Some came in with a thrust of the entrance, others entered slipping like a strange midnight fog, but members of a mercenary company filled the cafe with a distinct presence. Three, like the heralds of an army, could be focused upon as the others joined tables and cast marks for an ale or worse.

Grange, a massive humanoid of grey-blue skin, shook the main bar with the force of six others. Bald, carved to the hilt with symbols and tattoos, each outlining a battle or kill, he laughed at the remark of others with a friendly casual grin that could tick into absolute violence.

Coppers, a shadowed rogue with quick eyes and the strange scent of old wet coins, slicked could immediately go to the closest stack of odds and gambling chance. Working a deck of cards in his hand, his tight leather purse clinked and jingled with the wealth of a dozen job.

Finally, mistaken for shadow or mist, saying not a word but eyes on every movement, hand on a hilt, came Murkstav, long-brim hat and dark cape to the ankles, settled on a spot that accessed any exit. He guarded a group of others from his company, a bird of prey guarding a nest. The others laughed and teased at that table, wondering why the dungeoneer must always be so serious.

There Scriba Company, exhaled for a rest, away from the encounters that had brought them wealth, regret, and good night's of sleep for campaigns on end.