Nope, don't own these books… working on it but not yet

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The man eyed his drink suspiciously. It was not poisoned, no doubt- no self-respecting assassin would waste good coin to poison him- but looked itself to be poisonous. It was a deep brown, almost black, and far too thick to be ale. Some strange sort of brown crust was forming where the liquid met the glass, and William could not discern whether that was from the ale or crud left over in the cup. He sighed. English money didn't go far these days. Perhaps if he carried the Spanish dollar, or the more powerful Czech currency… but this liquid appeared to be all in stock at this bar. William replaced the cup on the counter. He needed a drink. But he didn't need one that badly.

The room was dark and dreary, and in some attempt at irony, the weather gods had mirrored the situation outside. It wasn't entirely raining, but the mist hung heavy enough to make the citizens of London damp, whether they stood inside their house or out. Despite the lack of a storm, though, a soft and distant rumble of thunder could be heard, with no apparent source. The whole world was half-asleep that day, and the half that had to be awake did nothing but grumble about it.

And as if only to annoy William, his chosen wooden seat had a crack down the middle, the two sides of which pinched violently at his rear.

The door swung open suddenly, with just a little too much energy so as to attract the attention of everyone in the bar, except William, who was occupied with a sullen passion in solving his chair dilemma. A large man entered. A very large man. He had blond hair that should have been curly, but was cut just short enough to keep it straight. Though his arms and legs showed hints of muscles, the amounts of fat on his body vastly undermined any intimidating air he might have possessed. Rather, his scarlet suit and overstretched smile would have appeared almost comical almost anywhere but this bar.

He strolled across the room, or rather bounced, to discuss personal matters with the bartender, a very worn and very pregnant woman. His voice rang with a heavy British accent, despite his Russian parentage, a fact he kept very much to himself in these times. Though the other patrons could not hear the bartender's whispered response to the man's statements, they saw as his spirit visibly deflated and he muttered some condolence or other.

A while passed as he sat at the bar, and slowly he began to amuse himself by ordering unwanted drinks and watching in harmless sport as the bartender snatched his coins off the bar and eagerly counted the amount. And as this diversion grew tiresome, he began to look around his surroundings, taking in every particle of dust and depression with a vague interest in the apparent novelty, before he spotted the man only a foot to his right.

"William? William is that you?"

William did not need to look up, for though he paid the man no heed, he was very much aware of his presence.

"Mr. Richton. A pleasure, as always."

"You and your formalities William, or should I say, Mr. Gladstone. I am no more your superior here than you are mine is Parliament."

"Nicolais, then. A pleasure as always."

"A pleasure indeed. It has been a while… almost," he paused, mentally calculating, "well too long anyhow. And you, well, you look as if you've run afoul of more than just cheap ale. Devon again?"
Only Nicolais would dare refer to the head of Parliament as 'Devon'. To everyone else he was 'Mr. Arthurs, sir'. Especially to William. Especially now. But for all his boldness, Nicolais was right about William. The young man's blond hair was slick with sweat and hung down by the sides of his drawn, pale face. His thin lips and cheeks showed hints of a yellowish tinge, and purple circles ran down for an inch below his eyes. And he daresay he looked thinner than usual. Suddenly, William wanted that drink. Against his better instincts, he lifted the glass to his lips.

Nicolais placed his hand on the glass. "I would not do that. Disgusting, that stuff is."

William, rather in the mood to obliterate his feelings with alcohol quipped "Odd then that you should have bought three in the last hour."

"Bought three yes, but haven't touched a drop."

"Then why did you even come to this place?"

"Ah. Here to help out an old army buddy, and now, apparently his widow."

"The quality of obituaries must have decreased then, if they somehow missed your friend," William responded, rather more focused on moving his glass closer to his lips from below Nicolais' meaty hand.

"Aw… can't read the things. So depressing… Still, I came here to help him; I couldn't leave that dear Marion and his unborn son destitute. Army dignity would forbid it, as you well know."

William didn't know. Army was a vague term nowadays, meaning anything from hand to hand combat to standing on the sidelines sipping coffee. William wasn't entirely sure which sort Nicolais was.

"Now, now William, if you fancy ale I would suggest the Robber's Wineskin in the west. They-" He stopped suddenly and appeared to notice his friend's torn coat and shabby nature for the first time. "Well, I came into more than a few pounds the other day. My treat."

"I'm not entirely sure…" William began, images of Nicolais in a drunken stupor flashing in his mind.

"Nonsense, if you need a drink bad enough to buy that… that soup- no offence Marion, dear- then I insist."

And at that he snapped his fingers, and from the air appeared a strange, lizard-like creature yet with purples scales and random patches or dark blue fir across his body. The other customers at the bar gasped, and Marion appeared to want nothing more than to run for her and her baby's life, but neither Nicolais nor William paid them any mind.

"Ever one for subtlety and aesthetics, Zamin," Nicolais scolded, but the creature showed no inclination to change his appearance. "Very well, escort Mr. Gladstone with us to the Robber's Wineskin. And do change into something decent, you'll have half of London on our tail."

William, still struck dumb and staring at the creature, made no objection as the creature pushed him along out the door.

They made a strange procession through London. A fat man in his bright red suit strolling quickly with a merry air. A prisoner being dragged forward to the West. And a purple lizard in the rear, now wearing an equally flamboyant scarlet ensemble. And about a hundred yards back from them, came a pack of desperately fleeing, panicked drunkards,