and he could hear the people in their homes, behind the walls that created the alleyway. There were arguments, crying, at one point, he was convinced he could hear someone praying. There's not much call for prayer in place where the gods have stopped looking. He thought to himself as he reached the other end of the alley and walked out into a small plaza. As he crossed the square he looked down at the mosaic set as the centrepiece. It must once have been a sight to behold, a striking mural of prosperity, but now, the scuffs of his boots joined the decades of others marring its surface, making the original pattern all but impossible to discern.

As he reached the other side of the square he ducked between two buildings into another alley where he stopped at an unmarked door. The Stiltwalker's Fall was a small tavern and one of the best kept secrets in the city. It was no surprise though, a secret that nobody cares about is one easily kept. It was dark, dingy and in disrepair, but it was quiet. That was exactly the type of place Trask was looking for. He banged on the heavy wooden door and waited. After a few seconds, a small hatch slid open and a pair of dull green eyes peered out from within.

What's the password? A voice asked.

Open the damned door, Pael, I'm thirsty. Trask snapped.

Oh, it's you. Hang on.

Bolts slid back and the door creaked open. Stepping inside, the smell of rotten wood and cheap alcohol greeted him. The door slammed shut behind him.

Soma tied his white horse to the stables in the city. "See ya Noah. I won't be long." He said with calm tone to assure his friend that this time he really won't be long. "Whoa, what a city." He shouted as he has never been here. It was a bright sunny day, ideal for a nice walk. "Its's hot here isn't it?" He said as he looked toward Noah. "Well you'll be fine. It isn't first time we are parting our ways." He started to walking on the street in front of him. It was long street with bunch of traders, vendors and bazaar. "If it isn't a trader's paradise or what?" He showed to much excitment that he quicly became noticed. Some ordinary man from the street approached him. "You are not from here lad?" He asked. "You could say that old man." The man was suprised to see an outsider and even one to telling that onloud. " say is there somewhere in this big city a tavern or something where I can wet my throat?" The man was shocked for the youngster's behaviour. He pointed his finger in the direction of the inn and told himself "This one won't live long." And nodded in dissapointment. He quickly drew attention of the people with his glancing, and his loudness."Who is this joker?" People quickly started to whisper about the stranger.

"Finally. Now let's drink something. Maybe even I meet some ladies." He was excited even too excited. He hurried inside and ordered a whiskey his favourite. " now let's enjoy a life a little." He said to himself putting his legs on the desk and rising his glass. "Cheers!"

(IGNORE THIS POST sorry D,= complete misunderstanding)

In the outer region of a large city, the constant clink of pick axes barely reaches the surface, muffled only by the burning of oars and those who hack away at wood, or stay in the alleys to gamble of fight, there sat three particularly odd people on the back of a beat down and barren pump. To the left most sat a woman, he skin pale, her lips red and her piercing black eye frightening away anyone who dared to even look to her. The boild leather strap bordering across the denim she and the other man adjacent to her wore, was there idea of armor. To the right most of them, sat a rather skrawny man, his face marked over with a mix of scars and bruises, his skin tan and olive, and his eyes a beautiful green. As he sat there, it became clear this man was not akin to being so open to the public. His eyes shook left and right, and he constantly sipping ever so slightly at the stale golden liquid they had been served as 'ale' only to be given hog wash.

The man in the middle was rather particularity however. He did not wear the think and slick armor of the afore mentioned characters, but instead was covered in embalming cloth that left only sparse hairs to flop every which way around, peeking out like an eel looking for a meal. His composer was strange, while the others seemed down and angry, he was lax, lax enough to recline and place a hand of both of there chairs. In his mouth,he kept a pipe that he used, rather than the small and fragile hookah that stood before them. Occasionally h would allow smoke to slither out from his nose. The funnel of smoke that came up from the pipe was thin and small, but stayed potent.
"sir, I believe we came here to discuss the matter of-" The lady began, sternly remarking only to be cut off by the leader himself.
"now now, be patient, it's be better to talk over our next meal, no?" The man asked in a sly way. The others nodded, and soon plates of burnt fish and seered grains arrived. The scrawny man went to negotiate they not pay for such trash.
"Now, we may talk of the raid"
"sir, with all do respect, this is the worst plan since that idea to steal all the cattl-"
"might I remind you, that was the idea of Ezreal, and I made sure he understood the consequences"
"The notion still stands" She growls.
The mummified man sips a drink before he responds, but he had done so slow and smooth.
"It may seem a bad idea, but that's assuming we are of the valiant militia that swings in, brandishing the crudest of weapons in an attempt to paralyze trained soilders in fear. But my plan runs deeper than such. Th guttersnipes are theifs remember, hilde? So why not use our abilities as such to steal away the needed resources from a group and have a minor bergade in the militia" He boast his plan wildly.
The two sit in silence as a bloody handed Ezreal walks back, tossing money onto the table.
"This revolt was going to happen someday, it was only a matter of time"
"I understand raul, but why help make a new, weaker government, lt takes from our revenue"
"Just be patient, we must prepare"
And with that, they leave

Fal had agreed to meet with Roman alone a little ways down the street before the Stiltwalker’s Fall tavern. Though a select members of the East Watch guard knew of the Captain’s slide of allegiances, and many of the guard would follow the Captain’s orders without a moment’s hesitation, there were still a great many eyes Fal had to be wary of. Turning in traitors was a very profitable business, one the Lord of Swords himself paid handsomely for – but money was never a motive for Fal.

Roman was propped against a lantern-post, brown cloak pulled heavily over his brow; his pot-belly was all that gave him away. Fal was dressed out of uniform, hidden beneath a similar cloak: no one could know he was of the guard, especially not a Captain. Approaching Roman, Roman gave him a silent nod and they walked astride down the street without a word. Ears were just as much a worry as eyes.

Once they reached the secluded location Roman knocked thrice upon the heavy door side entrance: staff only, back this way. Knock, knock, knock. A metal slit was pried aside, and two elusive eyes studied them.

“What’s the password?”

“Nos resurget”, whispered Roman.

“What about him?”, queried the eyes, training their gaze upon the shadowed face of Fal.

“He’s fine: he’s with me”, explained Roman.

The metal slit was drawn back, and the heavy wooden door slowly opened with an ominous creek, and Roman and Fal stepped inside. The room was lit in a dull orange glow from the many lanterns lit around each table. Various characters sat around the room. Some sat in absolute silence, slowly drinking. Some spoke amicably between one another. Others were sharpening daggers and short swords.

Two members of the guard sat in one corner talking amongst themselves. ‘Drat’, thought Fal. ‘I could do without attracting attention from those two’. He recognised the sigil sown into the shoulders of their cloaks, however, as that of House Avar – though he was unfamiliar with their allegiance or, indeed, their purpose this side of the city. On another side of the room Fal noticed a man clad in a heavy leather coat, his face horribly scarred across the cheek, sipping at a brown ale. ‘Ex-slaver’, noticed Fal. ‘What kind of company are we keeping’, he thought bitterly. Another curious man sat along the bar, hunched over a drink, his spiky brown hair looking out of place amongst the other patrons.

They carried on walking through the tavern to the backdoor where Roman kept the beer kegs in vast stacks. As they got to the door, Roman stopped, placed a hand on Fal’s shoulder and whispered, “Not everyone here is for our cause, I could not throw those ones out, e might raise suspicion. So, you go inside and I’ll give the signal to those who’ve come for the meeting to follow.”

“How sure are you that any of these people are here to help? Or, indeed, at all trustworthy?”, enquired Fal in an equally quieted voice.

“Not sure in the slightest, but what choice do we have?”.

With that, Fal nodded solemnly and made his way through the backdoor. Roman took off his cloak, and assumed his bartending stance: messy apron around the waist and polishing a flagon behind the bar. With a look around the room he could not spot any of the people who said they’d attend, although, he had no idea what they looked like, only that they were attending.

With a hesitant cough, Roman announced, “Oi, you lot. No bed or room tonight, got rats up top the size of cats, so go find somewhere else to drink yourself through the morning: we close up in ten.” The room was filled with grunts and growls from dissatisfied drinkers. One gentleman even took it upon himself to launch his tankard across the room at the wall before abruptly leaving. With his signal complete, Roman left it to his two sons currently serving to make sure the rabble quietly left. He went through the door to follow Fal, hoping that those who sent word of their arrival had got the message. And would also follow.

*******

The Lord of Swords sat upon his council seat, a heavy, carved mahogany chair studded with precious metals. The Lord wore no crown, no rich, luxurious fabrics, but instead sat in full-plate armour: solid cobalt coloured metal thick enough to stop the hardest of blows. Across his neck was his royal seal; a heavy emerald amulet plucked from the deepest mind directly beneath his tower. His middle-aged face was beginning to crease with age, yet his thick, long brown hair exclaimed he still had muscle on his bones. His piercing blue eyes cast a gaze across the room. His table was long and narrow, and could accommodate all sixteen of his select counsel.

However, on this occasion, only two of his counsel sat today. His Counsellor of The Peace of House Raven, a grey haired man wrapped in a tight tunic beneath his leather overcoat, and the Commander of the Crossbowmen; the esteemed Lady Ramia, of one of the oldest serving houses of the guard: House Crow.

“There’s dissidence in the streets, your majesty”, rasped the aging, nasally Counsellor. “We’ve kept true to the peace codes, silencing them when and where we can, but in truth, your majesty, there is just far too many of them and not enough men under my command.”

“Have the public executions not been enough?”, quizzed the Lord with a raise of his eyebrow. His counsellors knew what it was to fail him, and his Counsellor of Peace had been beginning to disappoint him.

“They have been in the past, my liege, but the crowds grow with anger, not fear.”. He paused with a moment of uncertainty. “I fear an uprising soon.”

“How many men have you?”

“Over two thousand, your majesty.”

“And how much dissidence are we talking about?”.

The Counsellor frowned for a moment, “Anything between hundreds, to thousands, your majesty. But my men are too far spread: events of rabble-rousing have been throughout the city, but my men cannot be in two places at once, your majesty.”

The Lord frowned in contemplation, before concluding, “Send your men and gather twenty people from each district: I want men, women and children. Kill them in front of their fellow citizens. If we cannot punish those that slip our fingers we will teach them that others will have to take up responsibility for their crimes.”

“Of course, your majesty.”

“Lady Ramia.” The Lord turned to the combat veteran. “What say you? How many men can you spare?.”

Unbeknownst to the three, a young servant stood, tray in hand hidden behind the great door to the chamber. And she knew a certain chef who might very well be interested in this news.

*******

Mandis stepped hesitantly through the run down streets. His father, Roman, had sent him on a mission to seek out the most infamous of characters to their cause. He knew not why he had to go, but, armed with his rusty knife he took from the kitchen, he felt an air of safety in his movement with his palm wrapped tightly around the rotting wooden handle. The streets were ridden with rats scuttling close to the walls; mud and debris scattered the stone floors, walls of cheap cobble and salvaged scrap closed closely either side of him. ‘This place is a maze’, thought Mandis. He had been given no specific directions, and was only told that he would find him in Rat-Town (The place was living up to its name).

When knocking on doors and asking for him by name had failed, each time being greeted with a petrified face and a slammed door, Mandis had desperately taken to patrolling the streets, day and night. So far, had had no success.

“King of the Guttersnipes”, scoffed Mandis under his breath. “Some king living in a latrine like this.”

He reached the end of the pathway which led to a small opening. A fire was lit in the centre, a rack of skewered rats was propped atop the flames. Though he could not see a soul in sight.

Mandis’ hunger started to get the better of him: the bread his father had packed for him had been plucked from his bag in the night by a fat pie-bald rat, and despite his efforts, the beast had gotten away with his only rations. Roasted rat was beginning to both look and smell delicious.

He made his way towards the fire.

After a while the men had returned to meet with their commanders and Ramia had given the command to the Avar twins - despite her insistence on a second round of patrolling the area the brothers instead decided to keep the morale of the men up and gave them the rest of the night off. They themselves headed to Stillwalker's Fall for few tankards of ale where they would drink until they'd be asked to leave.

Ramia on the other hand made her way to her meeting with the Lord of Swords. When her presence was announced the Lady Crow had politely removed her hat, dropped on one knee and greeted the Lord of Swords very politely before taking her place on the table.

Soon the talks turned in to the matter of dissidents and executions - Ramia's father had been very cozy in these kinds of talks, but then again he had been a psychopath who had gotten away with killing his own wife and eldest son. He had loved the chance of sending out the Crossbowmen to the streets to spread chaos and bloodshed. The black haired woman listened every word with an expression of icy calmness, but at the same time her mind was racing.

When Ramia had been asked a question she pondered the answer for a good while - it had felt like an eternity for her. When she finally spoke her tone was quite cold, but nonetheless very polite. "I could spare you a few squads - though my sharpshooters might not be the best option for quelling dissidents. If the very best of the best men of the Royal Guard Houses are seen spilling blood of peasants, thieves, whores and other such it will first of all lower the morale of the Crossbowmen since they have been forced upon such a task which is in their own - and in my - opinion well beneath them." She stood politely and moved her left hand behind her back while continuing. "As you know, m'lord the Crossbowmen of the Guard Houses have over the years proven their loyalty and skill under the leadership of the House Crow - My house, which has served you and your family unquestionably for generations. Now, please m'lord, take no offense in my words when I ask you; should these skilled men and women who have honed their skill for years be sent to deal with a minor uprising of whores and thieves? Is it a reward worthy of their years of service?"

The Lady Crow turned her attention to the Counselor and continued with a slightly more icy tone - which she would have not used if she had been in any lesser position, or if she hadn't already proven herself to be a skilled and charismatic leader with years of experience under her belt despite being in her early 30's. "Is the House Raven perhaps doing their job poorly? Do you perhaps lack the will to honor our Lord's orders? Or is it perhaps money you lack?" The dark haired woman paused for a moment and actually smiled at the old Counselor like she had just caught him lying. "Or perhaps the lack of money isn't the option after all..."

Ramia lifted her right hand in an apologetic gesture and bowed her head towards the Councilor. "My apologies, implying that the good men and women of your House would be so spineless, disloyal and dishonorable towards our Lord that they'd accept bribes would be most impolite of me. Also implying that the men under your command are badly out of shape and in need of some good training if they are having troubles with what must be a small handful of disloyal curs... Would be most impolite of me."

She took a deep breath and bowed her head towards the Lord of Swords. "My apologies, m'lord - if my bluntness has insulted you. I take full responsibility and accept any kind of retaliation against myself as you humble and royal subject."

At the fire stood a peculiar young lady, one more fetching then the average wench who scuttled in this unsatisfactory town, timbers tied to there backs and the soot and coal dust prying to there every inch, forcing them to gag in desperation, there lungs dreaming of a day when the former youth and cleanliness of their's is returned to the highest they had seen, like a new born baby.

Instead, Hilde seemed polished. Her cheeks were not particularly rosy and she was clearly not a woman in the prime of her youth, but her beauty perused her even in these middle ages. She kept a sly promiscuous way to her. Her hip cocked to the side, and her eyes showing a fake lust in them. As she watched new face near her she couldn't help but smile, but did well to keep it friendly rather then the ruthless one she used often. He was new here, and he must have money then the average man. It wasn't called the town of rats just because of what she was 'selling'. The streets were filled with urchins and crooks, eyeing anyone they could use to get a quick buck, even if it meant they needed to thin the populous. Hilde and her accommodates were the kings of such swindling, and it was about to show.

Unannounced to Mandis, two more where waiting for him. Both set to run, sharing an equal smile. One covered like a mummy, ready to bump into the man, and rush away and the other drooling old coot ready to give an alibi. They seemed to know what they were doing, and with each holding various tools for the job, they wanted this done soon. Raul wasn't about to let some newbie get the best of him, the 'king of the guttersnipes' the 'master of sleaze', and to him this was just a way for showing people the ropes in town. With a surprisingly stock built man with blond hair and dark brown eyes, his clothes nothing more than burlap and an ax dangling by his shoulder, he walked to Raul and sat a paper down, walking to the end of the alley to watch for others. This was sven.

"He carries some knife, but it looks dull and fragile, not worth taking but knowing you I bet ya will" The man blustered in an Irish accent, slurring words. Raul merely chuckled.
"I don't care if he's armed, tell me about the bags, or money" Replied the other man, only to back down when Sven clenched his fist,
"By the way. I think this man's attempting to find you three. Be weary, it may be another Solvmed incident" Sven dully murmurs.
"As I stated before, those assassins were sent at the expense of perhaps three ounces of silver, no one was trying to kill us, just gambling or enjoying a break with there cash" Raul growled.
Silence follows as they watch the area before them.

Though he didn't know who he was waiting for, when he heard the password murmured from behind the bolted door and the same door he had walked through swing open, he knew it was those same enigmatic conspirators who had walked in. He didn't turn in his seat, he didn't look at them, he didn't need to, he knew there would be a rallying cry of some sort. He would be foolish to think he was the only on in The Stiltwalker's Fall who was here for the same meeting. He finished his tankard and gestured to the barkeep for another. He had a feeling this was to be a long night. What he did see was a hooded figured disappear into the back of tavern. Whilst effective at concealing one's identity, a hood is not a subtle way of hiding the fact that is what you are doing. Trask always found his eyes drawn to those who appeared to be hiding something, and this new arrival was no exception.

When time was called by the tavern's owner and the drunken patrons voiced their disquiet with various degrees of aggression, Trask found himself on edge. He had noted the sigils on the shoulders of guardsmen who had been drinking in there and, when the tankard was thrown, his hand twitched towards his sword. The last thing he needed tonight was to get sucked into a brawl. But the assorted assembly vacated without incident until he found himself with a choice.

He still couldn't quite put his finger on what had led him here. Bad decisions, most likely. But he could either finish his drink, rise from his stool and follow the rest of the shambling, booze-soaked mass out the door and back into the night, or he could still finish his drink, rise from the stool and follow the hooded stranger into a meeting that would likely cost him everything for a chance at atonement. He finished his drink, slamming the tankard back down on the bar. He stood before pausing after shuffling his leg into a comfortable position. Crunch time, Carrigan... He thought to himself.

The things he had done and the life he had led had forged chains for himself to match those of the countless others he had sold into servitude. As he got older, those chains grew heavier and longer. It was time to break them. With a nod to the bar owner, he walked past him and into the back room.

EDITED AS OF 4/27/2015 2:33pm Central Time

Raulf was walking around the moat which surrounded the Lord of the Sword's castle. If this plan didn't work an all out war would be required to overthrow the Lord of the Sword. Dcat quickly picked a few berries and spices on his trip around the moat, after recognizing what each of them were and normally how they were used medically. Raulf quickly stuffed them in his satchel, which housed several different knives. As soon as Raulf had reached the bridge across the moat he was greeted by a guard who would not let him pass. "What do you think your doing?" Raulf asked the guard. "I am the new head chef that's suppose to join the Lord's kitchen today!" The guard just looked at Raulf dumbly but didn't move to allow Raulf to cross. "If you don't move than you will be the one who tells the Great Lord why he isn't dining on Roasted Duck Marinated in wine!" Raulf yelled in an attempt to have somebody inside the castle to hear the commotion and to come running to investigate.

Soma was finishing up his meal and drink when he heard the password. "What? Are this guys idiots or what? If there were some royal knight here you would already be locked up in a cell my friends" Soma thought as finished his drink. "Should I help this bunch of fools?" He said to himself whispering. "Well surely I'm not hurrying to a meeting with such people who can't even arrange a proper meeting then they threw a password that is pretty obvious and any sane person not to mention an imperial could understand that something fishy is going here." He kept his thoughts to himself ignoring the meeting and ordering a one more drink. "Hey you bartender one more at the table. Don't make waiting." He shouted putting a smile on his face. "So where are the ladies here?" He said with a charming tone, hoping to see a pretty female sitting at the table near him, but only what he could see was fat, disgusting drunks.