H.M.Gimlord
Explorer
A portly man wearing a weathered, leather overcoat steps over the threshold (and the door) and looks around the common room. His bald head and sweaty brow suggest that the effort to walk down the street was about as much exercise as he's had in recent years. He straightens to a full height of 5'9" and puts his hands on his hips, his face donning an expression communicating that some form of justice has been served,
"So that's wha' they ge' far firin' ole Blagarm Barblacken!" he bellows, as he chuckles at the irony.
He takes his coat off and hangs it on a peg by the door frame. Underneath, he's dressed in a browning, undyed, cotton tunic with a single button at the collar, and a pair of gray trousers that blouse as they dive into riding boots that look a like they were designed for comfort as well as utility. A cracked, leather belt encircles his girth, and from the belt hangs long, linen rag.
Ignoring the crowd, for the moment, the fat man picks up the door and re-hangs it on the hinges. He grabs the rag from his belt and dusts off his work making the door seem a little more inviting if not homey. He then turns and strides to the bar. With all the grace of a bowling ball that's stuck a little too much to the thumb just before being released, the man leaps the counter and drops on the far side, lighting with a blunt boom that sends reverberating waves of force through the floorboards. A fog of dust erupts simultaneously from every inch of the floor much like salt does when a fist pounds against a table.
From behind the counter, he produces tapers, and lighting them, moves around the common room handing them to the half-elf and the Dwarf,
"Would'ye mind lightin' the sconces for ole Blagarm, an' I'll ge'ye somehtin' far ye'r trouble."
Without waiting for a response, he places the lit tapers in their hands and walks back behind the bar. On his way, he slaps Mikara on the head,
"Wakeup gallie! This be no time ta sleep. Thar's wark ta be done! Do ole Blagarm a favar an' fetch some watar from th' well."
Once behind the bar, he produces his rag once more and begins to dust off a clear space on top of it. There, he sets two mugs and looks confusedly under the counters.
"Blame ya Mik! Ya gone an' drunk th' ale!"
Mikara, who has, by this time sobered up a little looks over her shoulder on the way to get the water,
"Did you check the cabinet
underneath the
mirror?
bet you didn't!
Ale, three jugs worth, and
spirits, two bottles, are
sitting on the third shelf."
"Ah thank'ye m'lady!" Blagarm bellows from beneath the counter as he finds the promised cache.
Lifting the two bottles over his head, he shouts to the room,
"Th' 'Angedman's Back I' Bizznuss!"
adding
"Drinks far any'hoo do thar share ta get'er ship-shape!"
"So that's wha' they ge' far firin' ole Blagarm Barblacken!" he bellows, as he chuckles at the irony.
He takes his coat off and hangs it on a peg by the door frame. Underneath, he's dressed in a browning, undyed, cotton tunic with a single button at the collar, and a pair of gray trousers that blouse as they dive into riding boots that look a like they were designed for comfort as well as utility. A cracked, leather belt encircles his girth, and from the belt hangs long, linen rag.
Ignoring the crowd, for the moment, the fat man picks up the door and re-hangs it on the hinges. He grabs the rag from his belt and dusts off his work making the door seem a little more inviting if not homey. He then turns and strides to the bar. With all the grace of a bowling ball that's stuck a little too much to the thumb just before being released, the man leaps the counter and drops on the far side, lighting with a blunt boom that sends reverberating waves of force through the floorboards. A fog of dust erupts simultaneously from every inch of the floor much like salt does when a fist pounds against a table.
From behind the counter, he produces tapers, and lighting them, moves around the common room handing them to the half-elf and the Dwarf,
"Would'ye mind lightin' the sconces for ole Blagarm, an' I'll ge'ye somehtin' far ye'r trouble."
Without waiting for a response, he places the lit tapers in their hands and walks back behind the bar. On his way, he slaps Mikara on the head,
"Wakeup gallie! This be no time ta sleep. Thar's wark ta be done! Do ole Blagarm a favar an' fetch some watar from th' well."
Once behind the bar, he produces his rag once more and begins to dust off a clear space on top of it. There, he sets two mugs and looks confusedly under the counters.
"Blame ya Mik! Ya gone an' drunk th' ale!"
Mikara, who has, by this time sobered up a little looks over her shoulder on the way to get the water,
"Did you check the cabinet
underneath the
mirror?
bet you didn't!
Ale, three jugs worth, and
spirits, two bottles, are
sitting on the third shelf."
"Ah thank'ye m'lady!" Blagarm bellows from beneath the counter as he finds the promised cache.
Lifting the two bottles over his head, he shouts to the room,
"Th' 'Angedman's Back I' Bizznuss!"
adding
"Drinks far any'hoo do thar share ta get'er ship-shape!"
