A ragtag band of adventurers have found themselves, by one means or another, in a backalley in Q’Barra’s capitol of Newthrone and under the temporary employ of House Tharashk. The sun beats down heavily on the cobbled streets as the salty, humid air carries the smells and sounds of the fish market from the water’s edge to the alley where you wait for your wagon driver. You were each told to meet him behind a local pub where sailors and merchants frequently congregate.
A half-orc patron stumbles out of the back door of the pub to relieve himself on Galifar’s Tits, as the pub is known. Two twin birds mark the sign hanging over your heads. After shaking off the last drops, the turns and offers his unwashed hand, " Agrish Stoneheart at your service!" His eyes are jovial and his mouth upturned into a conspiratorial grin behind his bushy brown beard, but his other hand waits at his waist where a well-worn whip rests.