[Tavern Thread] The Dunn Wright Inn

"Not a pleasant ordeal indeed. They were tortured until they signed a magical contract and once they sign, were killed." She shakes her head. "Not pleasant at all. My previous adventure was rooting out a small clan of kobolds from some upside-down keep made of glass, or some sort of strange material."

Zelena sips her wine again as her food arrives. "Thank you. And if this brute," she motions to Boorick, "Bothers you, let me know. I will deal with him." She crosses her arms and looks in a stern manner at Borrick.

"Ral, is what some may know as representation of the Consort and the moon. Within the pantheon of Tal Hallow, the small gnomish county I hail from, he takes the form of a badger. He generally represents the protection of our people and rules with Annaya, the Ruler." she says to Quioan.

As Falkner joins the group she smiles and nods, "I will indeed listen for any word of that monster's return and will gather friends and allies who wish to vanquish such an evil once and for all."

She downs the rest of her wine and digs into her roast fowl and veggies.

A dishevelled old human man struggles through the heavy tavern door, arms trembling from the effort to push it open. Cursing lightly under his breath about ogres and engineering, he strides over to the bar with a brisk step that belies his 60 odd summers that have left his smiling eyes heavily wrinkled. The air is filled with a pleasant mix of rare herbs and spices in his wake. He rests his bean pole thin frame up against the bar, picks a stray twig out of his bushy white beard with his long spidery blue stained fingers waiting paitently to get the barman's attention with a nearly toothless grin.

"A jug of your finest ...." he begins once the barman attends him. He opens a worn leather pouch that looks more empty than not, peering inside, brow furrowed as though calculating something in his head. "A cup of cheap ale, good man. The cheapest you have that man can still swallow! And bring bread! Stale bread is fine. And a slice of cheese! A thin slice of cheese!"

As he waits for his feast to be brought to him, he stretches his back which gives off a series of loud cracking and popping noises before sitting down on a bar stool, mumbling "How this old body betrays me."

He washes down the bread and cheese as though he hadn't eaten in a week and leans back with a look of satisfaction, finally taking in his surroundings and fellow clients. Anyone who meets his gaze is met with a friendly, sparkling eyed grin and the raising of his cup.

Once his ale is finished he slaps down the coppers he owes. He looks folornly into his meager pouch again, cocks his head, shrugs, slapping down another copper. "Same again, good man!"

Ale in hand he hops down from his stool, quite nimbly, without spilling a drop and moves over to sit at the table closest to the hearth. He takes off his soaking wet, badly tattered boots, leaving them close to the fire to dry and stretches out his skinny, knobbly kneed legs from beneath his wet, mud stained peasant's robes to warm his wrinkled feet. With a sigh of pleasure, he turns his attention to the other patrons, blatantly eaves dropping in on their conversations.

Seeing his friends, Borric, Falkner, and Zelena, as he enters the establishment, Sylvain makes his way to their table. "Greetings, all. How are things?"

Swiveling around, Syl looks for his favorite serve, Marla, the tiefling. "Marla, my dear, how Waltor and I have missed your pretty face," he exclaims, pulling back his sleeve, showing the scorpion crawling up his right arm. "How badly has Borric insulted you, my dear," he asks, knowing his friend's general demeanor. "If it's too badly, I can thrash him for you," the witch boasts, making sure he winks at Borric when Marla turns her back. "Just joking, bloke. Please don't beat me up," he whispers, out of her earshot.

Quioan thinks back to the virtually empty tavern he had entered only a few hours ago, and realizes now that the current scene is likely much more typical. It's also becoming clear that he had been quite fortunate in stumbling upon the Dunn Wright Inn, considering the clientele who had begun to pour in over the last hour or so: all were clearly the adventuring type, which suggested that this might be a useful place to find some work. Plus, if the half a dozen or so individuals who now crowded around the table he was sharing were at all indicative, finding someone to watch his back in a pinch wouldn't be much of an issue.

Scanning the crowd, his eyes settled upon the elderly human who had entered a short time ago. Although he seemed normal enough at first glance, Quioan suspected there was more to him than meets the eye. Almost as if there's something magical about him... On that hunch, he began reciting the detection incantation he had learned so long ago.

After a bit of concentrating, Quioan is certain that there's some sort of spell on the man, but he can't for the life of him discern anything beyond that. Confident that it, or he, poses no threat, however, and curious as all hell, he excuses himself from the table and it's ever-growing number of occupants and makes his way over to an empty chair by the fire next to the old man. Smiling at him a bit strangely, he decides to continue acting on his whim. Already in the mood to flex his linguistic muscles from his brief conversation with Zelena in Sylvan (One of the pleasant advantages of being in such a great city, for sure), he works up for the relatively taxing motions of Draconic and inquires to Relic, with more fluency than he had hoped, "You look almost as new around here as myself - would you care for some company?"

Relic waves for the elf to pull up a chair beside him.

Well met, well met young elf. I'd invite you to a drink, he says in perfect common, staring into his now half empty cup of ale, but ... anyway, it seems like you've already had a few too many with all that hissing and slurring of word. Keep an old man company for a while. I'm new in these parts. What about yourself?

Without waiting for a response as if he already knew the answer to his question he continues with a barrage of friendly questions.

So have you been out on the road? Where have you come from? Where you headed now? Any news worth telling an old man?

Though the old man's face shows evident interest in the elf and his response, his eyelids seem to flutter open and shut every now and again as though he were fighting the urge to fall asleep. The dark shadows beneath his bloodshot eyes reflect the deep tiredness sinking into his body as the warmth from the fire massages his tired feet and spreads a pleasant tingling thaw throughout his thin body.

oops

Borric Hawkins, Human Male Fighter


Borric folds his arms across his chest and rests them on the back of the chair is sitting backwards on. Not caring in the slightest about the gnome's threats or chastising.

Replying to Zelena and her companion, "Well lass, I am what I am. Well met Qweeyooan. I am indeed, Borric Hawkins, the fookin' mageslayer."

As two more of their companions show up, Borric nods a greeting companionably. He replies conspiratorially to Syl about Marla, but loud enough for Falkner to hear as well, "Bah, the horny wench is the one that needs a good thrashing roll in the hay, if you know what I mean. Well, maybe you don't given your behavior in the brothel last night, Syl. The Cap'n here, now he knows how to bed a wench good. I seen the look on the face of plump Missy Beaujolais at the French Tickler House."

Realizing that he might be excluding the non-humans in his conversation, he advises, "I am sure you can find something that suits your fancy there too, lass. Same for you, pointing ears, they accept all kinds down in the Night Court District. Even poofdas if that's your pleasure. I see this one halfling down there, she could su... Ah, never mind, I don't want to offend Walter."

When Marla comes around with the ale, the fighter barely noticed enough to murmur a "thanks" as he was too busy discussing things more important. He takes a healthy swig of the ale and wonders what happened to Fury, "Maybe Fury got himself into trouble again searching for word on that soul dealer. He should be here by now."
___________________________

Borric Hawkins

[sblock=OOC] Scott what are you talking about?

Relic

[/sblock]

Sorry, I didn't see him as a member on the list.. i take it back, and erasing the above post.

Orlando Furioso 'Fury' - Rogue/Bard

The doors to the Dunn Wright open and Fury saunters in. Catching sight of his recent companions a smile creeps over his face and his eyes take on a bit of a twinkle. It's nice to come to a place where everyone knows your name. He joins the rest of the group and pulls out a chair. Flopping down, stretching out his legs and folding his hands over his belly after he adjusts the hilts of the two rapiers he wears he says, "I just don't see how you lug all those weapons around all the time, Borric. We'll just have to hope you don't get tipsy and take a tumble into a canal; we wouldn't be able to fish you out before all that metal drags you down into Akutu's black embrace. Then who'd pull my fat out of the fire?" He winks to the others. "Hey, all." He glances around. "Looks like we're only missing the Duke."