Two ox carts almost run him over. His fault. He's standing half in the street gawking. Partly at the unusual cleanliness of...everything, partly at the richly appointed manses that adorn the long road sloping up and away from the sprawling Eastern Gate docks, and partly at the women. Well...a lot at the women. There are a frelling bunch of them, some in glass windows fanning themselves, some strolling the cobbled sidewalks, all of them bedecked in jewels, scented with oils, powdered and kohled. Hard to tell who's being friendly and who's being real friendly, but he's not here for that.
Man's gotta look, though.
Alright, enough. A sudden bluster yanks his hood back, a bluster that promises more where that came from, and he heads for shelter. The nearest tavern has a wolf with neck carved in a graceful upward arch under the words on the shingle. Howl at the Moon. Weird name but whatever, it's a start. The wind tugs the edges of his new brown poncho before the oaken doors shut with a softer thump than their heft would indicate. Heads turn but look away almost immediately. Nothing interesting to see. Just another customer.
The bar itself runs center, long and darkly varnished wood and brass. The room is painted midnight blue with a big orpiment moon on the far wall. The bartender glances up, takes a look at the latest arrival, and returns to his business. The burly hands tap and pour and mix even as the man's flat brown eyes scan the room. He's good, this one. Probably not much mischief goes on in here. The patrons are better dressed, quieter. Yeah, this is a good place to begin.
He slips onto a stool at the bar and orders an ale; all the high tables out in the room have at least one person seated. That's cool, he wants to overhear and this spot is better for that purpose anyway. Setting his pack between his legs and dropping low-denomination coins on the bartop, he sits and sips and listens. For news, for rumors, but mostly for one name. Marcus Blandorf.
