Tavern Thread: The Hanged Man - Page 6




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    Quagmire nods. "Hrav, Brudd, Dumas. A pleasure. Now, to find a drink in this place. Ho, landlord!"

    Quagmire ambles over to the bar with an unhurried stride, and spends a moment whispering in the bartender's ear. The man's eyes go wide, and he asks "Are you sure?" in an awed voice. At Quagmire's answering grin, he shakes his head slowly and goes into a back room for a minute. He emerges wearing thick leather gloves and holding a ceramic mug at arms length, his face turned away from a plume of thick green smoke rising from the mug. A pungent smell fills the room, reminiscent of pine and garlic and molasses and tobacco. Quagmire inhales deeply, and sips with obvious pleasure. "Thanks, mate. You'll do," he says to the barman, placing a coin on the counter before sauntering over to Hrav and Brudd and Dumas.
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    Ts'iri watches everyone as they speak, sizing them up. None of them seemed bad and Tyrionseemed to be telling the truth. Too bad none of them seemed to know her. Ts'iri sighed slightly. It was too much to hope for.

    "I'm ready to leave as soon as I change my clothes. What I'm wearing now is strictly for in town, they wouldn't do too well in the woods." Ts'iri heads to the bathroom and quickly comes beck out wearing a much plainer outfit, but of similar looks. "Ok, ready to go."

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    The githyanki man still waiting the reply, watches the two females. "In which cred were you trained?" he asks, plainly.
    Visit The Link Village of Voda Vosa in the RG for complete game links, and stuff!

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    Tyrion looks up as the third Githyanki approaches,

    "I would certainly appreciate your help my friend, we shall rescue Ashara and put and end to these Branders once and for all. Come then let us go! There i not a moment to loose."

    So saying he heads for the door, as he does so he turns to the Githyanki,

    "I am pleased to see my preconceptions of your people were evidently so deeply wrong, our dealings with them in the Fey Wild have been less than cordial."

    With that he steps out of the Hanged Man...

    OOC: Please move over to the game thread folks!
    Back after a long absence, and feeling rather sheepish.

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    Kama'zer nods back at the newest of the gith, then responds to his newest question with truth since her lack of knowledge would give her away regardless. "I was not trained in a 'cred' whatever that is. My mother and father trained me until their untimely demise." Fearing that she could be attacked now at any moment, Kama'zer does another sweep of her eyes around the room. 'I shall have to make sure that Tyrion is not injured if a battle begins.', she thinks to herself.

    With Tyrion ready to go finally, Kama'zer follows him out of the Inn and continues the conversation on the road as they walk.
    Last edited by Phoenix8008; Saturday, 20th September, 2008 at 09:47 PM.

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    Palindrome...

    A non-descript, hopelessly average peasant enters the bar, wincing at the faint stench of sawdust mixed with old beer and dried vomit. He makes a pained attempt at a pleasant smile, perhaps muttering through his strained teeth. With mincing steps, he angles towards the bar, avoiding contact with ANYTHING, as if he were moving through a colony of lepers.

    The bartender brightens at the boy's entry. "Greetings, young sir. How is the good Doddoddod?"

    "Fine," says the boy, with not a little disgust, "Just fine."

    With a pained sigh, the boy opens his satchel and retrieves a piebald rabbit. To the barkeep, he presents the beast, holding the animal with two fingers by the scruff of the neck, as if it were a moldy sock. The animal speaks, "Greetings, fine sir. Please place three kegs of your best small beer in the cart of my young apprentice, who shall pay you from the coins in his pocket. Per our previous agreement, please seal the bungs of the kegs in wax, to ensure that no unfortunate tampering occur between your fine establishment and my home. Also, seal the change in an envelope, affixing your stamp in wax, so that my young apprentice can account in full for the monies."

    The boy sneezes--though his sneeze sounds somewhat like a slang reference to the anal orifice.

    "Right away!" says the bartender, rushing away.

    The boy drops the rabbit (which bounces off the edge of bar and ricochets off a spitoon). Studies his fingers with a measure of distaste, then rubs his hand on his shirt.

    He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Gods, I hate taverns. I'm sure that in a few moments one of these melancholic wine-bibbers will break into song about how a significant other betrayed them or perhaps some antisocial alcoholic will engage in fisticuffs, shattering a nearby mirror in the midst of the hullabaloo. Why can't they do the rational thing and kill themselves quickly--say with a rusty knife--rather than dragging out the tedious moments of their wretched existence by-"

    The door opens, as the bartender returns, leading three workers laden with kegs. As the sun of a sudden spears the earth with its radiance after a passing cloud, so does the rictus smile appear on the face of the boy.

    "Here we go, good sir! And may the gods place a thousand blessings 'pon your fine master!"

    "Here! Here!" seconds a nearby patron.

    The boy waves in thanks, barely managing to suppress a roll of the eyes.

    The boy hands coins to the bartender. As the gentleman counts change, the boy surveys the room, accidentally spilling a nearby mug of beer. With a hearty apology he sets about to clean it, but the barkeep waves him off, telling him it is a small matter.

    In the hubbub, you note the boy pocketting several coins.

    The bartender seals the envelope with the wax of a candle and hands it to the young man with a cheerful bow. The boy deigns to nod in return, turns, and exits--managing to kick the rabbit as he leaves.

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    An unremarkable looking man enters the tavern, pushing his hair away
    from his eyes absentmindedly. He pauses briefly at the
    threshold, a slight smile forming on his lips. He approaches the bartender
    unhurriedly, and speaks to him inaudibly, leaning forward so as not to bother
    the other patrons. The bartender frowns and brings out a glass of water.
    The man leaves a coin on the counter, and the bartender's
    frown disappears.

    Sitting down at a table by himself, he begins to look at all of the
    people inside. He gazes at each in turn just long enough to cause
    discomfort in those who notice him. He sits for a while, sipping his
    water and staring. For a brief second, it appears as though a faint
    white light emanates from his hand, but it easily could have been a trick
    of the eye. He doesn't seem to give it any notice, at any rate.

    One local doesn't take kindly to him. "Whatcha lookin' at? An' who are you, anyway?"

    "Tander. I am Tander Oaksmith," he replies, simply.

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    The door of the Inn bangs open loudly, and a large male orc strides in through the entrance. He wears a long coat with a wide black belt buckled in the front and caries a cutlass at his side. His three pointed hat is rather scruffy looking, as are his black boots which stomp down the steps to the bar where he orders a drink. After taking a long pull at his drink (which leaves his tusks wet and gleaming in the light), he strides to the center of the room to make an announcement.

    "Greetings, mateys. I be Captain Azrael of the Bloody Wake. I'm in sore need o' some salty roughnecks that can handle themselves in a fight on land or at sea. No lily-livered landlubbers need step forward. An ya best be havin' no problem wit' bendin' the rules now and again. I got a job ta do and I need the help, but I'm willin' ta pay. Forty gold each up front, and a good share of the loot when all is said and done." he says while looking around the room and tossing a small bag of gold up before catching it in his hand repeatedly with a clink that only gold makes. After another pull of his drink, he walks over to a vacant large table and falls hard into a seat. After putting his feet up on the table he says, "Anybody dat's interested, come on over and have a seat. We'll talk and see if ya measure up."

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    "Well, now. Look at that, boys. A bit more to our tastes, eh?" Quagmire removes his feet from his table, quaffs the rest of his... beverage, and belches fragrantly. He strolls over to the good captain and gives a rakish smile. "Evenin' Captain. I'm Quagmire, and I've been on a ship or two, and in a fight or two, and I'm powerful intrigued by your interestin' tale. Do you mind if I sit?"
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    Captain Azrael looks Quagmire up and down briefly, nods, and uses one foot to push out a chair. He then pulls a dirty apple out of his coat, and rubs it a few times before taking a big bite out of it and chewing loudly.

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