Shooree strolls into the tavern lazily, finalizing the meticulous pruning of his fur on the go. He casually nods to the patrons, and keeps the course steady towards the bar. As he approaches it, his attention gets drawn away from the depths of introspective self-pitying rift his mind had become, onto an unsuspecting piece of parchment he sees on the floor.
\"What is this... obviously someone...hm..\"
He continues his instinct-guided journey towards the bar, frowning at the condition that the parchment was in: stepped on, stained with mead and grime... and the grammar. oh the grammar!
\"A stout one, lad...\" Says he, as he sits himself, still doing his best to decypher the mess adorning the parchment. After a minute, he realizes that the proverbial *tup* that leads to the conditional reflex of his right hand picking up the mug off the counter never happened. Shooree lifts his head off the parchment and finds but thin air staring back.
\"Hhh-yukkkk-en... Hyuken. So that was your name, eh? My runaway barman.. Tsk... A barfly yelps, and hopes of grandior disperse... \"
Shooree sighs and closes his eyes. He slaps the parchment several times off the counter and makes a cynical expression as the now tubed material tonks in tune with his exhaling...
\"... the fourth level... interesting... Bah.\" His eyes open as he gazes across the common room \"Not much difference in where he went... As long as there\'s a hand behind the bar. Which is not the case.\"
He leaves the message to fend for itself again. Leaning on the bar, Shooree starts picking at a stray thread on his robe\'s sleeve, hoping that someone will have mercy and pour him a drink. Or two.