Even Newer(er) Tavern Thread: The Hanged Man
- Thread starter L4W Facilitator
- Start date
Son of Meepo
First Post
The PC I have in that range is already in an adventure. My only available PC is level 9.
(Though the game with my level 6 PC has been somewhat inactive, so I hope it gets going again soon.)
(Though the game with my level 6 PC has been somewhat inactive, so I hope it gets going again soon.)
Dekana
Explorer
Jax is sitting on a tall bar stool specially made for the shorter races. He is face down on the bar, snoring softly while clutching an empty wine glass in one hand.
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jbear
First Post
The door blew open and moaning spirits ripped into the tavern, sending forks, plates and mugs flying to the floor. The hair of the patrons inside was tousled and stood on their end. Stools were kicked out from beneath those sitting at the bar and much more mischief would have continued if not for the booming voice that followed the wicked spirits inside. "Enough! Or I will keep you in the Helm!" Quiet was instantly restored to the room. "Apologies" offered the man as he moved inside far more quietly than should have been possible given the massive sword slung over his shoulder and the weighty plate armour that covered him from head to toe. He took off the dark emerald jewelled helm that hid his face to reveal unnerving white pupilled eyes and lank, sweaty colourless hair that hung to his shoulders. His face was more scars than skin, marking his upbringing in the school of very hard knocks. He sat down next to the bounty hunter who was furiously cleaning his crossbow. "We hear that a party is being gathered to round up the troll. We imagine you, like ourselves would want to be a part of such a hunt. We know little about it to date but soon word will arrive. We are ready. Are you coming?"
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WEContact
First Post
Chambers looks up as Boris takes a seat at his table and gives the ghastly warrior a grin. He finishes replacing the cover over his crossbow's trigger mechanism while Boris shares his news, and responds with a barked laugh. "That freak o' nature? Not 'nless there's a 
-ton of money involved an' somethin' cleverer than a head-on brawl planned. I've got a few cards up my sleeve that I'll bet aren't like anythin' you've seen before, but that thing's the real deal."
-ton of money involved an' somethin' cleverer than a head-on brawl planned. I've got a few cards up my sleeve that I'll bet aren't like anythin' you've seen before, but that thing's the real deal."
jbear
First Post
"We know nothing of the reward... We have heard only rumours" Boris replies. "But soon we will know more. We feel it coming." Somewhere back in the kitchen plates crash to the floor and a loud curse is heard. One of the quaint paintings that adorn the walls falls to the ground shattering the frame at almost exactly the same time. Boris merely raises an eyebrow and taps the dark helm he cradles in his hand. Nothing else untoward happens.
WEContact
First Post
Logan gives Boris a sour look as he pops open the chamber of his revolving crossbow. "May it do ya fine. Just do me a favor'n keep your ghoulies or grumpkins or whatever in line while I finish working on my weapon here, it's a delicate machine." With a soft snick he uncouples the cylinder, and starts applying to small bits of oil to the moving bits and wiping them down.
H.M.Gimlord
Explorer
The streets are dark and empty in Daunton. The whale oil lamps that once shined bright along the harbor alleyways are covered in cobwebs and vines. The cobblestones are heaved and turned up, yielding to the slow, yet powerful, upward thrust of saplings that would have been cut short by wagon traffic that no longer passes this way.
In the moonlight, a lone figure walks slowly, and carefully down the moss-covered street. An unusually large bow is slung over the back of the figure who moves with grace, suggesting that the size of the bow would present no challenge to its use should the need arise. As the figure approaches the intersection before The Hanged Man tavern, the moonlight shines fully on her form.
She is female.
Glints of silvery light play across her ears.
She is an elf.
Her eyes shift back and forth.
The door to The Hanged Man hangs halfway off of its hinges and falls to the threshold as she pushes it aside to enter the dark common room.
Here, voices used to ring with stories of heroes, gallant quests, dragons slain, and deeds of renown. Now it is so still that one can hear the spider as it lights upon the doorpost, spinning its web to catch a fly that may or may not materialize.
A branch of the old tree outside, to the left of the tavern is growing through the window, threatening to overturn a table in the corner.
Dust covers the floor, nearly an inch thick.
The elf, with all of her cunning is unable to pass without leaving obvious tracks on the tavern floor.
With the lithe movement of a cat, she vaults the bar and looks behind the counter. All the bottles are empty. The bar tuns are drained as well...all except for one. The front of the small tun reads, "Wayne's Ale". She knows all too well why this little canister remains untouched, and doubts that its contents have improved with age.
Old Varquart died a long time ago. Perhaps now he is reunited with his wife, or perhaps he didn't really die. Perhaps she has spirited him away to another world.
The elf stands up to vault back into the common area when she spots something out of the corner of her eye. It's a jug with its cork still in place. Can it be? Could this small reminder have survived. It seems just large enough for eight mugs.
Oh please.
The elf grabs the jug and vaults the bar, her hood flying back to reveal a homely, mud-and-blood-splattered face and a head of short, maroon hair. Reaching a table, she slings her pack from behind her and brings it and the jug down, sending billows of dust from beneath both. She pulls a knife from her boot and, grabbing the oil lamp on the table, proceeds to trim the wick, but there is no oil in the reservoir. Knowing that it might have been too good to expect, she reaches into her pack to produce a flask of oil, a flint, and a file. In a few seconds, the only glow of fire for miles around issues from the small oil lamp on a dusty table in an abandoned tavern.
Returning to the bar, she fetches eight ale mugs and lines them up on the illuminated table.
*POP*
The pressure of years, sends the cork flying into the rafters above the common room, and the smell of well aged ale wafts into Mikara's nostrils.
Oh heaven!
She pours the first mug.
Memories fill her head.
She pours the second mug.
She can still see Blagarm, the old rogue, polishing the bar and yelling at the servants.
She pours the third mug.
She pours the fourth mug.
She remembers Tonk, the half-orc, and the wisest imbecile, she'd ever known.
She pours the fifth mug.
Her eyes gaze at the hide armor she wears, and remembers the bloodstains from her own demise and her magical resurrection.
She pours the sixth mug.
She remembers an alchemist and a love-lost vampire.
She pours the seventh mug.
The ale makes her want to dance, but there is no one with whom to dance. There is no one to hear her song.
With her chin down, she looks forward and begins to sing.
Daunton's shadowed streets are now as still as death.
The wind has halted now it's once melodious breath.
Oh where are all the heroes that once walked beneath this roof.
Where are those brave, young souls who needed not give proof
of who they were or whence they came, for proof was in their deeds?
They've died or moved away beyond those sickly, rotting reeds!
Her voice, emboldened by the realization that none can hear her, raises to an operatic volume.
O Tell me where and why you've gone, you friends and foes of old!
I want to know. I've left too long and long to see your gold!
What treasure do you seek today? O tell me, on what quest?
For I am left in my dismay. Loneliness in my breast!
She pours the eighth mug.
She blows out the lamp, downs the last mug, and waits...
In the moonlight, a lone figure walks slowly, and carefully down the moss-covered street. An unusually large bow is slung over the back of the figure who moves with grace, suggesting that the size of the bow would present no challenge to its use should the need arise. As the figure approaches the intersection before The Hanged Man tavern, the moonlight shines fully on her form.
She is female.
Glints of silvery light play across her ears.
She is an elf.
Her eyes shift back and forth.
The door to The Hanged Man hangs halfway off of its hinges and falls to the threshold as she pushes it aside to enter the dark common room.
Here, voices used to ring with stories of heroes, gallant quests, dragons slain, and deeds of renown. Now it is so still that one can hear the spider as it lights upon the doorpost, spinning its web to catch a fly that may or may not materialize.
A branch of the old tree outside, to the left of the tavern is growing through the window, threatening to overturn a table in the corner.
Dust covers the floor, nearly an inch thick.
The elf, with all of her cunning is unable to pass without leaving obvious tracks on the tavern floor.
With the lithe movement of a cat, she vaults the bar and looks behind the counter. All the bottles are empty. The bar tuns are drained as well...all except for one. The front of the small tun reads, "Wayne's Ale". She knows all too well why this little canister remains untouched, and doubts that its contents have improved with age.
Old Varquart died a long time ago. Perhaps now he is reunited with his wife, or perhaps he didn't really die. Perhaps she has spirited him away to another world.
The elf stands up to vault back into the common area when she spots something out of the corner of her eye. It's a jug with its cork still in place. Can it be? Could this small reminder have survived. It seems just large enough for eight mugs.
Oh please.
The elf grabs the jug and vaults the bar, her hood flying back to reveal a homely, mud-and-blood-splattered face and a head of short, maroon hair. Reaching a table, she slings her pack from behind her and brings it and the jug down, sending billows of dust from beneath both. She pulls a knife from her boot and, grabbing the oil lamp on the table, proceeds to trim the wick, but there is no oil in the reservoir. Knowing that it might have been too good to expect, she reaches into her pack to produce a flask of oil, a flint, and a file. In a few seconds, the only glow of fire for miles around issues from the small oil lamp on a dusty table in an abandoned tavern.
Returning to the bar, she fetches eight ale mugs and lines them up on the illuminated table.
*POP*
The pressure of years, sends the cork flying into the rafters above the common room, and the smell of well aged ale wafts into Mikara's nostrils.
Oh heaven!
She pours the first mug.
Memories fill her head.
She pours the second mug.
She can still see Blagarm, the old rogue, polishing the bar and yelling at the servants.
She pours the third mug.
She looks down and sees the booth where she first sat on that fateful day, long ago, when her curiosity got the best of her and whisked her into the forest on a fools errand to retrieve a ring.
She pours the fourth mug.
She remembers Tonk, the half-orc, and the wisest imbecile, she'd ever known.
She pours the fifth mug.
Her eyes gaze at the hide armor she wears, and remembers the bloodstains from her own demise and her magical resurrection.
She remembers an alchemist and a love-lost vampire.
She pours the seventh mug.
The ale makes her want to dance, but there is no one with whom to dance. There is no one to hear her song.
With her chin down, she looks forward and begins to sing.
Daunton's shadowed streets are now as still as death.
The wind has halted now it's once melodious breath.
Oh where are all the heroes that once walked beneath this roof.
Where are those brave, young souls who needed not give proof
of who they were or whence they came, for proof was in their deeds?
They've died or moved away beyond those sickly, rotting reeds!
Her voice, emboldened by the realization that none can hear her, raises to an operatic volume.
O Tell me where and why you've gone, you friends and foes of old!
I want to know. I've left too long and long to see your gold!
What treasure do you seek today? O tell me, on what quest?
For I am left in my dismay. Loneliness in my breast!
She pours the eighth mug.
Goodbye old heroes! Fare you well. Complete your quest, and then
Return to me, herein, and may these walls glow bright again!
Return to me, herein, and may these walls glow bright again!
She blows out the lamp, downs the last mug, and waits...
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