arwink
Clockwork Golem
An NPC Interlude
Paryn stands by the stairs, staring at the assembled adventurers with his good eye. They're clustered around the second secret barrel, the first left open for all the world to see.
"Amatuers" he thinks to himself. "The Old Company wouldn't have been so silly."
He folds his arms and glares, reminding himself for the fifth time that this is what the Minotaur's wanted even if he doesn't necessarily agree.
"Ye shouldn't be pokin' 'round like that," Paryn orders. "It 'tain't safe."
"Ye said there was bein' a key," the bald one says. "Seein' as we be ownin' the inn, do you think perhaps we could be havin' it?"
Paryn squints at him. He looks like Barrel, no doubtin' than, and he has much the same manner as his uncle.
"I ain't got one," Paryn grunts. "Yer uncles and aunts did, and so does the Baron. If ye be wantin' it, ye can go ask him to hand it over. He'll be happy to, iffen he be thinkin' yer worthwhile inheritors o' the companies legacy."
"This is good," the northerner says. "We can show him strange papers, yes?"
"Maybe," Paryn grunts.
"What are we needing to be doing?"
"You be needin' to impress me," Paryn says. "And I ain't impressed yet. If ye be worthy, and I doubt it, I'll tell him to hand over the key. 'Til then, leave the door alone. Ye ain't ready to open it no-how."
One eye faces off against eight, all of them barely concealing the emotions behind them. In the end, the deadlock is only broken when Paryn picks up a fresh barrel of ale and starts carrying it upstairs.
"Do what ye will," he says. "I got me a tavern to run...for yer profit."
Paryn does his best to stomp on every stair as he climbs back towards the taproom, but his feet barely whisper against the stone once he's out of sight. An ear is tipped towards the crack of the door, listening to the debate below.
It doesn't take long for the debate over what they're going to do is done, and the sharp crack of breaking wood drifts up the stairwell. The northerner has ripped the barrel free of the wall, opening the doorway in the most direct of manners.
For a moment, it occurs to Paryn that this is exactly what Victor would have done. A faint pang of hope settles into his heart.
Maybe, he thinks. Maybe.
He hefts the barrel over his shoulder and continues towards the bar. Hopefully, the screaming wont be loud enough to disturb the patrons...
Paryn stands by the stairs, staring at the assembled adventurers with his good eye. They're clustered around the second secret barrel, the first left open for all the world to see.
"Amatuers" he thinks to himself. "The Old Company wouldn't have been so silly."
He folds his arms and glares, reminding himself for the fifth time that this is what the Minotaur's wanted even if he doesn't necessarily agree.
"Ye shouldn't be pokin' 'round like that," Paryn orders. "It 'tain't safe."
"Ye said there was bein' a key," the bald one says. "Seein' as we be ownin' the inn, do you think perhaps we could be havin' it?"
Paryn squints at him. He looks like Barrel, no doubtin' than, and he has much the same manner as his uncle.
"I ain't got one," Paryn grunts. "Yer uncles and aunts did, and so does the Baron. If ye be wantin' it, ye can go ask him to hand it over. He'll be happy to, iffen he be thinkin' yer worthwhile inheritors o' the companies legacy."
"This is good," the northerner says. "We can show him strange papers, yes?"
"Maybe," Paryn grunts.
"What are we needing to be doing?"
"You be needin' to impress me," Paryn says. "And I ain't impressed yet. If ye be worthy, and I doubt it, I'll tell him to hand over the key. 'Til then, leave the door alone. Ye ain't ready to open it no-how."
One eye faces off against eight, all of them barely concealing the emotions behind them. In the end, the deadlock is only broken when Paryn picks up a fresh barrel of ale and starts carrying it upstairs.
"Do what ye will," he says. "I got me a tavern to run...for yer profit."
Paryn does his best to stomp on every stair as he climbs back towards the taproom, but his feet barely whisper against the stone once he's out of sight. An ear is tipped towards the crack of the door, listening to the debate below.
It doesn't take long for the debate over what they're going to do is done, and the sharp crack of breaking wood drifts up the stairwell. The northerner has ripped the barrel free of the wall, opening the doorway in the most direct of manners.
For a moment, it occurs to Paryn that this is exactly what Victor would have done. A faint pang of hope settles into his heart.
Maybe, he thinks. Maybe.
He hefts the barrel over his shoulder and continues towards the bar. Hopefully, the screaming wont be loud enough to disturb the patrons...