It was another fine day for business at the Sword & Chant. Atticus found himself at this friendly establishment a few times a month to meet with various clients to conduct varying kinds of business. On this particular afternoon, he was meeting as old and loyal a client as any - Virgil Carstairs.

The two had gone to school together in the same year, and although Atticus had been expelled he had dealt to Virgil in his time there. He found it a bit refreshing to work with his old classmates - they tended to be less seedy than his usual clientele. While Atticus had managed to keep a clean record post-expulsion, he still found some difficulty in attracting clients of the wealthier nature.

In his left hand lay a small leather pouch filled to the brim, the magical brim anyways, with the best gillyweed gold could buy. Atticus had admitted to himself awhile back that it was more the hedonistic free spirit side of him which drove him to sell the plant over any desire for gold. As a matter of fact, this could only bring him negative attention from Level Two, were he to be discovered dealing. All the same, it was a little more straightforward than information broking and it was a reliable source of income.

After a moment of contemplation, Atticus picked up his neglected whisky glass and took a sip as he waited for Virgil to arrive.

Picking up gillyweed in the middle of the work day was risky - but it was also the best time to do it, over an extended lunch break from level nine, which would give him enough time to drop his stash off at their Diagon Alley flat. Virgil slipped his coat off as he entered the Sword and Chant.

It was business as usual in here. Reliable as always, Roark was at the bar.

"Hello hello," he greeted as he took the seat next to him and raised a dainty hand for the barwizard. "Just a sparkling water." Virgil turned back to Atticus with one of his lazy little smiles, reaching into his pocket for a small velvet bag of coins.

His gillyweed habit had been somewhat sedated as a result of evens in September but he was much recovered from mixing the herb with hard liquor, now. It was good in moderation; for sleep or dreaming or scrying. This didn't mean smoking any old kind of gillyweed of course. He wanted good strains.

"How have you been, Atticus?" he handed over the pouch. "Business good? I've got an hour or so to burn."