@Soulhallow Thunder boomed across the night sky, the only sound in the last three hours to drown out the roar of rainfall on cobble streets. Garland stuck one arm out of his oil-slicked coat to hold his hat on against the wind. There was a small leather strap hanging by his neck for such a purpose, but he'd rather get his hand wet than be strangled by his own hat. It was a relief to step out of the storm and into the warmth of the Broken Arrow Pub; a tiny little dive just close enough to the docks to serve fresh fish slathered in old grease, but too far from the actual moors to draw very much traffic. Tonight, it looked like there was only one old man, drunk off his gourd and nodding off by the stone-brick fireplace, and the wiry, leather-skinned owner; McCarthy, an old man with coarse, permanently tousled hair that looked like cords of scrap iron. He gave Garland a look of recognition expressed mostly by the slight raise of two bushy eyebrows as he took off his hat and shook the rain off his coat. "Good evening, grandfather; nasty night out there." "You don't have to tell me." McCarthy muttered; leaning back on the bar and speaking around the bit of wood he was chewing on. Garland silently wondered how many teeth the old man had left to chew with. "How's your dog?" he asked, scraping the mud off his boots before stepping farther into the pub. "Little better - you can visit him if'n y'want" McCarthy jerked a thumb toward the door behind the bar which led to the store-room and cellar. There was also an exit into the alley where a rickety flight of steps led up to a small apartment McCarthy shared with his old woman. Garland had never climbed those steps, but he guessed it couldn't be in much better condition than the splintered, beer-stained facility downstairs. The door creaked as Garland let himself into the store-room, and lifted the heavy floor-door into the cellar. Torchlight shone up at him as he descended the stairs, hat under his arm and still dripping rainwater from both the hat and his cloak. The stairs turned as he descended them, and he knocked sharply six times on the far wall, and waited. A moment later, the wall pulled away from him, revealing an annex where the murmur of people filled the room. He kept his cloak on as he entered, the place was heated only by the one torch on each of the four walls, and the body heat of the people inside. There were three benches set in rows, with a larger space at one end of the room. The floor was earth, the walls mostly cut clay as well, though supported by planks of timber. It was new, not part of the original structure. Its position set the room directly under the bar area of the Broken Arrow. McCarthy could simply stomp two times - or drop an iron pot; Garland wondered if the man had enough total body weight to manage a resounding stomp - to alert those below to extinguish the lights and be silent. Garland gave a casual bow to Stryker, the leader of their little chapter. Well, the leader in name at least. It had been McCarthy's idea to dig the annex in his cellar, and McCarthy who came up with the security system and added the hidden door, even if Stryker had been the one to spread the Resistance from the Feanor's mainland to the little island of Alma. Garland had been unconvinced at its importance at first, but when the Mallovian armies started marching across even Alma, he changed his mind. Tonight, someone from one of the mainland chapters was visiting; looking for participants on a mission that was supposed to be of utmost importance. Hell, if it could even dent the iron grip Mallov held this country in, he'd get behind it.