Every tavern was exactly the same. Sure, some of the torches were fixed to the wall with brass instead of iron. Some of then were hanging from the ceiling by rusted chains, swaying every time the door opened. Every time someone had a good roll and pounded his fist on the wall in celebration. Every time a fight broke out. Skandra wasn't alarmed by any of these things, but tonight burning liquor passed his lips with a quick flick of his wrist. The pleasure of the moment wore an ugly face tonight. It was not whispering in his ear but glaring in his direction. Angry at him for what he'd done perhaps, or what he meant to do.

( Impossible to tell. )

There were some docks that could be unnerving. These were some of those, sturdy wood planks partially submerged in water. One could not see the legs of the thing, though the pier was well-grounded by well-intentioned men. One central platform, wide enough for six men to walk shoulder to shoulder. The smaller docks for each particular boat. The dockmaster's cabin was more of a shack, not nearly so well-constructed as the docks themselves, but that was hardly a concern. There was new coin coming to these docks. New business bringing life to what had once been nothing but a smuggler's stopping-over. There were armored men on the pier, for one. Sure, it was nothing but a leather cuirass, but it counted as armor all the same. Important men in well-woven coats with high collars. Human men, or so they appeared. Mist was rolling in from the mountains, plunging down the face of it like an unstoppable force.

( It was a perfect day for sneaking. )