Perpetually Disappointed
Colm looks about the room, "I'll have a drink, what do you have?"
Mé féin ag daṁsa faoin ngealaċ seanrince gan ċeol leis ach ceol cuisle. DS FC: 4141-3472-4041, feel free to add me.
Full-Conversion Cyborg
The man's scowl deepened, as if he didn't expect to have to deal with any patrons this night. He met Colm's eyes and continued wiping the mug, "We've got the local grog." He said the word with unconcealed venom.
"Or Tarulic wine if you've the coin."
edited 17th Jul '14 9:27:09 PM by StygianEmperor
Flesh is a design flaw.
Mirana got the feeling that the man behind the counter and the man in front of it both knew why she was here, but the letter said not to speak about it to anyone, which made things a bit odd regarding what to ask.
Well, aside from the obvious question.
"What's your strongest brew?" she asked to the barkeep. She paused for a moment as if mentally correcting herself, and added, "And whatever it is, pour me a mug."
Full-Conversion Cyborg
The barkeep wiped his brow with the dishrag, "I wouldn't call it strong, but the Tarulic stuff will get you drunk faster than the watered-down slosh they brew in town, if that's what you're after."
"We're out of everything else but wellwater here, though," he added.
Flesh is a design flaw.
"Three cups of the wine, then," Weyland said gruffly, hoisting his frame into a bar stool to place three coins on the bar as payment for the drinks.
Weyland hoped his buying drinks for the green-clad female and the pale man wouldn't violate some unwritten human drinking rule. He unintentionally done so on multiple occasions on his travels, before learning to simply keep to himself. But now, he needed some way of attracting the attention of this Saigar Blackmaw. Hopefully, his generosity would earn him it.
Not for the first time did Weyland wish that the missive had been more detailed on how to contact Saigar, instead of merely listing a meeting place.
edited 17th Jul '14 11:49:16 PM by sharur
Nihil assumpseris, sed omnia resolvere!
"Oddly generous of you, stranger," Mirana said to Weyland. "But I won't turn down a free mug." She gave a quick glance to the newcomer. He wasn't a human, like the other man in the inn. He was shorter. Could Saigar be one of those short things? Dwarves, she thought they were called. In any case, if this was Saigar, she'd just sit tight to find out. "The Tarulic, then" she said to the barkeep.
"You don't look like the rest of the people in this town," she added to Weyland. "What brings you here?"
Full-Conversion Cyborg
The barkeep almost smiled as he took the silver off the bar. He pulled a bottle from somewhere and poured three cups.
The red wine was sweet and moderately strong, for a human drink.
edited 18th Jul '14 12:41:09 AM by StygianEmperor
Flesh is a design flaw."I'm here looking for a friend," Weyland, drinking freely from his cup. It was true enough, after all. It was his search for Alruna that had brought him he, so far from his home, from his simple, understandable life as a smith.
A thought struck him. This woman could easily be Saigar. All he had was a name on parchment, the name of an obviously secretive and private person. He looked at her again, more intently this time, and was surprised to discover that it was more than just her clothing that was green. Her skin was a similar color as well. What's more, though he was expecting her to be taller than himself, Weyland realized she was much taller than most of the women he had seen in his travels, and a good deal of the men besides.
"You don't look much like them either. In truth, I don't think I've ever seen someone who looks like you."
edited 18th Jul '14 12:41:57 AM by sharur
Nihil assumpseris, sed omnia resolvere!
Serving Crits
Alaeddin entered the inn, his walk limping and back hunched.
Looking at the gathered triplet, the corner of his mouth turns into an unpleasant sneer. "A wood elf and a maimed dwarf. Surely you have not invited me here to join a circus?" He said to the hooded human, having deduced him to be Saigar. His large foreteeth mangled his speech even as his yellow eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"The literal meaning of life is whatever you're doing that prevents you from killing yourself." Albert Camus
Guess Who?
A Dark Elf, dressed almost entirely in black leather, followed behind the former Vizier, barging past him to get to a table and thus a seat. His hair was unruly, and his violet eyes betrayed his checked anger. At what exactly soon became clear. "Whoever here is Saigar better pay good to make up for the journey and those blasted guards. And the fact that I'm going to be working with that green abomination. And, here, get me the least alcoholic drink you have." A copper coin was thrown rather precisely in front of the barman, skidding a little to his left, however.
edited 18th Jul '14 6:00:02 AM by Tricksen
If you're reading this you have 5 seconds to...
"I've never seen one of you either," Mirana said to Weyland, grabbing one of the mugs. "To new people," she toasted and took a large swig.
She growled at the dark elf. "Got a problem with Sel'esha, pale one?"
Guess Who?
"You're one of those xenophobic cowards too? So, how did your parents meet? Rape? Or were they drunk? Or maybe your wood elf parent was so ugly they had to resort to marrying an orc?" Devlin let out a harsh cruel laugh, as he taunted Mirana, his eyes glowing with malice.
If you're reading this you have 5 seconds to...
"What's the matter, Torker?" Mirana said to the dark elf. "No more slaves at home to berate, so now you're lurking taverns for the first elf you can taunt? You have until I finish my mug to leave."
Then an idea struck her, given that the dark elf apparently didn't know who Saigar was. "You're too late now, anyway. Man you're looking for just left, was heading east out the door. Maybe if you catch up to him you'll be his problem. Why anyone would put up with you though, I wouldn't know"
edited 18th Jul '14 9:00:44 AM by nman
Guess Who?
"I'm shivering in my boots, bastard. Honestly, I think I might go cry to my mother," Devlin responded sarcastically to the threat, an eyebrow raised mockingly. "Besides, I'll wait for a few more of your mugs to be drained before I track Saigar down, or leave."
If you're reading this you have 5 seconds to...
Full-Conversion Cyborg
The barkeep took the copper piece and poured a pale liquid from a nearby cask. He seemed bemused by the interplay of the races before him as he set the mug on the bar, but didn't offer any opinions of his own.
edited 18th Jul '14 10:57:42 AM by StygianEmperor
Flesh is a design flaw.
Perpetually Disappointed
"I'll take the grog," Colm replies after some consideration, "It sounds a bit kinder on the purse."
Mé féin ag daṁsa faoin ngealaċ seanrince gan ċeol leis ach ceol cuisle. DS FC: 4141-3472-4041, feel free to add me.
Mirana got rid of half of the wine remaining in the mug in one gulp. Choosing to ignore the insignificant elf man for now, she looked at the barkeep. "Is this supposed to be the best drink you have?"
Full-Conversion Cyborg
"Aye," replied the barkeep indifferently, not making eye contact with Mirana. "It's better than the ale, at least."
edited 18th Jul '14 11:37:27 PM by StygianEmperor
Flesh is a design flaw.
"What's the word in town?" Mirana asked the barkeep, deciding that if Saigar was going to keep her - and presumably the others - waiting, she might as well learn something new.
Full-Conversion Cyborg
The barkeep frowned, "Guard's been looking for a particular evangelist lately. He's stirring up trouble, talking bad about the empire out on the street, then dogging it as soon as the Watch show up."
The man yawned, "Slippery preacher, but they'll catch him soon enough."
edited 19th Jul '14 12:09:11 AM by StygianEmperor
Flesh is a design flaw.
Perpetually Disappointed
"Will this be before or after I get my drink?" Colm asked as he banged his coin purse against the table.
Mé féin ag daṁsa faoin ngealaċ seanrince gan ċeol leis ach ceol cuisle. DS FC: 4141-3472-4041, feel free to add me.
Serving Crits
Irked at being snubbed, he made his way to a seat far from the subhumans, uncaring of any sense of irony. Naturally, he grabbed the ignored cup of wine. Is it drinking from leftovers? Perhaps. But pride alone ill quench thirst.
Sipping his wine with poise unsuited to the establishment, he surveyed the tavern. He paid special attention to the door leading to the second storey.
"The literal meaning of life is whatever you're doing that prevents you from killing yourself." Albert Camus
Full-Conversion Cyborg
Finally taking the man's coin, the barkeep nodded toward Alaeddin, "That old Tarulan just took off with your drink."
He poured another ale, and slowly and deliberately he pushed it across the bar, all the way up to Colm's face.
On the other side of the room, Alaeddin surmised that the staircase led to the "Inn"-part of the building, though nothing seemed amiss as his eyes easily pierced the shadowy hallway at the top.
edited 19th Jul '14 10:11:52 AM by StygianEmperor
Flesh is a design flaw.
Perpetually Disappointed
Colm looked around. He'd had a long day. Longer if this letter turned out to be some useless redherring shite to take him off his usual road.
He was a little oblivious to the world, though he took his first sip and looked around.
He turned again to the bartender, "Interesting regulars you get here."
Mé féin ag daṁsa faoin ngealaċ seanrince gan ċeol leis ach ceol cuisle. DS FC: 4141-3472-4041, feel free to add me.
Setting Thread
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The Town of Dusk – The Dark Days Tavern
Sunset has turned to twilight by the time you reach the small Stygian town. The black-clad guards don't seem at all perturbed by your arrival, though through their full helmets it's difficult to tell. The town isn't anything special; on the road you saw farm buildings in various states of disrepair, and now, inside the city, you can tell the economy has shifted toward trade and lodging; located only slightly off the main route between the prosperous Tarulic harbors and the new capital of the empire, you can imagine why.
Finding the Dark Days is a bit of a challenge, but you finally locate the pitiful building in the corner of town. Peeling red paint gives way to dingy gray wood across both stories, and the sign hanging over the door seems to almost discourage clientele with its crudely painted lettering. You push the double-doors open with a scrape.
Inside, you find a dimly lit main room, with empty tables between wood columns. Parallel to a stairwell on your right runs the bar, behind which stands a disheveled man with a permanent scowl who barely affords you a glance as he wipes the mug in his hand. You get the feeling he knows why you're here, but he doesn't offer any greeting. The room seems empty of patrons, though whether this has been arranged or is simply a result of the unwelcoming atmosphere, you're not certain.
As of yet, there's no sign of Saigar Blackmaw.
edited 17th Jul '14 8:10:21 PM by StygianEmperor
Flesh is a design flaw.