Dark Tides, Cold Steel




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  1. #1
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    Dark Tides, Cold Steel

    Port Verge
    Isle of Questor, Lhazaar Principalities
    15th Day of Rhaan, 998 YK


    The rain had been falling steadily since late last night. The streets were thick with dark mud and people walked along wooden slats laid over the deeper spots. A forest of ship's masts could be seen over some stone and wood buildings to the east. This was Port Verge, the seat of power for the Principality of the Diresharks. Prince Kolberkon's keep over looks the village and harbor from a high hill to the north. Giant blue flags with a silver shark emblazon on them fluttered over the keep.
    People hurried along in the rain pulling their cloaks tight about them. The large covered porch to the Kraken's Rest tavern was full of tables crowded with patrons. The fishing fleet had returned the day before and assorted sailors tried to make up for lost time with an ale in one hand and a wench in the other. Grey haired gaffers with scars all over their weather worn bodies puffed on long wooden pipes, clean shaven young men with braided hair laughed and gambled, tavern wenches carrying plates of food and ale danced through the crowded room trying to avoid grasping hands, and tattooed sailors sang songs of the sea. Inside the tavern proper deals and plans are made and proposed in the shadowed corners of the main room. The smell of roasting pork rose from the large fire pit in the center of the room. Pots of bubbling stew hung over the carefully tended fire. Its smoke rose to the covered hole in the ceiling.

    OOC: Introduce your characters as they come to the tavern looking for food, drink, work, or something else. It is mid-day. The tavern is a known hot spot for information and those looking for work. The food is pretty darn good too.
    Last edited by Gomez; Tuesday, 31st May, 2005 at 04:19 PM.

 

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    A half-elf of average build enters the tavern. He pulls the hood off his cloak back and his long black ponytail spills out. He is well dressed, but his clothing is functional for sailing as well as fashionable. His piercing blue eyes are lit with the fire of life, and he sports a warming smile even in the cold rain.

    He looks around for anyone he recognizes before he saunters over to the bar. He nods to the bartender and says to him "If you know anyone hiring, let them know Zandrick is in town and looking for a ship to sail on." The Bartender nods to Zandrick and asks him if he'd like anything. Zandrick replies, "Send a plate of pork and a bit of stew over to a my my table. A pint of ale should go with it nicely." The Bartender nods and sends off the order with one of the serving girls while Zandrick finds a nice place to sit, nodding to some of the fellow sailors he's served with before.

    Zandrick sits down an empty table near a corner, with his eyes watching the door. The serving girl drops off his food and he promptly pays her. He whispers something into her ear "If you know of anything interesting, let me know. I'm sure a few coins can find their way into your pocket for a good lead." before she heads back to serve others. He begins to partake of his food, keeping his eyes on the door for any more interesting entrances.

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    *Entering the Kraken's Rest is a particularly tall and powerfully-built warforged man, his plating particularly thick and heavy, cast in a dull gray, bolted with heavy rivets. His face is set in a scowl, and his eyes glow red from deep pits. A heavy belt spans his waist, and a heavy pick is thrust into it. A steel shield is on his back, covering a slender backpack, and a bow can be seen poking out of either side. The warforged moves a bit uncertainly, as if he's not sure where to go. He sways back and forth for a moment in indecision, then sits down at the bar, a bit gingerly to make sure the seat will take his weight. He waits a bit until the keeper comes down to his end of the bar, then makes his request, in a voice like a rusted hinge.*

    "I seek... work. Something... new. If someone needs... a steady hand with a weapon," he grates, and stumbles to a halt.

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    It seems we'll be many to compete for opportunity, a young man says. I'm looking for a good job, too. My last employer was too stingy...

    Clad in a shiny chain shirt, with two scabbards attached to his chest, the blond young man is nonchalantly resting on his chair, drinking mead from a mug.

    The solution would be an employer needing a whole team.

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    ~I hate the city~

    It was not the first time Kharos had those thoughts, and while the shifter knew it would not be the last, he also knew that for the time being he would have to deal with it until his next ship set sail.

    ~Whichever that ship might be~

    A deep rumble in his stomach reminded him that his last meal had been a scant one, and although he could easily buy something from the marketplace that encroached the piers like a creeping vine more and more each season, he knew that lining up work would be easier at one of the taverns that comprised nearly a third of Port Verge.

    As the rain began to fall, Kharos removed his cloak and allowed the rain to fall upon him freely. After serving onboard one of the fishing boats, he welcomed any chance to wash the scent of fish from his body, especially when the chance came from Balinor himself.

    Making his way to the Kraken's Rest, Kharos pushed the doors open and walked in, his slightly rolling gait marking him as one who had spent almost as much time on the sea as he had on dry land.

    While there were some shifters in the crowd, Kharos felt the eyes of the older sailors upon him as he entered the tavern. More than one began mumbling into his drink, or to their companions, about the tattooed druid who was a curse to any who sailed with him. While it had been nearly three years since his first arrival at Port Verge, Kharos could think of no other group of people who held onto superstition as long as sailors did.

    ~A mountain may crumble into the sea, but it takes years for the wind to chip it apart~

    Doing his best to ignore those he passed, Kharos made his way to the bar and sat down, ignoring the man beside him who spoke of the Kraken not allowing wet dogs in their midst.

    Some ale and stew. Also pass the word along that Im looking for the next ship sailing from here.

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    The crier outside in the street calls out the start of the noon day hour. Walking onto the porch is a tall human wrapped up in a green cloak. He pulls back his hood to reveal a once handsome face marred by a white scar that runs from the middle of his nose and across his left cheek. Ice blue eyes scan the crowd and he turns to talk the group of six hobgoblins behind him. Tallest hobgoblin with a necklace of finger bones nods and they walk up to one of the tables on the porch. Two men who were drinking at the table look up at the scowling hobgoblin and they quickly get up from the table and leave. The man in the green cloak walks into the tavern proper. The crowd stares at the new arrivals for a few moments and conversations become hushed. The tall hobgoblin calls out in common for food and drink. He throws a small sack on the table and the jingle of coins can be heard. The crowd noise and activity returns to normal and a serving wench rush to fill the hobgoblins order.

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    Nil looks at the new company, thinking this must one of those odd days when something happens. Feinting to take on a more relaxed pose, he shifts a bit in order to keep the hobgoblins in his line of sight, in case trouble starts.

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    Kharos paused only long enough to sop his bread in the stew as the hobgoblins entered the tavern. He chuckled to himself as the others grew quiet in their presence, much as lesser dogs tuck their tails when wolves enter their midsts. If the hobgoblins wanted to start trouble in the bar, it was none of his concern, but he would not let their arrival interfere with his meal.

    ~I hate the city...~

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    *The dark-skinned warforged looked at the man out of curiosity, wondering what he was doing with the hobgoblins. Looking for work? Or hiring them? What for? To avenge his scar? Or perhaps to retrieve some great riches? One could never tell. The warforged waited patiently for the barkeeper to answer his question, wondering where he was going tonight.*

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    The jingle of coin draws the attention of Zandrick, who peers around at the hobgoblins carefully*. He moves his chair back a bit so he can jump to attention should something break out. Continuing to eat, he keeps a sublte watch of the movements in the tavern. 'Just what I need, another bar fight' he thinks to himself. 'I've got enough trouble with the house as it is without being accused of riling up the sailors. And I'm sure they'll blame me for it. Always do.'


    *OOC:
    Spoiler:
    Sense Motive check

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