Guilt Puppy
First Post
(Continued from A Knight for a Pawn)
There's a bit of old stone in the city, but most of it looks fairly recently built, or recently rebuilt. The folk are of a hearty stock, men with broad shoulders and ladies with broad hips, and generally quite tall. All human, as well, although the suspicious looks you get don't seem too mean-spirited. Guardsmen are common, as well, posted at every significant intersection of paths with more on patrol between. All bear clear insignia, and they aside, the city does indeed seem to walk unarmed.
The merchants have all closed up shop for the evening, perhaps saving Raven an argument on the merits of finding a tavern first. There are a few small corner bars around, but these seem dark and uninviting, and in any case not large enough to accomodate your whole party together. It doesn't take much questioning, however, for the locals to point you to the city's main drinking house: They direct you to The Minotaur, which reveals itself to be a wide misshapen building, painted black on its front face but with plain brick exposed on all other sides (there are only four total, but with the awkward angles of the place it seems there should be more). Next to the front door there is a statue of a minotaur, carved from wood, painted white, and lacquered so heavily it seems almost to be stone, were it not for the rough angles with which it is shaped. Its arms are crossed, and its stance wide, but it seems less intimidating than bored.
Inside, the bar takes up the center of the room, facing all four sides with its uneven wooden surface. There are tables scattered around it, each enough to seat four comfortably and six uncomfortably; at the far end of the room, a staircase leads to a narrow balcony area, clearly added after the building was built and far too close to the ceiling. The locals there have crouch when they do not sit, and so the folk up there at all four tables are engaged in an activity that requires much sitting: Kingsmen, of all things. It does not take Tatlock long to notice.
Your reception is generally cold, and a few conversations trail off as a few faces turn to watch you, but it is nothing too striking. The bartender's nod is unsmiling but not unwelcoming.
"Eve," he says, flatly, sharp eyes glancing from face to face, as if wondering who to stare down...
There's a bit of old stone in the city, but most of it looks fairly recently built, or recently rebuilt. The folk are of a hearty stock, men with broad shoulders and ladies with broad hips, and generally quite tall. All human, as well, although the suspicious looks you get don't seem too mean-spirited. Guardsmen are common, as well, posted at every significant intersection of paths with more on patrol between. All bear clear insignia, and they aside, the city does indeed seem to walk unarmed.
The merchants have all closed up shop for the evening, perhaps saving Raven an argument on the merits of finding a tavern first. There are a few small corner bars around, but these seem dark and uninviting, and in any case not large enough to accomodate your whole party together. It doesn't take much questioning, however, for the locals to point you to the city's main drinking house: They direct you to The Minotaur, which reveals itself to be a wide misshapen building, painted black on its front face but with plain brick exposed on all other sides (there are only four total, but with the awkward angles of the place it seems there should be more). Next to the front door there is a statue of a minotaur, carved from wood, painted white, and lacquered so heavily it seems almost to be stone, were it not for the rough angles with which it is shaped. Its arms are crossed, and its stance wide, but it seems less intimidating than bored.
Inside, the bar takes up the center of the room, facing all four sides with its uneven wooden surface. There are tables scattered around it, each enough to seat four comfortably and six uncomfortably; at the far end of the room, a staircase leads to a narrow balcony area, clearly added after the building was built and far too close to the ceiling. The locals there have crouch when they do not sit, and so the folk up there at all four tables are engaged in an activity that requires much sitting: Kingsmen, of all things. It does not take Tatlock long to notice.
Your reception is generally cold, and a few conversations trail off as a few faces turn to watch you, but it is nothing too striking. The bartender's nod is unsmiling but not unwelcoming.
"Eve," he says, flatly, sharp eyes glancing from face to face, as if wondering who to stare down...
