Talcar is a booming port town on the continent of Halcyonia. Its eastern-most walls face the ocean, separated from the sea by a mile of river a hundred yards wide and hedged in by forest. The river turns northward at the port, gliding along the base of the foothills of a orc-domesticated mountain range before plunging, some many miles westward, into the craggy Dwarven mountains. The city is controlled by a council of noblemen and women, with 13 council seats and a network of smaller and lesser lords and ladies vying for a coveted seat on the council. The majority of Talcarians are human, built upon the backs of a servant-class of halflings that occupy the slums in the south of the city. The general human population is very biased against non-humans, viewing them as inferior beings desirous of the humans' wealth and influence. The city does booming trade across the continent, exporting goods from the dwarven mines, or manufactured items also offered in the city's renowned bazaar.

You are a part of a low-level collective of mercenaries and adventurers stationed in a small, two-story tower outside of the city. There is a crumbling, ten-foot wall surrounding the property, and a rickety stables set inside—absent any horses. The ground floor of the tower is a larger, circular room, that serves as a dining/meeting area for the adventurers and potential clientele. A worn-smooth staircase leads up to a dozen cramped rooms above. However bleak The Tower looks, however, times were going well for your group—your leaders had garnered some notice and accolades, and you’d even become the preferred mercenaries for a minor Talcarian noble. However, your superiors recently accepted a commission to investigate something across the continent, and it has been many months since they have departed. You fear the worst. Money is tight. And while you have been ordered not to take on any commissions in your leaders’ absences, the bread in the pantry’s gone stale, the dried jerky hard, and your pockets light.

It is morning in the Tower, marking the third month since your mercenary group leaders have left for a quest. The Tower's fireplace crackles, but it sounds listless, tired, emitting barely enough heat to fend off the bitter Talcarian winter. A thin layer of dust and ash covers much of the worn, wooden furniture, and save for the flames shuddering in the mantle, a passerby would conclude the Tower had been abandoned.

But it has not! You four heroes are present, lurching zombie-like through your morning rituals, whether it be contemplating the cracks in the ceiling, cooking up a small repast, or contemplating the emptiness and frustration of another listless day... not working. It seems as though today will unroll like any other, until--THUMP THUMP THUMP--you hear a pounding at the door.

Tovar is aimlessly stirring his morning gruel, stopping occasionally to take a bite when he hears the knocking at the door. He lets out a quiet grunt. "Always when I'm eating" he says to no one in particular. The chair underneath him gives a small groan as he pushes himself up. As he brushes the hair away from his face, he starts to approach the door. "Hold on, I'm coming" he bellows as the pounding on the door continues.
He looks around the room as he gets closer to the door.

Thin pipe pressed against his lips, Lucian inhales the last of his smoke while looking mournfully at his now empty tobacco case; it had been over a week since his good supply had ran dry and now even the common stock was gone. Stowing the case into his pocket he shifts his weight and rests against the nearby wall, pipe still hanging from his mouth, a look a discontent forming across his horned brow. Three months. Three damned months we've been stuck in this ruin turning away work and slowly starving. And why? Because our 'illustrious' leaders lack the talent and foresight to take measures for their absence. Pah. Probably all dead now anyway. Yet here I am obeying their words while the larder empties and the others abandon the tower. Who's really the fool here...

Despite leaning only a scant few feet form the towers door the Tiefling is so lost in thought that he is oblivious to the hammering and it is only when Tovar comes shouting that he even notices. "Tovar. There's someone at the door. Be so kind as to inform them we aren't taking any work and escourt them from the premises." He gives a quick smile to the grumbling half-orc before walking towards the central table and pulling up a chair. Probably more peasants wanting their cats saved from trees. I swear the people of this town can't do anything without my help...

Aregano is completely absorbed in his kitchen experiment. No food. No problem. Beavers and termites eat wood, and it's quite plentiful in this area. So, why not us? The flavor problem was easily surmounted with a little magic. It's just that last pesky "texture" issue...oh, and that "splinter" after taste. But there are still more avenues to explore. One of them is bound to offer the solution. We'll be having branches for breakfast within the month!

The knock at the door barely catches his attention as he glances up to see that at least someone is going to handle it. He then quickly turns back to his experiment with only the fleeting thought that perhaps what is at the door might be edible...and possibly a flavor he hasn't yet experienced!

Libi sinks into whatever shadows she can find at the sound of the knock and watches as Tovar heads over to the door to answer it. It hasn't been an easy three months cooped up in the tower with the others, especially since three months had to be the longest she ever lived with anyone except for 'Uncle.' The lack of food bothered her much less then the lack of targets to practice on. While technically comrades, the others tended to get angry with her when she'd step out of the shadows and place a dagger in their backs. To be fair, she never did it to kill, only to prove to herself she could.

~SE++

Tovar reaches the door and throws is open. "Who is it? What do you want?"

The door whips open, its rusted hinges complaining with the piercing whine usually reserved for lesser noble adolescents. A blustery cold bullies its way through the door, tumbling over Tovar and spilling into the room. But with it comes something else--the sweet, doughy scent of freshly baked pastries, of melted sugar and simmering cinnamon, of warmth and comfort and a hint of prosperity long absent from the tower and its denizens. Standing, shivering in the freezing temperatures, is a young, trembling halfling. He's wearing baggy pants--almost dwarf-sized--of an ashen blue, the material too thin for the winter. Heavy boots lined with matted rat fur, a wool shirt beneath a heavy coat, and a scarf engulfing his throat and chin. Upon seeing Tovar open the door, his eyes dilate so rapidly Tovar wonders if he actually heard it.

"Oh gods," he murmurs. He licks his chapped lips, and his shiver from the cold becomes more pronounced. "S-s-scuse my inter-r-r-r-ruption, b-but a-are y-y-y-you the merks f-for hire?"

Sniff, sniff...sweet, doughy...melted sugar and simmering cinnamon...

Aregano's head snaps up, and around to peer at the visitor, his jowls jiggling at the uncharacteristically quick movement. He breathes deep trying to inhale more.

It's not enough.

He takes a step into nothing and steps out of nothing near the door, immediately inhaling deeply as he does. He emits a slight groan of pleasure as he releases the breath, and smiles sweetly at the little Halfling, wetting his lips with a quick lick.

Does the Halfling only smell good...or perhaps would it taste good too...maybe with some stewed apples or strawberries?

Maybe it's something in Aregano's stare. Or maybe it's the fact he just appeared out of thin air. Whatever the case, the halfling jumps in fright, throwing his hands into the air in the universal gesture for "take everything please don't kill me" that has been perfected since time began. There's a rustling sound as what appears to be a large, paper bag tumbles out of the halfling's jacket and lands on the floor. It opens slightly, releasing a tendril of delicious-smelling steam.

"Gah!" the halfling shouts. "Please don't kill me my master just wanted me to hire you guys!"

Tovar lets out a sigh. "We're a bit short staffed, at the moment, as you can surely see".
He glances around the room, thinking about how nice it would be to have a better meal then gruel.

"What type of assistance are you looking for?" He looks at Aregano and thinks about trees. "Maybe we can hear you out at least, I'm not committing to anything, mind you" he quickly adds. He thinks about the order from his bosses. It's been too long since we've heard anything. If we don't start working soon, why are we even here...

A plump purplish glowing see-through hand fades into view above the bag, appears to quiver slightly in anticipation, snatches the bag, and then hoists it up 5 feet to Aregano's waiting nose. He kneads his hands as he inhales the steam coming from the bag.

Oh, sweet doughy goodness...ahhhhhh.

Libi slowly works her way along the edges of the shadows towards the door to listen in on the conversation. The smells intrigued her, and her stomach tied itself into a knot, screaming at her to go for the food, though she knew it would only be a temporary fix at best. Control does not seem to be my comrade's best quality, they're taking what isn't theirs already. Someone should remind them that they shouldn't take jobs without permission. She makes her way over closer to Aregano as he's sniffing the bag of food, and though it pained her own stomach to do so, swiftly draws a dagger and places it firmly against his back. "You should put that down, Aregano. Taking what isn't yours is unkind," she whispers in his ear. "Show some restraint." She withdraws the point of the dagger and sheathes it, sliding back and away.

~SE++

Aregano inhales the steam from the bag suspended in air right below his nose by the purple hand, a sublime look on his portly face.

His own two plump hands continue to knead each other at the apex of his bulbous belly, even after the point of Libi's dagger emphasizes her point.

In between, sniffs he declares "Delicious...scents...are...a...gift...for...everyone. Even...you. It...would...be...UNKIND...to...rudely...ignore...them."

He continues to revel in the mouth-watering steam.

Another pummeling wind shoves through the door, and the halfling shivers in the cold. "Th-th-th-think you c-c-could let me in first? That f-f-f-f-fire is looking mighty welcome, and the p-p-p-astries is all that was k-k-keeping me w-warm. M-m-m-my m-master's a ch-chef. Th-those a-a-are for you. Somebody's hijacking our caravan with our secret ingrediant and he wants to hire ya to stop 'em."

A loud rumble can be heard from Tovar's midsection as the smell of the pastries reaches his nose. He steps back inside the tower. "Come in, get warm" he mutters. "Least we can do for a halfling bearing gifts".

He thinks for a few seconds. "Wait, is someone hijacking it now, or are you aware of plans for it to be hijacked in the future?"

He glances over at Libi and shakes his head.

The bag suddenly plummets to the ground with the purple hand diving quickly after it, and ducking inside as soon as the bag plops on the ground. The hand zips just as quickly back to Aregano's mouth with a moist and glistening sticky bun clutched in it's ghostly fingers. Aregano's waiting open mouth chomps a huge bite out of the pastry, and his girth shudders at the ecstasy.

Mmm....

He glances at Libi "Hee shaid theez wuh fuh ush. Theyur a guft!" Nom nom nom.

He gulps and swallows the first bite. The rest of the pastry hovering just within bite range waiting for him to continue consuming.

Then to Tovar "We could always take a quick look. It wouldn't be a terrible thing to have a chef owe us a favor...a very GOOD chef I might add..." A statement he emphasizes with another large bite of the bun.

"And you trust gifts from strangers that you are to imbibe? Please, hand me one so I can gift it back to you..." says Libi in disgust. Turning to the halfling she says, "Explain the job."

~SE++

The halfling pulls the door shut, the hinges again complaining again, like a wheel spoke on its last revolution. The door slams with a BOOM, causing the layer of dirt and dust on the ground and sills near it to jump. The halfling skips past the Tovar and Aregano, and doesn't spare Libi a glance. He trots to the fire and crouches down in front of it, rubbing his hands, blowing into them, soaking up whatever warmth he can to dispel the chill in my bones.

"My master's named Croi, a halfling baker. He opened up a shop in the halfling slums some years back, and did good enough baking to even attract the notice of a couple of nobles. One of 'em let him open up shop outside the slums, and Master Croi says them nobles and humans don't like us ankle nibblers in their district, and one of them's trying to drive our business off by robbing our supply caravan--the one with our secret ingredient. I don't know 'bout all of that, but we lost two caravans the past couple of months, and one of them had my cousin Nelow in it. Anyway, Master Croi sent me here with the last of our pastries with the secret ingredient, hoping you all would guard the caravan as it goes up into the mountains this time, and back down. Says he'll pay you fine, and give you pastries aplenty next time you're in the city proper. My name's Flint, by the by."

"You keep saying the ingredient is secret, but I don't see the point in taking a job where we don't know what we are guarding. F---, we don't even know the payment, all you said is we'll get paid 'fine.' No offense, but that's not very descriptive."

~SE++