DM
Samaritha grabs her new hire's arm and pulls Ruran well out of reach of the flesh-eating swarm.
"Thank Lady Luck that's over. I know it's a lot more mundane, but how's everyone feel about taking the rest of this interview to a tavern?"
Medomai
Medomai shakes out one sore, flesh-chomped leg over the swamp grass. Then the other.
"I could use a drink or three."
Or ten.
Ruran
"Ahah, the interview's not over?" Ruran cackles weakly, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
And was that an open invite? They glance at hot mystery elf who must've seen their true, ink-skinned form.
If that guy is suddenly a part of this operation, they're gonna need some explanations. As desperate as Ruran is for work, they're happy to put their table-busing to use elsewhere.
Merimna
Merimna leans a hand on Samaritha's shoulder.
"I know I speak for all of us when I say, we must have booze. We must have it now. And we aren't paying for it."
DM
Hot mystery elf opens his mouth as though about to contradict Merimna. He thinks better and smarter of it, however, and shuts up.
Samaritha opens her mouth. A deeper still and quiet descends upon the marsh with a glacial chill.
Birds, hundreds, thousands of them burst squawking from their nests into the air. White gull feathers rain down from their cacophonous spiral. They wheel, shrieking, higher and tighter into what can only be described as a proper bird-nado.
Their unnatural, accursed flight pattern bows and bends off the ground toward the Cyphergate...and the Blot in the sky above.
"No, yeah, I'll fund a whole gods-damned bender," says Samaritha. "Let's get out of here."
Samaritha takes you to Mystery of the Gate, the grandiose/pretentious inn and tavern favored by scholars who study Riddleport's Cyphergate, the arch rising 350 feet over the water etched with unintelligible glyphs.
"I actually came to Riddleport to join the Cyphermages but I, uh, got deferred to a waiting list," she admits, setting down the first round of drinks at the corner booth.
Merimna
Boo-fucking-hoo, you're a floor manager at an illogically successful gambling hall.
Merimna rolls her eyes and knocks back a double tequila shot. She rolls the empty glass between her slender, ghastly white fingers. That was...not bad.
She raises a polite finger at a passing server.
"I'll have six more, thanks. It's on my lovely friend here-the woman," she clarifies.
Medomai
Medomai nods helpfully, a tilted smile on his lavender-painted paints. They're all hot elfkind here, mostly. His pitch black gaze drifts toward Bruiser/Ruran and the sickly yellow-purple sheen they couldn't banish from their glamoured hair and eyes.
"Care to add anything to Samaritha's tab, Ruran? Or do you actually prefer 'Bruiser'?"
Ruran
Ouch. Ruran had stuck themself with desecrated poppet pins less pointed than this guy's questioning. Thank the Portents he's not the one running Riddleport's unluckiest job interview here.
"I prefer Ruran, I guess. And I think I'll wait until I finish this pot."
They remove an entire clay pot of steaming chamomile honey tea from Samaritha's tray. After the ratfaces, the meat goo, the cockroaches, the potential racist gatecrashing, and the birdnado, they are so far beyond the help of alcohol at this point.
Speaking of racist, Ruran frowns in the one full-blooded elf at the table. They do not, however, find the nerve to raise their eyes off the wood grain.
"Not to overstep or anything, but can we finish my interview after we get an explanation from…"
DM
"Kwava," says the elf, removing a wooden pint of palm wine from the tray.
Merimna, Medomai, and Ruran recognize the foreign sound and cadence of the name as Ekujae, an elven tribe from the Mwangi Expanse far to the south.
Kwava's violet-eyed glare remains, but it seems more of a serious business-faced frown than some blood-hatred for his own kind. He takes a sip of his wine and lets out a weary sigh.
"I suppose I owe you an explanation."
Kwava is a member of the local branch of the Shin'Rakorath, an elven affairs bureau of investigation or EBI. According to his superiors, a renegade elf from the Mierani Forest had fled to the criminal safehaven of Riddleport.
"All the EBI could tell me was that the elf was a disguised drow."
"What's a drow?" asks Samaritha, slurping her pink raspberry cosmopolitan from a straw.
Kwava jerks his pointed chin at Ruran.
"Like them, only full-blooded."
Merimna
It made sense that the elves would have a name for drow before anyone else even knew about them, not that Merimna gives half a damn. She's got her booze on and six more coming. This interview could drag til first light for all she cares.
Medomai
Medomai meets Ruran's glamoured eyes over the Soju Bomb fizzing in his hands.
"Well Ruran?" he asks from the corner of his smiling mouth. "Are you a disguised renegade elf escaped from the EBI seeking refuge in the criminal safehaven of Riddleport?"
Ruran
"No!" says Ruran, nearly dropping their clay teacup. "I mean, no. I already showed you my true face. I'm fully half-elf. My dad's Varisian. My mom was...drow, I guess, but she couldn't be the one either. She's dead."
Her immune system just hadn't been able to handle Riddleport's disease, filth, and pollution. She'd just gotten weaker and weaker until one day…
The tiny, leather-stitched poppet burns within Ruran's pocket. It's a comforting warmth. Ruran sips their tea, one hand over the dolly.
DM
"Oh thank Desna," Samaritha sighs, closing her eyes in what might be actual prayer.
She takes a long slurp of her extra fruity cosmopolitan before opening them. She sets down the empty glass and claps her hands, turning between Ruran and Kwava.
"Ruran," she slaps a hand on Ruran's shoulder, "Kwava," and does the same to him, "I'd like to welcome you both official to the table-busing ranks of the Gold Goblin. Congratulations! You're hired!"
The perpetually frowning Kwava raises a polite finger.
"Technically, I'm already employed by-"
"Nonsense!"
Samaritha takes his finger in both hands, shaking it.
"Welcome to the Gold fucking Goblin you hot elf of mystery, you. Both of you! Report to my office, tomorrow, noon."
Ruran: DM
"Sorry, where IS your office?"
Merimna
Merimna, seven double tequila shots down, laughs and snorts behind her hand.
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," she slurs, shaking her head. "Rury, Kwavy, you just follow us back tonight. We'll let your coworkeries take it from here."
Medomai
Medomai shakes his own head at Mina, smiling fondly. He helps her up out of the booth.
"Alright, Mina. You've had enough. We're going. Ruran, Kwava, follow me."
Ruran
Ruran frowns across Samaritha's arm-line at Kwava. But after today, this might as well happen. They deflate in resignation and help Samaritha up onto their arm.
"Lead on, fellow coworker."
DM
Medomai and/or Merimna presumably correct Ruran on the coworker point and introduce themselves en route to the Gold Goblin. The first light breaks like a rose wine spill up from the horizon as they reach their destination.
A white blur thunks against the roof of the gambling hall. A dead seagull bounces and drops onto the hedge. A dozen more thunk against the roof.
"Blood of the ancestors," mutters Kwava.
Whether due to the Soju Bomb or some other, hot mystery reason, the elf has followed the group back to the Goblin as well.
Racaille
Racaille is just finishing sweeping up when Medomai walks in with Merimna and the gods-damned floor manager in a stupor, followed by not one but two replacement hires. And one of them is THAT bitch elf.
"You've gotta be kidding me," he mutters, then calls out, "Medomai, what the fuck?"
Medomai
"No worries, he's not racist, just an undercover EBI agent," Medomai calls back.
DM: Medomai
"Great. Thanks, Medomai," says Kwava, dry as a monk. "Yeah, I'm Kwava, investigator of the elven affairs bureau."
Serem
"Hi Kwava."
Serem throws his table-wiping rag over his shoulder and offers a hand to Kwava.
"I'm Serem. Good to have ya. And you are?" he asks, offering the same hand to the less edgy, softer-in-general half-elf.
Merimna
Merimna, leaning heavily on Meda's shoulder, throws a wobbly pointing finger at Ruran.
"That's Bruiser," she slurs helpfully.
Ruran
"Call me Ruran," they say with a weak cackle, shaking Serem's hand. "If we're blowing covers here, then I guess you should know this isn't my real face."
Ruran clears their throat with an even weaker cackle. That could've come out better. They didn't even have an alcohol to blame.
Racaille
Racaille quirks an eyebrow.
"O-kay."
Looks like Samaritha really had scraped the gutter of the underworld for this one. Though he'd never admit it, good on her.
"Well met, Ruran. I'm Racaille."
As for EBI Agent Kwava-his quirked brow drops to a hard, steely line.
"Well. Met," he lies through his teeth.
Medomai
"Racaille, Serem, I leave the drunks and the newbs to you. Come on Mina, let's go home."
Serem
Serem waves the murder-twins off then turns to Ruran.
"Here, I'll take Samaritha off your hands."
He'll carry the floor manager back to her office where she could sleep this off and wake up already at her desk like a champ. With a brain-stabbing hangover.
Merimna
"Toodles," Merimna waves, waggling her fingers.
She staggers out on Meda's arm.
Ruran
"Bye," Ruran waves.
They turn back to the remaining two, rocking on their heels.
DM
Kwava also regards the Chelaxian though coolly and without rocking.
Racaille
"Right. Follow me. We'll check in with Saul, the big boss around here."
Ruran
"Great! Oh, by the way, a bunch of dead gulls dropped onto the hedges outside. I think it was the Blot that did it to 'em."
Racaille
"Great."
Just fucking great.
DM: Racaille
Saul is hunched over his desk, scratching at paperwork with the parrot-sized imp on his shoulder. He looks up at the squeak of the door. His face breaks into smile and he stands, unsettling Old Scratch who flies to the rafters.
"Well met, well met! Saul Vancaskerkin at your service," he bows with a flourish. "Didn't realize there were two of you who've agreed to eight gold a week-now that's the kind of surprise I can get behind. Let me just fix this contract to accommodate the both of ya. Names?"
Ruran
"Hi, I'm Ruran," says Ruran with an unnecessary wave.
DM
"Kwava."
Saul makes the appropriate changes to the joint contract and fills in the blanks with the names.
"Done and done! Ruran, Kwava, welcome to the Gold Goblin!"