Trinan smiled faintly as Ethan put himself above the patronage of taverns. She wasn't exactly certain of the last time a brigand crossed her path in the streets of Lieda, but for describing the kind of people that flocked to cheap bars and beds, Lindwell was not wrong. Still trying her best to form some coherent evaluation of the man, she was content to follow along in whatever formation he was creating. As they progressed, she found that following behind him worked out quite well. Before her eyes, the demeanor of the man transformed. Was this some more honest side, had he simply been guarded? It was a sympathetic explanation, one that her happiness to accept made her wary of by default. "Understood," Trinan said back, already compliant with Ethan's reminder. The boisterous, tawdry celebrations that defined tavern life weren't exactly her preference, not solely in the company of strangers, at least. She wasn't exactly bringing a friend to drink, either. Nimbly, she passed the doorway in Lindwell's wake, pulling the battered door open and gently closed behind her. Without stopping to gawk at the crowd, she joined Ethan on the way to a table. Only after actually arriving at the tavern did she realize how much the man's attire stood out in a crowd, a surprising quality of its dark palette. The bottle green coloration of her vest felt appropriate, but now that she was dressing for a pub crawl she felt regret for forgetting her cap in the morning.
Her leisurely reflections on dress were stolen away by the sound of her own name. Maria stopped mid stride, turning to find the person addressing her. Even in tavern's strange, dancing light she could make out the features of the girl's face. Time had changed her perception of the stranger, though after a moment of surprised staring she recalled the name. "Oh... Lily, hello," Maria said, fumbling her words out of shock. Anonymity was why she had favored the Pigeon, and while it was true that the two hardly knew each other it didn't change the uncomfortable sensation of being caught out in public under her new identity. It also did not diminish her appreciation of good company. She put up a strained smile for the shorter girl, raising a hand in greeting. "A pleasant one right? It's nice to see you again, and in a place perfect for catching up." She resisted the urge to ask Lily what she was doing in Lieda. Their acquaintance had started upon respect for privacy. Her eyes followed Lily's, straight over to Ethan. Was she searching him?
Oh, that was right, maybe he didn't look all that trustworthy. "This is Mister Lindwell. I'm his retainer," Trinan said, jumping to the truth and relaying it as evenly as she could.
Amusement grew on Tristan's face as he watched Lily depart from the table. The silversmith immediately made a line for the newest arrivals at the tavern, a dark clad man projecting a regal air and a sharp faced, anomaly of a girl who seemed jarringly familiar but remained unnameable to his tongue. That usually meant trouble, for someone if not himself. As confident as he was in his premonitions of tragedy, he remained seated at the table and gently nursed his free chicken. The youth jerked in discomfort when someone patted him on the shoulder, and he glanced up to see that it was Robert. "You just might, Mister Breault," he replied cheerily. The man looked to be getting ready to depart, which was regrettable considering his other company's choice. That left him with Geralt which was going to be very interesting in a few moments when-- A slip of paper had fallen into his lap. The fellow Breault had conducted a drop to him in the midst of a crowded tavern.
Very interesting, the term resurfaced in his mind from the fragments of his previous train of thought. A simple enough message to read from the corner of his eye, and the promise of employment. It worked for him.
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Stovall smiled his practiced smile as the fine door was flung open before him. "Message for you, ma'am," the courier declared, but was forced to break from his presentation to accept the woman's gift. Money always came in handy, it had a peculiar utility that even the seal of a courier did not when it came to going places. Eating was a plus as well. He palmed the money, slipping it into a hip pocket on his coat. Returning to business, he then left the letter in the woman's waiting hand. Up close, its seal was more easily discerned, although that didn't make it any more recognizable. The seldom used personal seal of one Alexander Wolcott, more often found represented by the roundel of the Arcarti military, sat rendered in wax on its surface. Wolcott was not the name of any noble house, and as such the man's signature was a wreathed A and W. "A request for audience with one Astoria De'Marconias, from the desk of Alexander Wolcott, Marshal," he recited the words that would be stamped into the postal record as he returned his arms to his side. The letter, inside, stated much the same in the Grand Marshal's ornate, delicate handwriting. In the official and dry language required of the law, his pen made formal request for a time to visit. Now that he had arrived in Lieda, it was only good sense to begin with the collection of acquaintances. Without an office of his own, that meant going to the people. "If at all possible, I have been instructed to await milady's reply." George said, bowing his head respectfully and fully anticipating being sent away, but aware that on odd occasions the government did opt to move quickly. At any rate, he had many letters of identical purpose to deliver, and a messenger's tactful curiosity demanding to glean what bits of intent he could along the way.
