Tan sort of flops around a bit. He's curious, where did his people's sunglasses go?

He must remember to look for them later.

Getting up is for suckers, though. He's got this asshole right where he wants him.

Do the Curly Shuffle and kick at blue as spinning around

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Kaz swings brutally at the footpad's lower torso — and gets nothing but air.

"Haw!", the bastard sneers. "The mark en't lived what figured out the cunnin' secret of the Empty Codpiece Gang!"

"Damn it all, Heinz", a voice behind Kaz mutters. "Doc Witzenberg's rusty shears are not a cunnin' secret! 'sides, I just tuck — stop throwing things at me, you horrid little knob! God, they're everywhere! Like big angry ants!"

Tan spins in a little circle, absolutely kicking the shit out of the angry giant that had suddenly loomed up next to him. Sadly, the kicking does nothing to drive the giant away. It may be time to escalate the fight to ankle-biting, or perhaps the ol' hot foot. Ah, but where are his matches?

The Kislevites continue cleaning house while the native Imperials trip over their own feet. Yarogni dashes back into the melee, having driven off his original quarry; the dent he puts in this next man's skull probably would've killed him, if Daz hadn't done the job proper only a second later. It was a clean wound, as dismemberment goes; first he's got two arms, then he's only got the one. None of that messy dangling sinew business. His buddy beside him gets all saucer-eyed and shaky.

"Heinz, I, I, I reckon we, uh... him who fights and runs away, er..." He turns tail and runs, fleeing into the alleys with the dead man's blood all down his tunic. The last of them curses, makes a quick guess at his chances, and does likewise.

The Empty Codpiece gang made a severe miscalculation when selecting marks this night. The six visitors to Nuln survive mostly intact, though the elf's head is significantly more purple and lumpy than you really expect from a head. Best not to hang around long, especially with that body lying in the street. Hopefully the elf can move under his own power. Ouch.

Let's say, oh, 10 XP for each of you.

Yarogni spat in the general direction of the fleeing footpads and uttered another string of curses in his native tongue, primarily aimed at the useless bunch of Imperials the gods had decided to grant him as allies in this little scuffle.

Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he quickly rifled through the dead footpad's belongings, hoping primarily to find enough cash to buy a few drinks to keep him entertained until it got light. Once the corpse was picked clean of all but his clothes the surly butcher headed back the way they had come to the inn, muttering to his kinsmen as he went in Kislevite.

Brother, what say we leave these idiots to their doom and go find a couple of cold drinks and hot wenches for the night, eh?

He turned his head and spoke loud enough for the whole group to hear in broken Imperial.

Me and my frund here, we go drunk now. Drunking is for real man only but if you ladies liek come vith us, you maybe learn about how real men act, no?

He stowed his club and tramped off back to the pub.

Fuck this.

Tan takes the clothes, leaving the corpse dead with it's junk flapping in the breeze.

No one maintains their modesty for long around here. And this dead asshole isn't going to start.

Otherwise yeah, Tan is totally down for bar hopping with his corpse robber pal. Fuck standards. It's time to get liquored.

Dazhyn leaned against a nearby wall and started cleaning the blood off of his axe. He didn't want to be stuck chopping firewood with a rusted out hatchet when he finally got out of this lousy city. Dazh always took good care of his stuff, and it took good care of him. He'd had this axe for twenty years already - and it still worked like it was new.

Dazh didn't much feel in the mood drinking himself silly, especially considering the incident he'd just survived. But seeing as his translator had just walked off into the night, he grudgingly followed along, picking up his lasso before following Yarogni to wherever it was they were going.

Hamit carefully descends the stack of crates.

"None of ye interested in bothering that bugger for your coin back, eh?"

Hamit wasn't one for confrontations, but a little fore never bothered him. He picked up the footpad's loose arm and used it to point towards the door the old man man bolted shut.

"I mean, it may buy us some better drink that Mockenheimer Light."

Intent on recouping all losses, Hamit pursues the original troublemaker into the tumbledown shack he'd hidden himself away in. An open window in the back tells the tale: their erstwhile help had fled even as the fighting started.

The group leaves the naked man's dismembered corpse lying in the street, meandering their way through the back-alleys while they discuss the distribution of this most paltry loot. He hadn't any coin on him, but then bringing one's own purse to a robbery is poor form; the whole point was to get yourself a nice new purse.

Poor Quality Clothing, Poor Quality Leather Jack, Cudgel (Hand Weapon), Knuckle-dusters, Hooded Cloak

They wander for nearly, finding everything closed at this late hour and getting quite lost in the dark back streets of Nuln. At long last Bulkbelly spots a dim light glowing behind a greasy window.A three-story wooden building looms at the end of a dead-end lane; the shingle over the door reads "The Reaver's Return". There's no sound from inside, but worst comes to worst a man can fix his own drink.

Yarogni tries the door, relieved at the chance to finally get off his feet. It won't budge.

Yarogni was getting annoyed now. He was tired and hungry, had been attacked, was being followed around by a bunch of useless Imperials, had found nothing more useful than a leather jack on the corpse of the footpad (Which he had put on, a gruff stare daring any of the others to object. He had slipped the brass knuckles into his pocket too, discarding the rest of the dead man's gear for anyone who wanted it) and now could not even get a drink. The Kislevite was starting to hate this city already, what kind of place has no bars open through the night?

He took out a measure of his frustration on the door, rapping heavily and repeatedly on it with his club whilst enquiry loudly in his mother tongue as to the exact parentage of the innkeeper who had lights on and a locked door when there were thirsty men about.

Bulkbelly examines the building to see if there are any alternate entrances or a window that isn't too smudged to see through.

After a minute or two of rapping on the door and angry shouting, Yarogni's just about to give up. Daz still has most of a skin of kvas with him, and while drinking in the street is pointedly undignified it's may be a prerequisite to sleeping in the street. He gives the battered door one last angry pound with this club, surprised as anyone when the rotting wood finally gives way; the entire door pulls away from its hinges and falls into the tavern beyond.

The interior of the Reaver's Return is a sorry sight; a dozen or so ragged old drunks lay sprawled either over wobbly tables or directly on the floor, all of them deep asleep. A white-haired and wrinkled fellow with a badly stained apron stands angrily at the foot of the stairs, glowering at the Kislevite.

"You'll have to pay for that, you know", snarls the innkeeper. "Six crowns, I warrant."

At about the same time Bulkbelly accidentally smashes though the brittle, filthy glass of the window while trying to scrub a spot large enough to see through. Narrowly avoiding landing directly on a ratcatcher's sleeping dog, he tumbles to his feet and promptly makes a point of acting innocent.

I pay for your door? I pay for door when you pay for being closed at reasonable drinking hour. Now me and my friend we drink! These ladies probably have milk from cow or something.

The surly butcher laughed deeply at his own joke and plonked himself down on a stool at the bar, pulling one up for Dazhyn and staring pointedly at the barman.

Dazhyn rolled his eyes. Typical. He didn't know enough of the local language to accomplish much, but he had heard their word for "money" enough times in the angry exchange between his companion and the proprietor to know that he was going to have to either pay the man or chop off another arm before the night was over. The things one does for an old friend.

For now, though, Daz simply took the stool his friend had offered him and rested his feet. He amused himself people-watching, since there's not a lot else to do in a bar full of people you're incapable of communicating with.

"You'll pay now, and —"

The innkeeper stops midsentence, frowning as Yarogni pays no attention to his demands and settles his beefy, blood-spattered form down at the bar. He glances around at his regulars; dead to the world, the lot of them. "...right. Drinks on the house it is, then, for your inconvenience." Shortly thereafter, Yarogni and Dazhyn are eyeing two mugs of warm, watery beer with a degree of skepticism.

The dwarf followed at a reasonable distance from the two. He couldn't help his instincts of mapping out their path mentally as they traveled. He didn't pay a lot of attention to the bravado of the beefy leader of the pair. He'd seen his ilk many times. Walked into a forest with dreams of grandeur and heroism and got lost ten minutes in, only to be eaten by whatever local animals decided he smelled of tasty flesh. As he stepped through the now shattered door, he simply said "Ale" as he passed the bar keep and sat down a respectful distance from the loud ass and his quiet boyfriend. So far he'd gotten to almost smash in a criminal's chest and survived to drink a beer. Good first day here.

Hamit didn't want any more of the trouble this group was bound to bring...but there was no other options for the night. He sat at the first table he found that wasn't being slobbered on by a drunken corpse for the time being and motioned for the other halfling to join him.

He would prefer a warm glass of his cousin's superb cherry meade at the moment, but he was going to guess this wasn't that kind of an establishment.
He didn't order anything. He just plopped his coin on the table and hoped that the innkeeper would have enough tact to not poison him since he bothered to pay for his drink. He would ask the innkeeper about room and board once he brought it.

Question innkeeper about getting situated for the night. Also, observe the room.

Stepping through the door, Tan glances left and right as his eyes start to adjust to the new room.

He starts to count how many folks he can see and estimate how many of them seem to know how to handle themselves.

Y'know. Should something unfortunate happen.

Yarogni was glad the innkeeper had seen sense. One pointless fight a night was more than enough for him and who knew what kind of protection rackets were in place round here to quash any attempts to beat up barmen. A link to the local criminal fraternity was useful in any town but ideally nto when they were brandishing weapons and pissed off.

Since he felt he was building a raport with the innkeeper, the Kislevite questioned him further.

Nice place you have here, although bit draughty no?

Another unpleasant belly laugh.

So what can man do round here for entertainment? Maybe make a little coin too ya?

Turning to his companion he explained the situation.

Eh, we need some money right and this joker might know of someone looking to hire some help. I say we get good and drunk, leave the Imperial ladies to guard our gear and have a good sleep then tomorrow see about scrabbling together enough cash for a proper room. This lot look and act like milksops but they might come in handy, we should try to keep them sweet.

Dazhyn listened to his friend's description of the situation.

I'll not be leaving my things in the care of anyone else, thank you. Last time i let you borrow my dagger you decided to try cutting through the steel belt on the keg to open it instead of just stabbing a hole in the top like you're supposed to. It took me four hours with a whetstone to get the thing back to the point where it would cut an apple again. No way i'm letting this lot get hold of my things.

Whatever this job is, it had better involve getting out of this city. I can't stand not being able to see the stars. It's disorienting.

For someone who had spent so long looking to the stars for guidance, Dazhyn didn't trust their powers of prediction nearly as much as one might expect. He eyed the ale in front of him, then pushed it back towards the barkeep with an apologetic smile and a shake of his head. He wouldn't be drinking tonight. He only drank on special occasions, and even then not much. When you had friends like his, getting drunk was a very bad plan.

The innkeep gets surlier and surlier as the rest of the group files in; it was one thing to let an angry Kislevite have his way once in a while, and quite another thing when he brought the circus with him. At least one of the runts was paying his way. He fetched the beers for that one and the dwarf both, scooping up the gold crown the halfling had left on the table. That'll cover everything nicely, save the property damage; well, one of the regulars can be told he's to blame in the morning.

"Rooms? Well, the common room is full booked, once this lot drags their sorry hides over next to the fire. I've got something upstairs, though."

Curious, Hamit follows the innkeep up to the third floor — the attic, really — to observe conditions. The stairs creak even under Hamit's relatively minimal weight.

"Watch your head, man. Ceiling's a little low in... ha, nevermind that."

The attic is a dingy place; a dozen worn-out cots are strewn haphazard across the floor. Hamit notices bolts on both the window and the door; the window's been left unlocked.

"Window looks out directly on the canal. Lovely view, innit?"

The windows are too grimy to see a damned thing, but Hamit can certainly smell the canal.

Tan staggers in through the open doorway as cautiously as he can, taking a quick survey of the other patrons. All except the new arrivals and the innkeep were unconscious (either at their respective tables, or sprawled out next to the fire in the adjacent common room). Most of them looked little better than peasants; not individually dangerous, but there looked to be 15 or 16 of them all told and Tan spotted at least a few knives tucked into the occasional boot or belt. Best not to make too many waves, perhaps.

Hamit and the innkeep wend their way back downstairs, and Yarogni immediately pulls the old man aside again.

"Entertainment?" The innkeep laughs, his stale breath wafting unpleasantly into Yarogni's face. "Not been in Nuln a full day, and you're already bored. I wouldn't go wandering in the dark any more tonight if I were you, but I'm sure you can find something to do come morning. Nuln has more than its share of entertainment — just throw a rock and you're like as not to hit a brothel or a gambling den. Or both, often enough. Theatre, too, if you're an upright sort. And that's all without leaving the Neuestadt.

If you're looking for work, they're often hiring day labor down the Reiksplatz. Just head down the Drogstrasse 3 or 4 blocks; you'll know you're there when you can stretch both your arms out without putting them through a wall."

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Yarogni settled in for a hard night of drinking. Once he'd finished his own drink and his friend's, he motioned for the barman to pour another, jabbing a thumb at the smaller halfling and grumbling something about putting it on his tab.

Seeing that his companion was once again in no mood for drinking, he handed over his meagre posessions to Dazhyn's safe keeping just in case he passed out where he sat, which was after all his intention.

After a drink or two (or in some cases, none), most of the group trudges upstairs to the filthy attic room to sleep off the aches of the day - dropping off dead asleep and paying no heed to the open bolt on the window. Yarogni remains rooted in place at the bar, downing an astonishing 17 pints of beer before promptly vomiting most of it up in an impressive puddle. That he then passes out in this same puddle is less impressive. Even unconscious, the big Kislevite was unlikely to be interfered with and his few valuables were upstairs and safe. Well, relatively safe...

As they slumber away, a form quietly steals through the window. Perhaps that bolt was there for a reason. One by one, the burglar plucks the purses from their belts — though he is nearly interrupted as Dazhyn suddenly turns over in his sleep. With literally every penny the six had between them in tow, the thief sneaks back out the window — or tries to. Chuckling to himself over his score, he carelessly barks his shin on the corner of Hargundsson's cot. The jostling shakes a drowsy Kazanin to wakefulness, and he spots a dark figure creeping past his bed: a figure too tall to be either of the halflings, and too short to the drover or that gangly elf.

Jostled to a waking, the dwarf sat bolt upright, spluttering:
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"HOW'S MY HAIR?"

Shaking the cobwebs from his head, his wits suddenly coming back to him he pointed a finger and let fly the famous warning call of his people:

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Waaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

In mid cry, he grabbed the blanket from atop him and launched himself at this interloper, seeking to dive on top of him and wrap him in the thing like a net until the other, what's a nice word for "these retards I just met", he wondered.... sure, fellas. Until the other fellas could leap in and offer their aid. Most of them might be helpful, and gods willing, the elf might die.

Kazanin leaps from his cot like a man possessed, lunging at the intruder with his filthy blanket and bearing him to the floor. Within moments the burglar, caught utterly by surprise by the shrieking dwarf, is bound up tight. He tries desperately to wriggle his way free, but Kaz's strength (and his indignant fury) are too much for him.

After one last ferocious struggle, the burglar goes limp, breathing heavily. "Porca putanna, I surrender. You can have your money, just let me to go." His Tilean accent is heavy, and he mutters quietly to himself: "Cazzo merda. Mi sembra di essere in difficoltà tremenda con il mio stile di vita."

Kaz's Tilean isn't perfect, but it sounds like this isn't the first time this fellow's had a heist go south on him. The rest of the group drowsily stumble out of bed, watching the dwarf wrestle with his own blanket. Dwarves sure could be a sad people, sometimes.

Yarogni was roused from his drunken stupor by the sounds of conflict from above. He attempted to leap to his feet, only to fall flat on his backside, slipping in the large pool of vomit someone had left congealing around him. Deciding standing up was a mission too far, he crawled over to the stairs before beginning the arduous and frankly, in his state of inebriation, rather dangerous task of climbing them to the room above. It wasn't that he cared about the wellbeing of his new companions, in fact after consuming half his body weight in ale he could not have recalled their name if the Grand Theogonist himself was torturing the information out him. No, what Yarogni cared about was his money and his club. The money he needed for without it, how could he hope to build a new "trade" empire here in the West and the club had seen him through more business deals gone bad than his mother had eaten luke-warm meals.