Cromlin perhaps?

[Quila Oris (John M.)]

Quila checks the clasps on her armor and tugs her protective shawl tighter around her mouth and nose to protect against the silt.
She gestures to the rest, indicating we move to the grey drab wall.

[Attilius]

The giant drops his shield with a loud thud as if it's too heavy. He quickly pulls out and dons his silt mask and a gauze scarf to wrap around his head. He then places his shield on his head and rests the top end against the flat of his backpack making a large balancing sun shade over his torso, shoulders and arms.
"UGGH! I ALMOST forgot how hot is gets..."

[Quila Oris (John M.)]

Upon seeing the gladiator gear up Quila jibes “You should tell me where you got that silt mask Attilius, that looks wonderfully useful if not very fashionable.”

[Attilius]

He looks quite surprised at the question "You guys don't carry them? Everyone in Balic has a set on them. Never know when a silt-squall will hit the city, ya know?"

[DM Bob]

You gear up and approach the gate. These are not bronze like those of undead wizards, but of dried bramblewood and hide lashings affixed to silt-bricks. There are indeed crodlu, some tied to hitching posts about a sludge topped watering trough. The figures that are entering the town before you are wearing mismatched armors, seem to be heavily tattooed and wear linen scarves about their mouth and nose. Everyone does here.

As the tohr-kreen would say, "Bloody Cano". The newcomers have the look of raiders or desert chaff as they saunter in before you, some eleven or so in number. Hair spiked with kip lard, worn, yet sharp weapons about, and a swagger that only the cocky wear openly. But perhaps that's been earned. The guards at the gate nod at your presence, perhaps thinking you're part of that group as well. Suspicious looks are had, but you are not stopped.

The silt dusty streets are semi-vacant. Even with the grey filth flying to-and-fro, shopkeeps and their help futilely sweep and wipe the powdery shit from the surfaces and picture signs upon their respective store fronts. Tattered flags of Shom and Nibenay adorn posts here and there. One such sign has a tent carved upon it, likely a place to rest. Another, a carved kank and crodlu - this is upon a larger brick frame. Another has sounds of chaos and laughter. This has a sign with a painted inix, the lower bits covered in mud or shit.

Welcome to Cromlin.

[Attilius]

"HRRRMMMMmmmm... Let's find shade quickly." Attilius pulls down his shield and re-affixes it upon his left arm. He stands in the middle of the group on overwatch looking for pick pockets and diversionary shit starters...

[AthasianLaborer]

'Muiko stays to Attilius' 7 o'clock (just behind and slightly to the left of him), using him for cover and concealment as the party moves through Cromlin.

Keeping his voice low "Do we plan to go on foot? Scry ahead and **clicks tongue** there again?  I do not want to stay here longer than needed"

[Niachi]

Hood drawn tight to help against the grit, Niachi mimics the pirates' surly entrance. Nods at the triple white dragonflies on black banners, just another crew of muscle on Shom's payroll with a thirst for watered-down broy. He shoos his familiar off to forage away from the silt shore, but to return fast on his whistle or mental command. Casually scans behind to watch for anyone on their tail.

Answering 'Muiko, just loud enough for all to hear:

"just long enough to get us pointed the right way.  We can lookee-loo a bit while scrying. Then first round's on me."

He waits for others to do their things, then will lead to the noisy tavern and saunters in with thumbs hooked on his belt all salty, looking for a table to fit them all, noting any elves, their numbers, garb and gear.

[Attilius]

Attilius closely follows Niachi in to get out of the heat. Once his eyes adjust, He looks at the patrons, not for a seat, but to size up any potential future opponents.

[Niachi]

(edited a bit to let others do things before entering the tavern)

[AthasianLaborer]

'Muiko sighs and double checks that his head wrap is secure and ensuring his facial obscurity.  He keeps his portfolio close and under his robes, Yvera snores softly from within it.

'Muiko does his best to appear relaxed and not out of place; but not so familiar to be recognized.

If he recognizes anyone, he'll inform the party via Ping.

[Skrye [AC3; 48/48HP]]

- Skrye enters the local after having moved with rest, as she was covering her hands and head with wraps and scarf to avoid most of the heat. She also hides her tail for the time been

[Quila Oris (John M.)]

"I can remote view if I know where to look, distance-wise, and in what direction. Is it 10 miles, 20 miles, or whatever? I'd guess it's due east from here, but not sure if it's a bit more north or south as well. I could start doing that, but I'd rather do it sitting inside."

Using her years-long experience of being an undercover spy for Kurn in the Tablelands to good effect, Quila mimics part of the swagger of the silt raiders mixed with some Nibenese urban clout, making her standout just a bit less and hopefully playing up the must-be-some-trader card. She smiles, both at seeing Niachi do the same thing, and at the half-giant doing his thing. She enters the establishment after Attilius and tries to get a read of the crowd while looking for a place to sit.

Once inside she will let down her facial protection and put down her cap as well, intentionally letting her curls free and shaking out any silt that found it's way there. She puts as much of a rough charm into that as she can if she thinks the crowd's reaction to such a thing would be positive and get her a potential 'talker' later.

[Coden Rokos (Jesse H.)]

Coden smears his spear with some leaves and then rubs it in the dust, so that the dust sticks to the end and makes the metal leaf head less conspicuous. He likewise pulls up his silt mask to obscure his face.

When the group slides indoors he takes an aisle seat and leaves the mask on for the moment, instead of requesting some broy in spite of the heat.

[DM Bob]

Elves you asked? Well, after the silt coverings are shed and the grit is wiped from your eyes, you can observe that the recent band of eleven thuggish raider-types are mainly elven in stock. One is different from the rest, her spiked hair a deep red with a pair of almond shaped emerald eyes. She grins as she removes the silt scarf and addresses a one-eyed barkeep for a round of drinks. If Niachi had to guess, they are likely Silt Stalkers. Which clan though? Not easy to tell.

The rest of the worn bar is a solid mix of other races, but definitely of a harder caste than you've had the pleasure of encountering recently. A pair of blackened dwarves, some sort of soot or oil rubbed into their skin in patches, drink what looks to be thick fermented kank nectar as they grunt and drawl at each other. A heavily scarred mul dices with a pair of silt hardened pirate types over a similar trio of libations. They are loud and the ceramics and bits pile about their round table. Humans are about, of course... perhaps ten or so, men and women. Even a duo of craggy gith sit giving side eye to all who'd look their way as they sip their thick drinks.

For it being so early, there is quite a solid number of patrons.

Attilius has to stoop and squeeze in last and that's when it quiets.

One of the roughs with the mul nods in your direction and the game stops. The scarred half dwur (mul) sneers and barks, "Tight nuff in here without ya, tubs. Why don' ya share a drink wit the crodlu instead?"

The rest of the bar erupts in laughter and jeers.

The Son of Kri-kcht taps Attilius on the leg. And points.

"'At's 'ait." [That's bait.]