[Amaranth]

As the gnome stroked at her desk, the Aedile leaned farther back in her seat, a soft sound rumbling from her throat that could have been interpreted as a purr by one not very familiar with the Katta kind. "Oh, you will know him when you see him," she said with a toothy grin, her tail flicking back and forth behind her desk. "But if you must know, his name is Monsieur Rousseau." With a soft wave of her white paw, the tigroness dismissed the gnome along with one last purring call. "Good luck, mon cher."

From Le Bureau de Propriété, it was a relatively short walk to La Petite Couronne which was located in the town square.

The large three-story inn was newly built of used red brick with accents of highly polished oak and ornate iron fretwork heavily painted over in glossy gold paint, and with a suitable flourish of brightly colored banners and flags on the side facing the town square. A large stable, capable of housing a large number of horses could be found at the back of the inn after following a broad alleyway to the right of the main entrance. The main entry to the tavern was a great, thick heavily polished oaken door flanked by two large gentlemen dressed in white shirts, black ascots and top hats, gray morning coats and matching trousers (with heavy blackjacks concealed in an inner pocket).

Once inside the accents of highly polished oak and gilt fretwork were continued with the addition of lush thick-pile carpeting. In mimicry of The Crown Tavern of Prime, there is a large, oak (rather than mahogany) desk sitting in front of the southern wall, flanked by two matching bookcases that are, quite literally, stuffed full of books and parchment registers (most blank, but filling rapidly). A matching polished oak handrail trails the stairway to the right, ascending to the above floors. Behind the desk, on the wall, is a large corkboard with tiny brass nails set into it at regular intervals, sporadically hung keys dot the board – each with its own wooden tag seared with a room number.

A leather bound register sits atop the desk, open to a page scrawled full of signatures. Hovering just behind the desk, if he isn’t off appreciating the women that frequent the Crown, stands Bardi, average of height, thinning of dirty blonde hair and a bit stout. Bardi is outgoing and friendly in a used carriage salesman sort of way. Quill in one calloused hand he offers in a stilted accent, noticeably more posh-sounding than the accent he unleashes at his staff when provoked to anger, ‘Serale and welcome to La Petite.’ He points the brass tipped quill at a small wooden sign that reads, ‘Bardi Stealthen, Purveyor of Fine Food, Fine Lodgings and Fine Entertainment’

A gigantic archway to the left leads to the huge, smoky, loud common room of the Tavern. Before getting far though, a tall man in livery, similar to that of the two men outside the entrance, blocks the way, guarding a wooden locker, with a very heavy, very official looking lock. A large key dangles from a thin leather cord tied at his waist. He makes a gesture, indicating that all weapons must be left in the locker before entrance is granted.

Once inside, a gaggle of gorgeous waitresses in attractive attire, of a somewhat revealing nature, can be seen over the heads of the seated patrons. These local beauties, while not as educated or as exotic as those of La Petite Morte, can nonetheless be especially friendly (for the right price), and a quick tip to the bartender. A long bar top runs the entire length of the back wall, and at least one bartender is currently present. Alluring smells, of a nature familiar to those customers who have visited the Crown Tavern in Prime, waft from that direction; the kitchens are situated in the back of the inn, behind the bar. Empty seats can be noted as eyes adjust to the many gathered people, and making a path to one shouldn't be too much of a problem. All around the sounds of clinking tankards, glasses, plates and cutlery can be heard, as well as the merry but incomprehensible banter of the gathered people. The entire room is lit brightly from several gilt-and-glass chandeliers holding a number of candles. All except, that is, the various strategically placed dark corners of the room.

Indeed, the Aedile had been right for no sooner had Treant entered the common room of The Little Crown but that he spotted the man that could be none other than his Monsieur Rousseau... Monsieur Amadour Rousseau to be exact. Dressed in a robe of flaming orange (that clashed horribly with his neatly managed red hair), Rousseau was at that moment in time standing upon the bar of the tavern and gesturing wildly with his thin arms while the other patrons either looked upon him with pity or ill-concealed disdain. He seemed to be in the middle of a lengthy explanation about some rare phenomenon he had witnessed... a phenomenon the others in the tavern clearly did not believe happened. But Rousseau was not easily discouraged. "I saw it with my own two eyes! A building materialized out of thin air! It was extraordinary!"

"Get down, Rousseau!" Another man from the corner of the room called, throwing a balled piece of parchment in the direction of the other. They both seemed of a same age -- around 25 ordinations -- and indeed, they had actually attended classes together at the collegio. Unfortunately for Rousseau, a man closer to him decided to throw something a little... wetter. The patrons of The Little Crown erupted into hearty chuckles and giggling titters as a large mug of ale splashed across the red-haired man's front. The smile on his face immediately dissolved along with what was left of his dignity as he finally slipped down from the bar, his hands brushing in vain against the large wet spot blooming across his orange robes.