Figtle sat in the darkness of the half-lit tavern, wondering how he'd gotten involved with this half-baked group of lunatics- not that his sanity was much better. He'd been "escorted" from his clan by his uncle after speaking his mind on mining practices once too often. With a heavy sigh he lifted his clay mug and drained it half dry of the thick foamy draught inside. With no prospects for the future he'd been drawn in to New Phlan, the hopes for riches filling his head. WOuldn't that be a spit in his uncle's eye- not only surviving without his clan, but prospering as well!
The squabbling brothers also at his table brought him back to the present. He'd been approached on his arrival at New Phlan by Ficle, a half-Elven arena fighting cleric. Ficle was one third of a set of triplets, his brothers as off-center as he was. Fimu was a arena fighting magic user, while the third brother, Feyemoo, was also an arena fighting magic user. Rather, their careers as arena fighters was more hopeful than actual... None of the three had ever been in an actual fight. Figtle wasn't sure their magic using abilities or cleric abilities were any more actual than their fighting.
The fifth member of the party was more an enigma than any of them. Not only was he a gnome, he practiced arts ofa forbidden sort, promising the four of them that, given a share of the gold and such the party got he would take care of little details like opening locks, doors, and the purses of passing strangers.
Figtle drained the last of his mug, debating the wisdom of another fill. On the morrow they were heading to the city commisioner for their first New Phlan assignment. But, as one half-elven brother slapped the mug out of another brother's hand he considered the matter closed. He'd need to be drunk to handle this crew.