Lure
As the drumming in the tiefling's slightly pointed ears dies down, he takes in the state of the bodies of the floor: three with bloody hindquarters, one with a cracked skull, and one-Lure gags, bile rising up his throat.
Ohp...it's coming out. Lure doubles over, apologizing to the grounded patrons between hacks.
Tiff
The half-elf steps out of range of the spew. They crack one eye up at the cackling imp. At least someone here is having a good time.
Racaille
"I take it the tournament's cancelled?" asks the Chelaxian, taking a similar step back.
Sure, he'd already bagged more than enough to keep him afloat for a fortnight or one very hard day's night, but Racaille's slightly annoyed that he's been robbed of the chance to push his luck.
Geleafa
The samsaran wades into the mess if she must en route to the two would-be robbers. It couldn't be worse on her boots than the rest of the Riddleport street fluids.
Geleafa lays a hand on either of the robbers. She's not feeling up to healing their hard-earned wounds at the moment, but she'll keep them from dying if it's as dire as it looks.
DM
"Yeah, no, everybody go home," says Saul, only to throw both palms up at the four of you. "Except for you four!"
The patrons rise, bickering and enraged. They loudly demand refunds as they throw their chips into the placating grins of Saul and his few remaining employees.
The tatted, silver-haired elf is the last to leave as the only one to have properly queued. His violet eyes take in all four of you, leaving Geleafa for last. Where there was once near-murderous hostility, there's now only murderous suspicion. He casts in his chips without a word.
Saul takes the newfound silence for all its worth, poking his head out past the side of the elf.
"On behalf of the Gold Goblin, I'd like to give you my most royal thanks. If you're not busy, how about we have a chat over drinks? On the house, of course."
Lure
Lure, disturbed by that elf looking right through him, takes a moment to realize one fourth of Saul's question is directed at him.
"Uh yeah, sure," he answers despite not being able to remember the question.
He's pretty sure there was mention of free food. That alone wouldn't have hooked him, but the faster he gets away from that purple stare, the better.
Tiff
Tiff scrapes the nearest chair out from under a table and plops down.
"I'll take a stout water and a platter of whatever you've got in the pantry."
Racaille
Racaille follows the business-forward half-elf's lead, fixing them with his trademark grin and luckiest wink as he plops down into the seat beside them.
"I'll have what they're having, only make that water a scotch and that mystery platter a fruit and cheese plate, meat optional but appreciated."
He steeples his fingers under his clean-shaven chin, pausing to add, "My name's Racaille, by the by. Who might you mates be?"
Geleafa
"Geleafa," says the samsaran, rising from the over the unconscious but no longer dying bodies. "Nice to meet you."
Her solid white eyes flick pointedly at the leaving elf, but her closed smile remains fixed on her face. She wipes her palms on her breeches before joining the others at the table.
"I'll have...elfwine, if you have it," she says, her voice fading to a murmur.
DM: Geleafa
A muscle seems to tense in the elf's shoulders on his way out, but it could easily be a trick of the gambling hall's strategically flickering light.
Lure
Lure shuffles toward the table in a roundabout way to get to the seat furthest from the others. He scrapes it out as quietly as he can.
"A second on the scotch-er, I mean a double. And, uh, my name's Lure."
Tiff
"Tiff."
Tiff takes in Racaille's overly familiar mannerisms without a flicker of emotion. They have to conserve their energy for more important things. Like eating.
Racaille
"Well met, well met, Geleafa, Lure, Tiff," says Racaille, his grin growing with each name on his lips.
They're not the table-mates he'd expect to find at a gambling hall-a gentle, polite, but somehow fake blue-skinned mate, a nervous tiefling who'd literally melted the face off a man mere minutes ago, and a tight-lipped, death-fisted half-elf. They're better.
Geleafa
Geleafa's gaze drifts from the elf's back to meet Racaille's during his appraisal. Her small smile never wavers. Whatever the rakish Chelaxian is hoping to find, he won't.
DM
"Snap to it, then," Saul snaps at the four remaining employees, who're still sporting their dazed, placating smiles.
Two drag the two fallen bodies away while the other two drag the chest of gold off. They return in starts and stops with the food and drinks you've requested.
Saul comes around to sit down after taking Old Scratch's cage down and wheeling the imp off to some darker corner of the hall. He toasts your bravery and resourcefulness before rolling out the valuables found on the would-be robbers onto your dining table: a wand of shocking grasp, a scroll of pyrotechnics, a scroll of
shrink item, a familiar sickle, masterwork leather armor, enchanted bracers of armor, a spellbook, a belt pouch with 50 gold pieces.
"Let those villains' just desserts be your...desserts."
Lure
"Uh, thanks," says Lure when nobody else makes a move.
He holds his breath and picks up the wand, scrolls, and spellbook as gingerly as a clutter of wet cats. His face grows hot as his oxygen dwindles. If he's being honest, it'd be a relief to just pass out right now.
Racaille
"Nice haul," says Racaille, shaking off the stupor of one too many shots of scotch.
He helps himself to both pieces of armor. And they say beggars can't be choosers.
Tiff
Tiff slides the sickle over to Geleafa. They've got no need of weapons. They've got no objection to the gold, though, and sweep that up off the table.
Geleafa
Geleafa picks up the sickle and holds it up to the light with a bemused smile. Quaint, but it might come in handy against some evil outsider getting overly familiar. She tucks it away on her belt.
DM
Saul introduces himself as a former, retired gang leader from the old days of Riddleport, but states matter-of-factly that his life of crime was far from lucrative.
"In fact, it cost me my health, my fortune, my family, and even my own left hand," he barks, pounding his metal prosthetic key on the tabletop for emphasis.
With his wife dead, his sons exiled, and the bulk of his fortune wiped out, he took what meager funds he could scrape together and purchased the Gold Goblin, a once-famous gambling hall that had fallen on hard times.
"Now, I might be too old to relocate or turn back to a life of crime, but I've tried to turn a profit here at the Goblin. Ah, speaking of crime, I've bosses up to here trying to sink my last ship. That pair who tried to rob me just then-they're known on the street for contracting out to any crimelord willing to spit in their general direction. And...I get it."
Saul, too, is desperate enough to consider throwing himself at the mercy of a protection racket.
"All's that stopping me is I hate the underworld more than it hates me. But I think you might be just what I'm looking for. I saw you take out those spineless mercs," he grins at the memory. "What'd you say to partnering up?"
He explains that they would work directly for him and assist
in the day-to-day running of the gambling hall, serving as
dealers, bouncers, croupiers, or greeters but that these roles would be covers for the actual services they'll provide Saul as
bodyguards, messengers, and consultants.
"Room, board, a regularly salary of ten gold a week, and to top it off, a cut of the hall's weekly profits-now how's that for a deal?"
Lure
Too good to be true, honestly. It's more than Lure had hoped to get with the Cyphers, and even better, he isn't being asked to prove himself as a mage, a sorceror.
"Wait, do we have to wear the costumes?"
Racaille
It's a good question, but it's not the most pressing question. Besides, the more people who'd see Racaille's banging bod, the better. No, the real question is, why stop there?
"Twenty a week."
Tiff
This is exactly what Tiff's been looking for, and if they can sweeten the deal, all the better. They set down their tankard of water. Tiff stands by Racaille's side and backs up his bargaining with their most deadpan stare, arms crossed over their lean, muscular form.
"Twenty or nothing."
Geleafa
Geleafa would almost rather not give Racaille the satisfaction of aiding the bargaining effort. As one raised in a monastery, she'd long been turned off from the pursuit of coin for coin's sake-greed, they call it.
These three, however, might be her future coworkers. It wouldn't look good to present a non-united front.
She swallows her sigh and stands up as well.
"To be fair, I'm not even looking for employment at the moment. Perhaps you can change my mind."
DM
Saul throws up his hands.
"Ok, fine, twenty it is. And no costumes outside of the standard uniform-unless we have another event day-deal?"
Lure
"Fair enough," says Lure, standing a little too late.
At the very least, the odds of another event day so soon after this one's catastrophic failure seem slim to none.
Racaille
They could've gotten more. Racaille's sure of it, but Lure's already caved. Better not trample the poor tiefling-he's anxious enough as it is.
Racaille beams at Saul victoriously.
"Twenty it is."
Tiff
Tiff jerks their chin in an approving nod without so much as an accompanying grunt. They sit back down and finish the mystery bread and stew in front of them.
Geleafa
Geleafa's twinge of regret at the way things went down manifests as a slight disgust toward Racaille and the similarly money-minded Tiff. But her smile never falters. These are, after all, her coworkers.
DM
You sign your contracts, and as newly inducted employees of the Gold Goblin, you're welcomed to clean your own dishes. Saul similarly "welcomes" the floor manager Larur Feldin to give you a whirlwind tour of the rooms and floors. The soft-spoken floor manager is a gender neutral half-orc with a whip-thin build and flinty gray eyes capable of spotting a card shark at fifty paces.
The last of the rooms, of course, is the private apartment you'll be sharing with each other. It's a comfortably furnished chamber
With three bunk beds shoved against the walls next to a pair of wide wardrobes. A small table with three chairs is pushed into one corner, and two overstuffed chairs sit on a wolfskin rug before the hearth. The entrance to a small privy is covered by a thin curtain.
Larur procures four identical iron key from an interior vest pocket.
"Will that be all, or do you have any questions?" they ask, tucking the pencil of their clipboard behind one pointed green ear.
Tiff
"Nope. Thanks for the tour."
Tiff snaps up their key and strides straight into the apartment. They start disrobing for bed immediately, throwing their athletic robes onto their chosen top bunk.
Racaille
"Nothing comes to mind," lies Racaille, "but thanks for the tour, mate."
Rather than go immediately to bed, he walks back the way they came under the erroneous-or-not assumption that the "free room and board" clause meant "open bar."
DM: Racaille
Larur's steely eyes narrow to gray slits, but they don't move to stop Racaille, giving him the benefit of the doubt for the moment.
Geleafa
Geleafa leans in toward Larur as she takes her key.
"You might need to put the curb stomp on that one," she whispers.
She's said her piece. It's time for bed.
DM: Geleafa
Larur's mouth tightens to a grim line. They give Geleafa the slightest nod before pushing the final key into Lure's hands.
"Apologies, the time for questions is over. Racaille! Excuse me, Racaille!"
The half-orc sprints down the hall to round in front of the Chelaxian. He receives an earful about the only "board" being what food is served up at the breakfast, lunch, and dinner buffets in the staff room. The rest, including the bar, is sadly off-limits.
Lure
It's not like Lure had any questions of particular worth anyhow. He turns away from the hall lecture with a wide-eyed cringe and slinks into the apartment. He shuts the door as quietly as he can behind him. And is immediately met with the sight of the undressing Tiff.
Lure dives as casually as he can while fully clothed into the bottom bunk furthest from Tiff. He yanks the cover over his burning face and rolls to face the wall.
"Goodnight," he mutters into the fabric.