Tirro enters the rom, and peers around quietly. He sees two or three people he already knows. He walks to the bar, orders a beer, and walks into the shadows. He shifts something against his back, before he sits down.

Near the fireplace, a vulpine bard in patched garb who looks like someone did a wretched job of trying to give him an all-over haircut strums at his lute. He can barely be heard at all over the din, and no judgement can be made as to his talents or lack thereof, except that the hat at his feet holds a few coins … and even more corks.

A hag of a skunk, chewing with loud smacks on a piece of wax, winks at the little Kavi and then laughs raucously. The years have not been kind to her teeth or her gut.

Tirro sips at his beer, and watches the patrons. He nods to one Savanite, and makes a sign. **free?** She shakes her head, no.

Tirro drinks some of the beer. He ughs. Watered-down.

Tirro peers at a wall clock. He signs to the Savanite, 'Was Guild brother S. here?'

At a far table, surrounded by a mishmash of thugs and 'acquaintances', a rat as thick as he is tall sits atop a tall chair. Standing on the floor, he would probably reach the belt of most of his patrons, but he has an air that paints him as being in charge of all he surveys. He wears silken black trousers that are suspended by a miracle and a strained leather belt which does its best to keep its position along the equator of his sizeable paunch. Partially tucked into this is a bright pink silken shirt with a diving neckline which shows off his overfluffed chestruff – which sticks out at disagreeable angles. He regards all and everything with eyes as beady as a rodent could ever have.

S'Lezan waggles a beringed hand to a drunken thief, as if scolding him, then laughs and clinks a tankard of ale. A good joke of some kind and at someone else's expense, undoubtedly, from the mean look in his eyes.

Tirro sees the rat in the corner. ** Never mind ** he signs. He finishes half of his stein of beer, and enters the even more dark corner of the room.

Tirro pulls up a chair not too far from S'Lezan. "Boss! Ya busy?"

S'Lezan and the gray-clad weasel turn around a map and exchange words volubly between each other. "Now, here's the get-in. Make it easy, customer wants no breakage… " He frowns down at Tirro's impatience.

A drunk wolf waves an empty mug in Tirro's face as he passes. He slurs something which sounds vaguely like, "Hhhhey, kid … gemme anuhur *hic* – " That's as far as he gets before he collapses to the floor, knocking his chair back. A quick-thinking Kavi relieves him of his pouch before most even have a chance to glance in his direction.

Tirro ooopses, and turns red. He sheepishly goes back to the earlier corner. Boss IS busy.

"Beat it, kid," the rat says. "We're talking business." He scowls, and then goes back to Mosphat. "So, in the bookstore and 'hind the prettypic… "

At a nearby table, whispers are exchanged between a couple of surly sorts – a rat and a raccoon, though save for the tails, one might have trouble telling the difference – "You hear about the 'Three Thieves'? I hear that – " "Yeah, yeah, you done told me already." " – I mean, it was the GREATEST thing you ever heard – " "Shaddup, will ya?"

At last S'Lezan nods to the thief. "Geddon with it, Mosphat. Night's wastin' here." He slaps the thief on the back as the weasel sways a bit. He glances around the tavern, his gaze deliberately passing over Tirro.

Tirro can't resist. He picks up his (unfortunately empty) mug, and walks to the rat and raccon. "The greatest theft Rephadim has ever known?" he says a touch loudly.

The rat shrugs to himself. Business is light today. He calls to a waitress, "More of the Black!"

"But," the rattish-looking raccoon protests to his 'friend'… He turns his attention toward Tirro. "Yah! I mean, some little spunkster robbed a noble's daughter blind AND some fancy-schmancy knight AND beat up a couple of cats and a shell-dog AND made a fool of old Jakka… "

The raccoonish-looking rat slaps his 'friend'. "I done heard it already. Shaddup."

Tirro grins broadly, knowing that S'Lezan heard these words. "Thank you, gentlemen… " He walks over to the seat now vacated.

S'Lezan seems to be busy guzzling Wild Turkey Black direct from the bottle.

Tirro drops to a whisper. "Boss! I want you to sponsor me tomove up to being a Journeyman."

The raccoonish-looking rat and rattish-looking raccoon exchange curious glances, and raise eyebrows at the young Kavi. "Whacchu think 'is point is?" asks one. "Don't rightly know. Let me think."

Tirro says, "As I understand it… it takes one truly remarkable theft to move up in rank, correct?"

Crista enters slowly, eyes widening to adjust to the light.

The rat wipes his mouth and looks down. "Yeah, kid? You think you're ready for da big time, huh?" He laughs loudly to himself, joined in by some of the painted women nearby.

Tirro says, "Well… last night, I tricked an Exile into giving me these… " He pulls out the bag of coinage and Jarik's pouch."

S'Lezan examines the bottle, then spits on the floor. "Not enough flies. No bite to this junk at all, by Dagh!"

Tirro says, "And then," he says as he pulls out a black-clad, long thing from his back, "I tricked the same person into THIS." He carefully unwraps the sword."

Crista looks around seemingly casually. She steps carefullly past the debris up to the bar.

S'Lezan looks disinterested. "Exile, eh? Might as well knock over a Vykky-home." He swigs from the bottle… Then splutters.

Tirro laughs. "It was the heist of the century!" He drops his voice. "Even that 'coon and that rat were talking about it."

S'Lezan uses the tablecloth to sop his muzzle, then grimaces. "What's that, your paperweight? Gimme, lemme see here, kid."

The rattish-looking raccoon's jaw drops. "DIDJA SEE THAT?"

Crista sits down at a stool by the bar.

Tirro shows off the steel sword. "See. Brighter than the iron ones they give to the Elite Guards." He puts his paw on the sword. "It's mine."

The raccoonish-looking rat slugs his 'friend'. "He heard ya talking, and he brought in a walking stick as a joke, you moron."

S'Lezan looks around. "Shh! Hide that again, you idiot. Show it around more and some of the locals are likely to make you a DEAD apprentice."

A grizzled furball of a bartender, his species indeterminate, moves up to Crista. "What'll it be?" he wheezes, his voice muffled by his fur. One can't even see his mouth move under all those whiskers.

Tirro rewraps it up in the black cloth, and swings it on his back. "I know. I need to pawn it quick-like. Ya think Gerge would be int'rested?"

Crista says, "Wine."

The bartender wheezes in what might just be a cough or a laugh or maybe neither. He leans under the bar, and comes back up with an unlabelled bottle.

Tirro says, "Anyhow, will ya sponsor me to be a Journeyman, now?"

"Gerge? Naw. Way out of his league." S'Lezan's eyes glitter as he thinks about the steel sword. A little battered, but from the make, it must be some kind of antique, maybe back to olden times. "Boy, what you got here is a gen-yew-ine anteek. People who k'n move dat for you, they don't live in Darkside… "

Tirro's ears droop. Badly. "No… no one in Darkside can move it?"

Crista looks a bit doubtful, but nods.

S'Lezan rubs his chin, eying the ferret. "Ya know, I've had my eye on you fer a while. Always thought you had promise. Couldn't say anything tho, others would get jealous."

Tirro's eyes light up. "You WILL sponsor me, then? The youngest Journeyman! Hair! A bottle of your finest!"

Crista's ear flicks a bit, but she gives no other sign she's heard anything.

"Not so fast there, boy," S'Lezan says warningly. "You might hafta prove to me yer ready. I heard about this here theft. Good thinking, off the bat." He leans forward, waggling the neck of the Wild Turkey Black at Tirro. "But you gotta be able to plan it out too. Got to have a little patience."

Through the front door, a slithery, glistening green-blue form slides and shakes its way along the floor – a two-armed snake, whose lower body coils and leaps as he makes his way. He makes a beeline toward the rat and raccoon, and his forked tongue flits and jumps about as he whispers something to them.

"But I'm thinking you have promise, kid. Do this one little thing for me, an' sure, you'll be a journeyman an' wearing the brand as proud as anyone," the rat promises.

Tirro laughs, as he races toward the bar, dumps coins on the bar, and gets – what appears to be another bottle of Wild Turkey Black. He sits down and sets down the bottle. "Plan?"

Both the raccoon and rat at the farther table react with sudden sobriety and eyes wide in alarm. One grabs a cloak, the other his hat, and they immediately dash to the door, accompanied by the snake.

Crista stands and says to the bartender… "I've a delivery for S'lezan. Is he here?"

The bartender quickly slides the coins off the bar and out of sight. For all one can tell, they might have disappeared into that endless supply of fur of his.

Hair nods in the direction of the rat boss and his exhuberant young "friend".

The rat taptaps his cheek. "Now, I donna have all the details right now, but dere's a big score coming up soon… I mean, really big. If it goes off, we could live like *lords*, I say, boy. *Kings*."

Tirro looks intent. "What d'I need to do? Sounds great!"

In a hushed voice, S'Lezan says, "We might even be able to have indoor hot water!"

S'Lezan eyes Tirro to see if the little Kavi is sold yet.

Tirro's jaw drops. "No more trips to the the communal baths? Whatd'I need to do? I'm yer Kavi!"

Crista nods, putting a coin down on the bar. She walks over to S'Lezan. "Excuse me. I have a message for S'Lezan."

S'Lezan beams. "Well, like I say, patience is always the mark of a good thief. Mark that well, kid – eh what?"

The rat turns with a frown to Crista. "Message? F'rom who?"

Tirro bounces in his seat. "I can be patient! When? When? When?"

Crista flicks an ear and repeats… "I was paid to deliv… " She frowns at the bouncing creature a moment, thens says to S'Lezan… "to deliver a message. Anonomously."

For some reason, the rat tenses. "Dagh. All right. Give."

He sticks a beringed hand out. Thin rings glitter gold on them, beneath black nail-like claws.

Crista nods and carefully withdraws a slim folded paper. She waits a moment, as if expecting something.

"Wadaya want, a tip? I'm no fool, dey paid you to give dis." S'Lezan snaps his finger.

Crista raises an eyebrow. "I'm no fool either. I could have taken the money and not delivered the message."

The rat sneers. "You want to keep workin' in dis town? Better keep yer rep as a honest carrier." He deliberately picks a bit of meat out of his fangs.

Crista laughs softly. "Honest or not, I go where the money is. And even… businessmen… such as yourself… need messengers sometimes."

S'Lezan leans back. "Why would I wanna messenger dat gives me backtalk? You give me da message, or you don't leave here alive."

Crista raises an eyebrow. "I will remember that, Guildmaster." She makes the word sound dirty. Gently placing the message on the table, she turns and stalks out, wings fluttering angrily.

"Slyboots. Carousel." S'Lezan addresses a caracal in leathers with, indeed, boots, and a female white equine with a pink ribbon in brilliant contrast to her dark red clothes. Both loosen their blades from their hilts. The rat thief-lord looks at Crista insolently. "See this lady to da door."

S'Lezan tucks the letter into his shirt. "Now, as I wuz sayin'… "

The caracal and the equine walk side by side with the Solu as they guide her to the door…

Crista bows elegantly… "Why, thank you… Guildmaster… " Again, the word sounds dirty. "Such… service you have here. I will remember that too." She shrugs off the escort and departs.

There are shouts, shortly followed by the sounds of breaking wood and glass, and then screams from upstairs and toward the front of the "establishment".

S'Lezan perks his ears up. "Wat wuz dat?"

The front door is smashed in by a monster of a wolf, black-furred and wearing chitin armor. He backhands a cowering Kavi into the rotting wood-plank wall beside him as he marches in with a snarl.

Tirro ducks, rolls on the floor – in a direction other than the one you expected. He comes quickly standing – looking around.

S'Lezan looks outraged. "Marselles! Dunderbus! Where are you goons, and why aren't you taking care o' dis?" He stands, stiletto in hand.

Upstairs, a "lady" screams and runs out of one of the rooms as another wolf comes out, dragging her "friend" by the hair, and roughly kicking him toward the railing – which snaps, sending a half-dressed fox crashing onto a table and a pile of unwashed empty mugs below.

From the shadows, there is a twang of a crossbow, and a number of bolts sprout from the chest of the wolf on the upper landing. With a roar, he clutches at them, then staggers and falls forward as well … landing on top of the befuddled fox just as he is trying to get up again.

Slyboots and Carousel have given up seeing Crista to the door, in favor of helping to repel the invaders. "It's da police, boss!" Dunderbus yells. "It's a raid!"

S'Lezan gasps. "Waidaminute. I paid – I paid just three days after Landing! I paid dem, the dummies!"

Two more wolves charge in, one of them felled by a well-placed blow, but the big black one is more than capable of making up for the loss.

Outraged, the rat thieflord stomps out of the back of the tavern to confront the police. "I'M PAID UP, Dagh take you!"

Tirro hides in the shadows. He pulls up his cloak about him, and stays very, very still.

Near Tirro, a scared ringtail dives to the floor, prying up a trapdoor not-quite-so-cleverly hidden where a table once stood before it got knocked aside in the brawl. Popping it open, he dives inside, disappearing below, without bothering to close the door behind him.

At this moment, eight red armored Zelak warriors step in behind the destruction the wolves have caused. "By authority of the Inquisitor Ceasar Moffat, this establishment has been secured," one announces with menacing clacks. Their presence causes a chilling effect upon the defenders.

With a sickening snap, one of the crossbow-wielding defenders meets his end in the grasp of a wounded and angry black wolf.

Tirro gives up his hiding hole, and dives into the trap door. He couldn't hide, with it being so close, anyway.

S'Lezan gurks at the sight of the Zelaks. "But… But you can't do dis to me! I'm an honest businessman!"

"Honest! We can talk, right?" the rat-lord urges of the wolves and the Zelaks.

Tirro stays far enough in the trap door that he can't be seen – but close enough that he can be heard.

The black wolf tosses aside the still form of a ferret as if it were a rag doll. His eyes are wild with blood-fury, but he stands his ground, not advancing on the rat-lord.

The rat-lord eeps and backs up. "Wait! I'll pay ya! Silver! Want some pretty silver pieces? Urk!" He makes waving motions, trying to call his bodyguards close.

The other wolf standing rips open the curtained booths, extracting the dazed and drugged occupants, sending them sprawling to the floor.

A knife *thwaks* into the wood beside a wolf-guard – thrown from a foxmorph customer upstairs.

The Zelaks finish securing… In most cases, badly wounding… the defenders. Slyboots groans from where he has been knocked across the bar.

Crista takes advantage of the distraction to rapidly slink around the edges of the Zelaks. Suddenly she dives into the trapdoor.

The foxmorph's chest is suddenly punctured by a heavy bolt from behind. As he falls over the railing, a stern-looking hippogryph marches into view from one of the rooms, reloading its double crossbow and scanning for the next sign of resistance.

"Gold! I don't have much of it," S'Lezan protests to the advancing black wolf. "But you can have it! Just… Go away!"

Tirro sees Crista, and tries to flatten himself against the wall – hoping that she won't brush him.

Crista freezes quietly, flicking an ear toward the Kavi.

Tirro sees no attack in the very dim light. "Who you?" he whispers.

At last, a robed form strides in through the now-quite-open front doorway. As he pulls back his hood to survey the scene with a look of satisfaction and amusement, the head of a pepper-furred poodle is revealed – perfectly groomed, but with tearstains around his eyes, giving him a perpetually dirty look all the same. His robes are a garish combination of bright magenta and bright yellow-orange – a man of taste he is not, but one who can afford to be as tasteless as he pleases.

S'Lezan gasps. An Inquisitor! His pink tail quivers.

Crista turns slightly, putting a finger to her lips, shaking her head. She jabs her other hand at the sounds above.

The Inquisitor looks down with disapproval at one of the fallen wolves. Disdainfully, he kicks the body aside, muttering to himself. He looks up again, though, a smirk painting itself on his muzzle, and leers to a vixen cowering in one of the booths as he approaches his minions and the rat-lord.

S'Lezan dithers and then takes off his hat. "Ah. Welcome to my humble establishment, y'Lordship. Ah. Was it necessary to make so… forceful an entrance?" He trembles.

With a voice carrying with more force than might be expected from a poodle, the Inquisitor proclaims, "It has come to my attention that there have been certain illegal activities taking place in this establishment. In the interests of maintain civil peace and order, I, Arch Inquisitor Ceasar Moffat, do hereby proclaim this place of business closed until such time as a thorough investigation can be made."

The Zelaks seem to look… Satisfied. Amazing how insectoids manage expressions without faces capable of individual muscle movement…

S'Lezan gasps and reels back against the bar.

The poodle's gaze drops down toward S'Lezan, and he holds up his hands in a mockingly apologetic gesture. "I realize how unpleasant this episode has been, but you must realize, crime has simply run amok in Rephidim. For too long, the esteemed but misguided Inquisitor Melchizedek has overlooked the trouble brewing in our fine city. As a result, some of the less savory elements of Rephidim have become so bold as to strike against the Temple and all it represents, even murdering some of our most beloved citizens, and our most devoted workers."

Crista's ears perk a bit at this, but otherwise she doesn't move.

The rat quivers. "But I swear, revered Inquisitor, we're hon… Surely we can talk this over, esteemed Lord?" He approaches on his knees, every sign of humbleness from this thief-lord who treated Crista so cavalierly just a few minutes ago.

Tirro listens intently to every movement, every word. He can't see a thing, but his ears can make the slightest sound out.

Pacing about, making sweeping gestures, the poodle continues, "We cannot stand idly by while the forces of chaos tear apart the very fabric of our society. We cannot deign to make a truce with elements that openly war against us – striking us down even on HOLY GROUND within the Temple! Yes, even on holy ground!" His smirk does not leave as he regards the rat. If it were possible, it only emphasizes itself all the more. "Now, I do realize, perhaps this could be too much, too late. I do not wish, after all, to unduly impose upon a good and faithful – and repentant – citizen who genuinely desires to set things right."

"There must be some kind of misunderstanding, some way we can… smooth out difficulties," S'Lezan importunes. "I'm an honest man, I know my place. I have no part, I assure you, no part in any kind of blasphemy… " His voice turns furtive. "If there's anything, anything?… "

In a lower voice, the poodle adds, as he leans forward ever so slightly, "We cannot allow assassins to continue to strike against the innocent. Until such villains are done away with – and those who hired them brought to justice – there can be no peace … none whatsoever for all of Rephidim."

Crista's body tenses a bit at the poodle's word.

The poodle sighs, standing up straight again. "Inquisitor Melchizedek, of course, just does not realize that we do, at times, need to be understanding of some who are merely misguided, and not necessarily – shall we use the word – EVIL. His instructions could have been interpreted as requiring me to burn down this establishment and to incarcerate the proprietor." He looks down, and adds, "But, if I could be convinced of the proprietor's repentance and good will, I am certain that would not be necessary."

The poodle's glance frequently wanders off in a direction that does not escape the rat's notice.

"I've seen the light," S'Lezan avers. He glances that way as well, eyes narrowing, then launches into an oily speech that fairly drips with faux sincerity. "I shall repent my sinful ways at once, and my w – my employees too shall learn of the goodness and rightfulness of the Temple! We will be loyal members of your crusade against the heretics who defile the sanctity of the Temple." He murmurs in lower tones, "Please, consider my establishment at your full disposal… I'm certain my employees are… Very desirous of learning the Truth from you personally."

Down in the hiding hole, the ringtail lets out a low growl – which he quickly cuts off, grabbing himself on the snout. Hopefully, nobody heard, over the Inquisitor's speech.

Tirro stomps on the ringtail's foot. His ears perk forward, listening.

The rat whimpers a little as he eyes the waiting, immobile Zelaks and the silent wolf guards.

Long strides take the Inquisitor toward a back room – one frequented by very few other than the rat himself … and certain very close acquaintances. The Inquisitor enters the room alone, unaccompanied by his escort … and disappears inside for several very long, uncomfortable minutes.

The ringtail bites his lip, refusing to yelp or growl back at the stomp.

The rat walks with the Inquisitor, pouring out more platitudes half-remembered, and then whispers to someone in the back room, "Whatever he wants. Don't get us all in the deep one or… "

Tirro runs his fingers along the earth, keeping his left hand on the earth at all time. He walks along the area, trying to see if he can find, by touch, a way out.

Crista moves softly and slaps the wandering fingers.

The chamber appears to have the beginnings of an escape tunnel which hasn't quite been completed yet. Perhaps the process of removing the earth without arousing too much suspicion might slow the process. In the pitch black darkness, examination is hard to make with all certainty, but there is plenty of time to discover some wax-sealed casks.

The ringtail, apparently, has discovered one of the casks as well, which he has popped open, and is quietly munching the dried contents of.

Tirro steals a bit from the open cask, and sniffs at it suspiciously.

Crista wrinkles her nose in disgust at the ringtail.

The ringtail glowers at Tirro, but in the pitch black darkness, the expression is wasted. He relents, letting Tirro have the remainder of the dried fruit preserves.

The thieflord S'Lezan wrings his hands. No help for him here… He commands thieves, not assassins, and in any case, the death of an Inquisitor in Darkside would be followed by even more questions and soldiers. He frets.

At long last, the door opens to the back room, and a very smug-looking poodle marches out, looking quite satisfied and full of himself. "Yes, yes, I do think you have shown yourself /quite/ repentant. I shall certainly put in a /good/ word for you."

Tirro's stomach is flipping too much to eat much. IN his quietest voice, he says lisping (to keep an 's' sound from being overheard), "How far are we from the thurfathe?"

S'Lezan kneels. "Of course, y'Lordship. We're all very repetant here. We're changed men, mark my words."

Crista shakesshakes her head and finally resorts to placing a hand over Tirro's mouth.

The poodle's smile quickly vanishes, as he growls low toward the rat, "But let it be known that it will take a great deal of repentance before the Temple is satisfied. And the best repentance of all would be the head of Shadowspite and whomever hired him delivered on a silver platter. I WANT the fox. And by the First Ones, you'd better see that he's delivered to ME personally, and quite dead. There will be no more escapes."

Crista's ear flickflicks.

Tirro starts very quietly trying to dig straight up from the end of the tunnel.

"A fox?" S'Lezan looks confused. "Of course, y'Lordship. If I hear anything of this assassin, you will be the VERY first to know of it. I swear by Dagh!" He clutches his hat to his chest.

The poodle stops, ears perked. "Did you hear something?"

Tirro stops immediately.

"Termites," S'Lezan answers quickly. "I've been meaning to hire someone to exterminate them."

The wolves sniff about. Heavy footsteps move about on the wooden planks comprising the floor.

The rat-lord wrings his hands. "But well, business is poor and these are difficult times… "

The ringtail lets out a frightened YIP! He dashes toward the trap door.

Tirro tries to grab the ringtail's tail.

Crista graps the ringtail and squeezes him tightly.

The rat-lord contrives to cough voluminously. "Ach! My black-sickness."

"Excuse me, y'Lordship, I don't feel very well," S'Lezan says, looking quite weak indeed.

The ringtail, caught by both of the other occupants, only manages to pop open the trap door, halfway out. He shrieks, but his cry is cut off by a heavy bolt fired from above.

The rat-lord proceeds to hack up some black spittle onto the floor… The results of drinking too much Wild Turkey Black, perhaps, but the Inquisitor doesn't know what S'Lezan drinks.

With a satisfied look, the Vartan on the upper level lowers his crossbow.

Tirro lets go. Quickly. He lets the dead body fall to the ground.

The poodle remarks drily, "My, what large termites you have."

Tirro pulls Crista toward the back of the hole, hoping that any inspection is cursory.

"They get very big down in Darkside," S'Lezan mutters as he glances toward the Zelaks.

Crista growls silently deep in her throat. o O {{My clothes! Someone will pay for this.}}

Crista folds her wings in closely, moving as far back as she can. She pushes the ringtail more forward.

A wolf drags the body of the ringtail the rest of the way out. He sniffs at it, then kicks it aside.

S'Lezan eyes the trapdoor nervously, hoping no embarrassment will leap out.

Just as the wolf is about to leave, the poodle commands, "Open it. What's down there that breeds such large termites?"

Tirro draws his cloak completely around him. Nothing here but blackness, nope, nope.

With a thump, the Vartan lands nearby. He grumbles, as the bolt falls out of his crossbow, and he stoops to begin reloading.

"Ah… That's where I keep my munchies," S'Lezan lies. "Dried topari fruit. Very good for the gall."

The wolf pops the trap door open, letting the dim light into the confines, revealing the shapes of several sealed casks. The wolf sniffs. "Dried fruit," he reports.

"Encourages the circulation, relieves constipation," the rat continues.

The poodle lets out a bored sigh. "Ah yes. Dried fruits. How /exciting/." He grunts, and marches toward the exit. "Do come along, boys."

S'Lezan bows and scrapes as he puts forth the very image of a repetant and reformed businessman…

The two wolves pick up their fallen comrades, dragging them out. The remaining "patrons", alive, dead, wounded and unconscious, they leave be.

After about five minutes, S'Lezan stands and starts barking orders to the others. "Clean up this place! Get those bodies out of here before they start smelling – strip 'em first!"

Tirro perks his ears. He hears no more movement from the guards.

Tirro emerges from his cloak. He picks up the dead body, and carefully tries to push it up – as crossbow fodder, if need be…

Tirro waits for the inevitable *THUNK* of a quarrel hitting flesh…

"And Slyboots – wake up there, you ninny! I want word sent to the Two-Headed Vixen and Kori's." S'Lezan marshals his forces.

No bolts riddle the body – or Tirro. It would seem that the Vartan, the wolves, the Zelaks and the Inquisitor are all quite gone.

"Kori's dead!" gasps a wounded weasel who staggers in the front door.

Tirro pushes the body out of the hole, then emerges himself.

Crista still doesn't move, being a fair bit more wary then the Kavi.

"What? What happened!" the silk-clad rat demands. He is in the middle of putting his rings back on – repetant businessmen don't wear gold.

The weasel collapses, clawing into the broken wooden wall to pull himself up again. "Whole place – flattened by wolves. *gasp* Kori put up a fight. You know him – He always DID have that problem… And the Two-Headed Vixen – Inquisitor Melonhead burned it to the ground himself, he did!"

S'Lezan muttergrowls. "They really ARE cracking down… "

Tirro says, "Who – or what – is Shadowspike?"

"They want Shadow – " He breaks into a coughing spasm, spitting up blood. "spite. The assassin. He killed someone high up. A lion. And he almost killed Melonhead. He escaped right out of the dungeons, and took out a bunch of the guards, too."

The weasel looks around, finally noticing the destruction. "I guess you already know all that, huh?" His eyes roll back, and he lands on the floor with a final thud.

Crista slowly draws her crossbow and tenses her muscles.

"Shadowspite. Only the best killer the Assassin's Guild has. Nobody talks to him directly. They go through the Faceless Men." S'Lezan gestures for Carousel to see to the weasel.

The weasel seems to have a little life left in him as he's prodded. He wheezes, "Wrists and ankles. Shaved off the hair. He got even." He manages a smile. "Cut off the barber's head." He goes out again.

Tirro looks to his benefactor. "What… what could I do?"

Crista suddenly erupts from the crawlspace, wings fully extended. She holds the crossbow aimed at the rat, eyes flashing with anger as she advances.

S'Lezan flicks his ears at the weasel, then turns to Tirro, eyes glittering. "You wanted in on the big time, eh, kid? I'll tell you the truth. The higher you go, the farther you see you have left to go. Patience. It's just the first step." He glances over at Crista. "Get outta here. I covered fer you and the kid. We're even."

Tirro oooofs, as he gets knocked over by Crista. He wasn't expecting THAT. "C'mon. You're alive," he says as he rolls over, "which can't be said about half this bar."

Some of the employees and bodyguards tense, hands to available weapons.

Tirro gets up, and stands in what some martial artists would recognize as a striking position, aiming toward Christa.

Slyboots stops in mid-stripping a fox customer.

Crista's eyes blaze with anger. "I will remember you, ratlord. And you, little thief. I _will_ remember." She spits on the floor and departs… out the back way, this time.

"Everyone remembers," S'Lezan says tiredly. "Everyone remembers."

Crista's voice floats back… "I heard that, ratlord. You were warned."

"Let her go, Marselles," S'Lezan says. "Awright. C'mon upstairs wif me, Tirro. We got business to talk over. And a prize to sell."

This is… noticably the first time that S'Lezan has called Tirro by his name.

Tirro follows S'Lezan upstairs, his tail twitching with worry. He now owes the dom for his very life… and he's not to happy about that.

Crista flutters down to the sill of the front door. Withdrawing a knife, she etches into the wood a mark that looks like a scratch to all but those in the know. Satisfied, she stretches her wings and departs.

S'Lezan closes the door behind himself and Tirro. Then opens it again and reaches out to grab a bottle of Wild Turkey Black. He closes the door again.