The mixed clientele mingles in the swanky nightclub. The gaudy neon sign out front proclaims it simply as Harrison's Cafe Alliacain. A deluge of voices all but drowns out the placid notes plucked from the piano set high near the bar. Partons giggle and guzzle, ignoring for a moment the plight of the world outside.
"Come, sit down. Have a brandy with us," one of the patrons calls out to Carl, the passing waiter.
The man is portly with round glasses and a very fake looking mustache. He is, quite obviously, Undead, though it appears he tried to cover some of the worst patches of decay in an attempt to blend in. Two empty glasses sit on the table between him and his wife. She wears a large, floral hat, looking as if she's stepped straight out of an oasis in the surrounding desert. Though her eyeballs are clouded by a milky film, she appears to be a bit better off than her husband. Female Undead did tend to have an easier time of it.
"To celebrate our leaving for Stormwind tomorrow," the woman adds.
"Oh, thank you very much," Carl replies. "I thought you would ask me, so I brought the good brandy. And - a third glass!"
Setting the glass on the table, Carl joins the two patrons and pours them each a small amount of the amber liquid. They each take a sip and sigh contentedly. Around them, the general din of the nightclub continues to swirl, kept in tune by the talented pianist.
"At last, the day is came," the woman notes.
"My wife and I are speaking nothing but Common now," the man indicates to Carl.
His wife nods. "So we should feel at home when we get to Stormwind."
Carl raises his glass amicably and takes another sip. "Very nice idea, mm-hmm."
"To Stormwind!" The portly man raises his glass in toast.
"To Stormwind!" His wife joins in.
"To Stormwind," Carl adds.
"Zug nuk - sweetnessheart, what watch?" the man asks his wife.
She replies, "Ten watch."
The man asks further, "Such watch?"
Carl, with a bemused look on his face stands up to take his leave, "Hm. You will get along beautifully in Stormwind, mm-hmm."
Passing the departing waiter and generally staying beneath the din, a sneaky Rogue approaches the bar. There Harrison Jones himself is tending, chatting up the seated patrons and moving smoothly from one conversation to the next. Upon noticing the Rogue, he frowns distastefully and meanders to the end of the bar where a bit of privacy is afforded.
"Good evening," the Rogue whispers conspiratorially.
He gets only a polite nod in return.
The rogue then continues, "You know, Harrison, I have many a friend in Ramkahen, but somehow, just because you despise me, you are the only one I trust."
He then reaches into his pocket and removes what appears to be a set of documents. Glancing around, he slides them across the bar to Harrison, who quickly makes them disappear. A bit of money then exchanges hands.
"Are those what I think they are?" Harrison asks.
The Rogue nods. "I just need you to hang on to them in case something happens to me. My buyer should be here soon."
Harrison frowns, "I'm only doing this because you're paying well. I'm strictly neutral, remember? If anyone comes looking for me, well, let's just say I'm not risking my skin for the likes of you."
"Of course, of course," the Rogue nods.
Business complete, the nefarious character slides back into the din, once more donning it as a cloak. Harrison stares after him for a moment before shaking his head and returning to his patrons. Pouring a drink, he slides it down the bar to a thirsty Orc. After all, he is strictly neutral.
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