[Aight.
Expirience Reward: 600 exp for sparking a revolution]
You rush through the turmoil towards the tavern, a poor-looking building with a giant wooden sign hanging from a post over the doorway depicting the drawing of what appears to be a... blurred smudge... possibly a dead pig.
The bartender doesn't appear to be in the building when you first come in (in fact, the place is completely empty), but a portly middle-aged individual with mutton chops bursts in through the door behind you immediately after you step over the threshold, nearly knocking you over.
He bustles over to his position behind the counter, panting heavily and with sweat outlining his jowls. As you take your seat, another couple of people walk in nonchalantly. They're dressed in hooded, undyed, roughspun woolen clothing, one of them sporting a bleeding wound on his left arm, bandaged up with a piece of cloth. They take their seats next to eachother on the counter counter one seat to the right of you.
"A mead coming up" he chuckles as you place your order. He eyes you nervously before switching his glance to the other two.
"So... uh... fine weather innit?" he asks as he pours you a mug filled with an opaque brownish liquid and drops it in front of you. He turns around, grabs a clean-looking glass off the shelf and starts polishing it with his back still turned to you.
"I wonder who it was that warned the guards." the one with the bloodied arm asks aloud. "Probably some fat old man" the other answers, smiling with yellow teeth.
Expirience Reward: 600 exp for sparking a revolution]
You rush through the turmoil towards the tavern, a poor-looking building with a giant wooden sign hanging from a post over the doorway depicting the drawing of what appears to be a... blurred smudge... possibly a dead pig.
The bartender doesn't appear to be in the building when you first come in (in fact, the place is completely empty), but a portly middle-aged individual with mutton chops bursts in through the door behind you immediately after you step over the threshold, nearly knocking you over.
He bustles over to his position behind the counter, panting heavily and with sweat outlining his jowls. As you take your seat, another couple of people walk in nonchalantly. They're dressed in hooded, undyed, roughspun woolen clothing, one of them sporting a bleeding wound on his left arm, bandaged up with a piece of cloth. They take their seats next to eachother on the counter counter one seat to the right of you.
"A mead coming up" he chuckles as you place your order. He eyes you nervously before switching his glance to the other two.
"So... uh... fine weather innit?" he asks as he pours you a mug filled with an opaque brownish liquid and drops it in front of you. He turns around, grabs a clean-looking glass off the shelf and starts polishing it with his back still turned to you.
"I wonder who it was that warned the guards." the one with the bloodied arm asks aloud. "Probably some fat old man" the other answers, smiling with yellow teeth.
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