Evening - Black Dove Tavern, Old Rose Harbor
Sadly, the quest was not as scandalous or salacious as such a description might make it sound, and even if Arion were in search of a man for such enticing purposes, there were far more sanitary and convenient places to affordably obtain such things, much more appropriate for a man of his standing and persuasions. No: there was very little pleasant or pleasurable about where Arion found himself now, once again forced to endure the fetid environs of the Black Dove after dark; but one did what one must in order to satisfy one's purposes, and the Black Dove was - as best he could discern - where he needed to be in order to find the man he sought.
There had been a moment, as Arion approached the tavern, where he'd entertained the notion that the Black Dove was not as grim as he remembered. After all, he had visited this particular dank abyss some months ago, and found a Ruby among the destitution and despair. Perhaps the Black Dove was not quite the hellscape his memory painted it as. Perhaps there was a certain quaint quality to the establishment, which might slowly grow on him if he gave it enough time. Perhaps -
The first footfall upon the Dove's stained, stinking, slightly tacky floors cut through the haze of certainty that Arion's thoughts had tried to create, and brought everything back into crystal focus. Ah yes, there it was again: the heady cocktail blend of aromas, the scent of the unwashed, of stale beer and stale smoke and stale sweat, of more bodily fluids than Arion cared or dared to count, of damp, and decay, and the drowned sorrows of those who couldn't afford to do their drinking anywhere better. The air was hot and heavy, with sound as much as humidity; too many voices, too much discordant noise; chaos to the ears, to match the shoving, shuffling, squeezing chaos of the crowd that Arion calmly navigated his way through. Something crunched beneath his feet, and Arion uttered a silent prayer of hope to the Circle that it was merely stray food, and not something with more biological complexity. No: the Dove was just as bad as he remembered, and if he ever found himself in a position where anything began to grow on him, he'd likely need to have that body part amputated.
It was hardly the most unsavoury location that Arion had ever visited, of course, and while he regarded the tavern with little other than distaste and distain, there was nothing squeamish about his thoughts or movements or interactions with the space around him and its occupants. Just as there were times when a farmer had to reach an arm inside a calving kenser, so too had Arion's prior occupation required him to reach into such disgusting orifices and liberate the creature he sought. The necessity did not make the act any less unpleasant, but neither did the displeasure render the act unnecessary. What must be done must be done, and it was not made easier or more expedient by wasting any time on reluctance or reticence. In all his years, Arion had never got his hands into something that he wasn't eventually able to scrub off.
Managing to weave his way through the constricting crowd like viscera ousing between the fingers of a clenched hand, Arion found his way to the bar, and to the attention of the tired-eyed and sour-faced barmaid behind it. He ordered a much-needed drink, and soon discovered that the glass it came in possessed the same adhesive quality as the floor beneath his feet. At least, he supposed, such a property would make his drink harder to drop should the crowd sway into him amid its unruly to and fro.
Turning his back to the bar, and leaning himself against it, he took a sip of the unspecified whisky that the barmaid had delivered, and began to scan the Black Dove for someone meeting the vague description he'd been given of Bertold Cooper.