I'd just like to take this time to say thankyou to Coppertop for all her moderating; its a very undervalued job.


*Chapter 4: Cause and effect*

Perhaps the single most famous tavern both on Carrotus itsekf and offworld is the War Tavern; a building that has been around for so long it has achieved two capital letters in its name, and edifice synonymous with succes and the telling of tall tales. Practically since the day of its construction it has been a gathering place for the big names and heroes of Carrotus and surrounding space. Built several hundred years ago to celebrate the acesnsion of King Fitzwick Earlong, it was actually the second of two buildings at opposite ends of the town, sppositely named the War and Peace Taverns, the second being dedicated to the king's wife Estania. Perhaps it was her ensuing coup attempt, trial and execution that first tarnished the Peace Tavern's name, but it has never gained the popularity of its sister construction.

There are certain places that practially cry out for people to get riotusly drunk and start singing in a loud, obtrusive manner. These places usually have large, roaring fires, lots of happy people talking loudly and order their liquor in large tankards, Then there are the places people go when all they want to do is consume a large amount of alchohol [preferably in the form of drink rather than industrial solvents] and try to forget the miseries of life. This was such a place; it was dank, dismal dark and you could practically feel the rising damp soaking up out of the floor. There wasn't much conversation here, most of what there was was spoken in a low, depressed tone. There was only one exception to the gloom as Erst bustled behind the bar serving drinks to anyone who slouched their way up to the bar. He was also attempting conversation too, in the utterly oblivious manner of someone who either had no idea where they are, or has been paid to be cheerful.

Amidst the smoke and grime Lori sat morosely. In deference to her dislike of aquiring virulent diseases, her barstool had been covered with newspaper. She'd seen a lot recently she'd rather forget, and the turpentine content of the Peace Tavern's drinks made that a welcome possiblity. There was someone new at the bar this week; apparently someone had decided to put money before personal hygeine and replace Stadt as barkeep. She wondered if Stadt had really retired, or whether he'd just decided to invest more time in one of his other 'business' ventures. It really was a pity, he was quite a nice guy, although possibly some of this had to do with the fact that Lori always paid, and always with money. She turned to the patron next to her, who as far as she could tell had been drinking continuously for the past four hours. It was amazing he was still living.

Having herself consumed just over four litres of what was technically paint stripper, Lori's attempt at communication was mostly jibberish but eventually she managed to stammer out a sentence in what could pass for english [in the 'special' class] Her neighbour looked at her through an impressive pair of sunglasses. "Wi niggh? Oh bloody hell! I am (-) aren't i? Nevermind, it'll all be the same in a few days time anyway. You...you got the right idea! I say, find a place with good...god, fod n booze and have a good time! Whoo! Whats the time? Oh bugger this, better sober up." Through the rising haze of drink Lori watched him shudder, spit out a large quantity of clear flamable smelling liquid and straightened up. He then walked unusually steadily out the door and into the night. Lori stared at her glass, there was something wrong with it, and that was the fact that it was currently empty. She ordered another round.

Outside Vernon Klase was having a bad day. He was no longer drunk and it would be a matter of miniutes before his big meeting. He didn't know what it was about, but it was the first time they'd wanted to talk to him since...since, well since he could remember, and that probbably wasn't a good thing. He ducked into the disused alley where he knew they'd be waiting, and, as expected, there they were. The two contacts they'd sent lurked evily at its end, bith such a drab shade of brown that they were almost background. They leered as he approached them. 'Right, so what 'ave we here then? Vern Klase huh? You been spending too much time up here; starting to get ideas I think" the words were spat, the disgust in their speaker's voice evident with every sylable. "Pers'nally I can't see why they've got some low ranking rat like you to do this; but it aint my job to argue you sign for this, 'n be at the meeting point on time and this could mean quite a promotion." The second figure sneered "Yeah, I'd give my right arm for an oppourtunity like this; well, someone's right arm anyway." Vernon looked helplessley at the small package being handed to him, it was small, ractangular and not very heavy, but in his hands it suddenly seemd a lot bigger, and more menacing. He gulped and signed his name on the clipboard. Beurocracy, even here.

The first figure stared at the signature. "Nah, not Vern buddy; your real name." Vernon shuddered; what he wrote next wasn't Vernon Klase, it was a lot longer. Another snort. "Your signature, signature!" Vernon shuddered again and wrote something a lot shorter; one rune, basicaly oval in shape, but obsurdly complicated. There was a hiss as it was finnished and the paper and clipboard dissapeared. The two figures nodded, a signal form one professional to another and blended into the darkness. Vernon stood with the package clutched tightly in his hands as it began to rain. It was going to be a long, cold, dark, night.