Enter, Drunkenness

All good stories begin with a good opening … they usually start with a stranger walking into town or your average joe ending up on an excellent adventure. Unfortunately for us, however, Razabolt was drunk.

Razabolt stumbled out of the tavern, his feet barely keeping him from hitting the ground. He looked like he just escaped from a bear; his shirt was torn, his pants barely held together, and his face was bruised beyond belief. The smell coming from him could best be described as rancid, which made him fit in quite well with the people around him.

He stumbled his way down the street, zigzagging as he went. He tried to remember where he was, but the mead in his blood proved too powerful, and he soon blacked out.

He woke up a few hours later, his head ringing like a cracked casino bell, covered in mud and sludge. He was right outside of The Blind Eye, a rather questionable casino known for being the number one supporter of beer and debt.

He picked himself off the ground, and tried to wipe mud off his shirt, only to discover that the mud was far easier to spread instead.

He sighed and reached into his pocket, it was going to be a rough day.

The small hours of the morning had just about come and gone – which meant it was the end of Quintilian’s work day. He came upstairs after overseeing the last opening and closing of the vault, gave Madame Junia a quick run down of the night’s lingering concerns, and headed out the front doors.

Where he nearly collided with a filthy young man, standing there and rummaging in his pockets. To say the stranger looked out of place on the marble streets of wealthy Minrathous was an understatement. Still, Quinn knew well enough that a few blocks deep, the city became much like any other, poor and dirty and dangerous.

The door crew really should have already done something about this. Quinn made brief eye contact with the senior guard who only shrugged sheepishly in response. He rested his hand on his rapier.

“Can I help you, Serrah? Directions to the nearest public baths, perhaps?”

Razabolt hadn't figured out where he was yet. So it was a bit of a shock to see that he ended up in the fancy part of town. He noticed the well dressed figure standing next to him, and realized that he had blacked out right in front of his establishment.

“Oh shit where am I? I drank too much last night…shit…is this your establishment man cause I didn't mean to pass out right in front of it. Anyways…anyways…yeah you willing to give me directions to the nearest bathhouse? Good god I'm a mess.”

“Vivazzi Plaza, and yes.” Well, technically there was a co-owner – but the thought of Lord Pavus having to deal with an anonymous drunk on the front steps was quite awful. Pavus was not as prickly as some High House mages, so the stranger might survive … But it would, perhaps, tarnish Quinn’s reputation in his eyes. Quinn existed to deal with all the irritating nonsense, or so it seemed.

“Forgive me, but I am skeptical that you’ll make it there on your own.” He heaved a sigh, making peace with the fact that this would take far too much time when he’d hoped only to secure a meal and sleep for a few hours.

“Follow me, Serrah.” Quinn set off into the early morning crowds, crossing the plaza and choosing another wide, marble-paved street studded with ancient statues of dragons. Minrathous was infested with the things. The baths and their extensive gardens came up on their right. He stood staring at the building a moment, before turning to look at the mud-splattered stranger.

“Do you require anything else?”