Even after all these years, he knew the streets of the Doodkanal like the back of his hand. You tried to stay away from the festering slums, but every now and then, you ran into a patrol of Black Hats you couldn't lose any other way. And it was the only place you could run smuggling operations through the sewers, without wasting half your profits bribing the River Watch. The occasional fight for your life was well worth it, once you saved your first trader the toll fee on a box of Bretonnian truffles. Unfortunately, a thief's knowledge of the Doodkanal's back streets was of little use to him on this Morrslieb-lit night.
The instructions were written for an outsider, with street names and building numbers, that left Baltazar squiting in the dark, trying to make out the faded text on withered old signs - where the signs hadn't fallen away completely. Without the invisible paths of the underworld, making way through the slithering streets was a slow process, and one that exposed him uncomfortably to far too many greedy eyes. The gleaming blade resting against his shoulder had kept the worst of the riffraff away, but Baltazar was not foolish enough to let his guard down. The aetheric winds writhing in the glow of the Chaos moon provided no comfort, either.
When he finally made it to the rotting doorway of the tavern, he shouldered his way unceremoniously through the door. It wasn't the first run-down hovel he'd used to meet an employer, though he faintly hoped it would be the last. The Dwarfs were the sort of folk he'd been expecting for this type of job - a tattooed maniac and a withered old half-beard - but the Bretonnians were a bit more of a surprise. Baltazar had learned a healthy mistrust toward Bretonnian knights in his years with the caravans, having seen one robber baron too many "honourably" steal the livelihood out from under him. He'd seen his fair share of destitute black knights too, loitering around the countryside in the off season. But two at the same time, and in Marienburg of all places? Must have been a bad year down south.
And no one was saying a word. Neither Dwarfs nor Bretonnians were known to be particularly jovial, but Baltazar had seen ransom negotiations with less tension. He hated the thought of calling attention to himself so early, but his military experience told him a group like this could never without a sense of camaraderie. With a nod to anyone who'd meet his gaze, he pulled out a chair with his foot and sat down, sheathing his sword and placing the sheath across his lap. With practised ease, he put on the self-assured expression of a man with complete confidence in his own abilities.
"So. Treasure hunting, huh?", he said, adressing anyone who'd turn their head. "Well, looks like we've plenty enough of muscle. But where's the brains of this operation?"
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