The dockside tavern is a bit rough, but that's how he likes it. These are his people--the ones he was supposed to represent, he guesses--tho he doubts they could have done any better than selling out before the convention even began. It's not like the nobles will let anything really change. And this way, he can order a full round of the good stuff for the house!

Albert's fortitude save is not very good, and he didn't start off with much wisdom to begin with. Someone with sharp eyes proposes that he make interesting bets. "I bet you can't catch a knife!" "I bet you can't balance on a stool!" "I bet you can't balance on two stools!"

There's cheer, laughter, a little bit of blood, and a lot of alcohol.

It has been a year since the Hellish yoke has been lifted from Cheliax, but some habits are difficult to unbury. The crowd gets drunker, and the mean drunks egg each other on. There's a circle made for an improptu fistfight, the tavernkeeper well-practiced in keeping things from becoming full brawls. But he's not practiced in idiots turning their money into thrills; his typical clientele is sailors and stevedores, and the young rich men who come to the docks to play are typically looking for fights or 'friends' and end up at establishments more specialized to their tastes. The tavernkeeper wins a few bets himself.

It's when they leave the tavern, and their only sober watcher, that things turn sour.

"Pau, I bet you can't balance on that beam!"

Pau loses a lot more than the bet.