Three hours to midnight, and the skies were angry. Thunder was raging outside, echoing through the city of Dunwall, kicking up waves and keeping the people shuttered in their homes as they waited for the weather to clear.
Inside the pub, McAnally's, things were far more calm. It was in a stone cellar, preventing any draft, and the atmosphere was one of cool, calm, quiet. Aside from the bartender, a tall man who could have been any age between thirty and fifty, the bar only had one occupant, a wiry man in black robes, sitting against the back wall with a table in front of him, four extra chairs set out with five mugs of room temperature brown ale set out. His age was hard to guess, if only because his face was covered in a patina of bruising, healed some by time but still needing a while longer before they'd be gone.
David sipped from his mug, waiting for the others to show up. The meeting time was only for them to show that evening, and with the weather he expected delays, but it was starting to get late. He was gazing into the bottom of his mug and beginning to contemplate asking the bartender for another drink when the bell above the door rang. Briefly exposing the room to the weather outside, there was a rush of wind as a figure hurried in, closing it behind them.
Three to go, David thought, looking to see who it was.