“Are you sure this is a pub?”
A small chuckle. Red orbs glanced at the humble sign of oak. Its owner’s wrapped his dark travelling coat around his slim figure, the crimson waistcoat beneath it seeming glaringly obvious in the lamplight of Fallen London.
“Yes. I’m sure this is a pub. A rather silly name but its reputation surpasses such trivial matters.”
The speaker tilted his fedora, casting a shadow over his smooth features, jet black bangs of unruly hair covered his eyes, which gleamed with amusement. 'Let’s go Sebastien."
His Suave Henchman sighed before going inside. 'You go it gov’nor." The man smiled. He was a good boy. If only he had more people like him. Good workers were hard to come by nowadays.
Richard Eleison, the Conniving Scholar, walked into the misappropriately titled pub.
It was still a jolly place after all.
“A mug of the strongest, if may.” Eleison asked as he took his seat at a corner table. “Absinthe for me. And a pint of ink! And a quill. Fetch me a quill. Never liked pens.”
The black raven simply ruffled their feathers in slight annoyance before flying off to tend to his needs. Sebastien dusted off the imaginary dust on his brown suit before turning to his boss. “So…why are here?”
Indeed. That was a good question. What business did two gentlemen of shady practice have in a little pub in the streets of Veilgarden? Criminal networking? Anarchist plotting? Rubbery murdering? Truth be told…
“I haven’t the foggiest idea.” Eleison shrugged. He just heard of the pub’s fame and decided to pay a visit. Nothing too serious. His bearded henchman said no word of complaint, though he couldn’t help but notice the slightest twitch of his jaw.
Their order arrive in the form of a miniature flock of ravens ferrying a tray to the duo. The beer was gladly accepted by the Suave Henchman. The absinthe was quite satisfactory in the Conniving Scholar’s opinion. The ink more so.
Deft hands jotted down bits and bobs of ideas and plans, criminal networking and such. The stuff mentioned earlier. His eyes never left the door of the pub. What wondrous individual may pass through that small frame?
Richard Eleison’s signature smile flashed once again as he thought of the possibilities, it’s gleam outshining the sinister glow of the Crooked Cross. My my. This will certainly be a delectable evening.