Jirai would surely have found it beneficial to wander through the Bloated Boar last night. Oh, its reputation is noxious -- the only tavern in Myrkentown more notorious than the Broken Dagger, so they say -- and the ale's not much better. This is surely why it's been chosen, for it has grown difficult for a drow to move unaccosted through Myrkentown, for while they're feared, they're also disliked. Some few few brave (or foolish) souls have seen fit to act on that distaste -- or at least to seriously think about it. But in any case, if she spends a little time at the barcounter, the drow will discover a 'tender who's more forthcoming than eloquent, and about as appealing as any of the other fellows drinking there that night. Leaning a little closer than is comfortable, beery and decayed, he'll confide:
"It's in, love. Three hours short o'dawn, down a'the Godarts'. Ought t'be about th'eastmost shed by then, but don' y'mind. Y'll not rightly miss them. And 'll advise y'now as how y'don' need to be speakin' names, not t'them nor no others, y'see. No need in any case, for they'll rec'nise y'readily enough."
Back he'll rock on his heels then, folding meaty arms over a chest that's dwarfed by the gut beneath it. And with a lift of the brows, a smug leer: "I hear they're awfulfond o'yer type down in Heath."
It's as good a cue to leave as any.