Ready For A Night Out On The Town?

Voah was accustomed to both elegance AND comfort. She would be lying if she said the sisters’ Neophyte habit was either of those things. The fabric laid heavy and burdensome on her shoulders and was not flattering. It was, however, fresh and clean and would make do until she could get something that allowed her to be a bit more limber.

She rummaged through a trunk of excess fabrics in a sewing room of the Misty Ward Priory house until she found some decent fabrics to make a head scarf. She found bolts and strips of died cloth of Kupen’s livery; blue, cream, and goldenrod, cream.

She choose a strip of blue, the color of a clear sky, wrapped a swath across the top of her head and began to weave the strip into her hair. When she was done, she strapped on her creamy suede wrap-boots and headed out into the ward to find the Friar.

It didn’t take long to find the man with some direction from the Acolytes and she promptly apologized for her unusual, if indecent, introduction. She inquired as to where she could find the seedy part of tow.

The Friar stood in astonishment with his mouth agape. She didn’t bother explaining or sating his confusion and curiosity on the matter, simply responding, “I have my reasons”.

The truth was that she was embarrassed about the whole incident with the thief and she just needed to find someone like the lording Wym Riese who may be instrumental in helping her find her stolen goods.

Hesitantly, then man said, “Well… that would be Lowood, see… it bears host to the less savory types.”

“Thank you, Friar. That should be enough.”

Voah promptly spun around and headed out into the sandy streets of Ostiarium toward Lowood. She would speak to the law enforcement and merchants on the morrow, but for now, a tavern would surely be the best place to start.

Along the way, a high wind from the sea swept in rain clouds and an early twilight. The lamplighters set out to quickly perform their duties. Voah flipped up her hood, braid draped across her shoulder. She continued her questioning with some of the established colonials, many of whom scrutinized her before answering, for she didn’t have the same appearance of the other sisters of the faiths and she carried a different air about her.

Finally, after a march through Lowood, the fruits of her inquest brought her to the wooden door of a shabby two story building. On a bench outside the entrance sat a portly, scruffy, middle-aged man; a weathered eye patch covering one of his eyes, a dirty great hat adorning his grey-brown hair. He held a tankard in his hand and a smile on his face. Upon his lap was perched a long-eared rabbit whose fur and plumpness nearly matched that of the man. A sign above the door read, “The Drunken Hare”.

The man looked at Voah, raised his ale and began singing a jaunty hymn of praise to Cambena. She couldn’t resist a smile at the man who reminded her of her father back when her family traveled the country as wandering pilgrims and entertainers. It made her want to dance, but now was not the time for that. She had business to attend.

She pushed open the door and descended the stairs into the burrowed tavern; the warm air heavy with the reek of smoke and the din of revelry. She approached the bartender and asked after the lordling and was pleasantly surprised to be pointed toward a dark corner with a window.