Tomasz watched. He watched the doorway. He watched the patrons of the Sun’s Solace, a seemingly reputable tavern in the Shades. The longer Tomasz had been here the more it seemed that appearances were deceptive. Then Jaroz wasn’t paying him to make moral judgements; just for his bulky presence and to watch.
Most of the patrons were hard-bitten grafters of the Shades, but one or two were a little too well-dressed. Some came in gaggles like preening peacocks and others ghosted in with less well-dressed companions. Tomasz had already intimidated a small group of Amthorians from causing trouble with their sense of entitlement.
The five half-elves had entered full of privilege and arrogance earlier in the evening. The temperature and noise level had fallen as if it was an early winter morning back in the northern wilds of his homeland: not that Amthorians had noticed. He had no doubt that if he had left it five minutes more, one of the party would be lying in a gutter with a fatal wound. Not that he was worried about their well-being, but Jaroz paid him to keep trouble from the Solace’s doors.
He rounded them up and told them to find somewhere else to drink. Of course, the entitled fops flashed coin at him to let them revel in “such a fine establishment” which had made more than a few eyes in the darker corners turn in their directions. Tomasz had sent them packing into the night with screams of “Don’t you know who I am?” and “I’m a Lumene! You’re finished little man!” as the intoxicated group weaved their way through the darkened streets. Tomasz watched…