A small carriage rolled into the city, a pair of asses pulling it across the stonework. Charles sat on the back with his legs swinging off the edge. He didn't use or communicate with the guild often but he needed to keep his thumb on the pulse. Rumors had treated him well in the past and all he had to do was keep an ear open. Besides that his loyalties had been called into question and he had to reaffirm his allegiance to the guild. The carriage driver actually didn't know that Charles was present. Once they were in the gates he slipped off the back without a sound right into a stroll. Damnit, where's that pub? There was a tavern that guild members frequented. Once he found it he could get his business over with and listen for rumblings of treasures that, likely, no man could imagine. At least that's how the tales always went. On his way he pulled a loaf of bread from a market stalk and bumped into a man, shaking his hand in an exaggerated apology only to walk away with four rings he didn't have when he arrived. He tossed the loaf to a poor alley-dweller and left the rings on the counter of a street-side shop's window. By the time he got to the tavern he'd been wandering for twenty minutes. A sign that read The Whiskey Biscuit hung above the door as he walked in.