Ror sat at the back of the small bar built under Crier Square, Westbridge. An assortment of airship pilots were chilling and hanging out in the bar. Nonetheless, as always, it was quiet and ol' Phil was drying glasses for the umptieth time behind the bar. Ror thought back of the message he had received a short while ago. He had a plain ale in front of him on the table as cover. Every now and then a Vectorian Law Enforcer arrived, checking to see if anyone was suspicious. But Ror blended in just fine with the establishment. This bar had always been a home to him and pretending to be part of the furniture came naturally to sages. Sipping from his ale, Ror returned his attention to the message. Hrm, thought Ror, he seeks an audience with me, yet at the same time I'm asked to seek him. He mulled, but no matter how many times Ror thought it over, it seemed rather non-practical to him if you compared it to making an appointment. Two people trying to find each other usually took a while. He figured there might be some reason to it he was unaware of, that required the "meet up under the gnarled tree at midnight when the owl hoots thrice"-kind of secrecy. So a mark, eh? But what kind of mark? He smiled on the inside, well, eventually things tended to sort themselves out, not?
Time would tell. It always did.
