30 Urthan, 973 IR
The Giggling Goblin
Foreigners' Gate, Floresta, Aureshan Empire
Voitto's note said to be back at the Giggling Goblin tonight, at midnight.
So here you are.
After two days of sunshine, the street outside of the tavern is somewhat drier, which is good. Less good, the street is still muddy, and two days without rain have really given a fresh coating of manure time to get well-incorporated into the mud. It's almost enough to make the druidic sects' periodic uprisings against the Emperor make sense—without the Empire there'd be no Floresta, and without Floresta the world would be a cleaner, better-smelling place. Sadly, without cities you don't get books, breweries, whorehouses, taverns, or the rest of the collection of poverty, exotic perversions, artwork, and politics that combine to make up what mortals choose to call civilization.
This late, even most die-hard alcoholics and whoremongers in Foreigners' Gate have made their way to bed, so as to be up with the sun to take up their day jobs as teamsters and stevedores. The street outside is deserted, and the front door is thrown open as is customary for taverns that are trying to attract business. You can see lamplight flickering inside, and a lamp outside the door illuminates the goblin sign that indicates the business's identity.
Inside, Voitto is leaning on the bar with his pipe clenched between his jaws, smoking lazily and paring his nails with a dagger. He doesn't bother to greet you—or even look at you—because the filth under his nails is more interesting.