97mg
Explorer
The Council
“Bloody hell,” the dwarf mumbled, hopping up onto a highchair to sit at the council’s bench. “Pess really ****ed us eh?”
Stone walls of black on all sides, a large portion of the tower’s base had been chiseled into a cavern. Three steps led to a raised section of floor where a long basalt table shared the cold design of it's surrounds. A hearth to each end of the space danced with the lights of flame, the smoke somehow ushered away though a complex arrangement of holes, drawing the smog out to ooze into the outside air, somewhere up the looming monolith.
An elf rubbed his forehead, never overly appreciative of the dwarf’s verbal vulgarity. Humble humans, a gnome, a dragonborn, a half-orc and more sat among their ranks. This was the council. A tasting-plate of Marix Isle’s varieties of culture and way of life.
“Juz rainy rain, what you so testy about? Ain’t a dwarf learned to carry an umbrella? Or you can’t coz those knuckles for dragging?” The pink-cheeked gnome giggled to himself, while the dwarf shot him back an evil eye. His only eye actually. The other was nothing more than a tired old scar.
“Quiet!” Riltof had had enough of this already. He stood and slammed a fist against the bench, while his hairless head like a polished ball began to turn red. Riltof was a man of short patience, a middle aged human there to represent the wills of Kalair’s brewers and sellers of ale.
It was going to be a long day.
The public wasn’t of course, allowed to sit with them. They were however allowed to request entry to the lower section of floor. The time had come to deal with estates, requests to expand business, resolve civil disputes and the like. Much of it was listening to moaning and groaning, brown-tongued folk, and a few arrogant individuals seeking personal favor. Boring. They had to suffer this whilst the rest of the town, in their minds, was out enjoying the festivities.
"Let the first guest in!" Riltof called to a freckle-faced young boy at the base of the steps. Order issued, he scampered off down a passageway towards a wooden door.
"Bet its a damn gnome, here to complain his mushroom has fallen over," the dwarf said, before being quickly shut down by Riltof's angry pointing finger.
"No more! Let us get on with it. I for one, would like to be home before dark."
That would be a first. This process usually kept them awake most of the day and the following night.
“Bloody hell,” the dwarf mumbled, hopping up onto a highchair to sit at the council’s bench. “Pess really ****ed us eh?”
Stone walls of black on all sides, a large portion of the tower’s base had been chiseled into a cavern. Three steps led to a raised section of floor where a long basalt table shared the cold design of it's surrounds. A hearth to each end of the space danced with the lights of flame, the smoke somehow ushered away though a complex arrangement of holes, drawing the smog out to ooze into the outside air, somewhere up the looming monolith.
An elf rubbed his forehead, never overly appreciative of the dwarf’s verbal vulgarity. Humble humans, a gnome, a dragonborn, a half-orc and more sat among their ranks. This was the council. A tasting-plate of Marix Isle’s varieties of culture and way of life.
“Juz rainy rain, what you so testy about? Ain’t a dwarf learned to carry an umbrella? Or you can’t coz those knuckles for dragging?” The pink-cheeked gnome giggled to himself, while the dwarf shot him back an evil eye. His only eye actually. The other was nothing more than a tired old scar.
“Quiet!” Riltof had had enough of this already. He stood and slammed a fist against the bench, while his hairless head like a polished ball began to turn red. Riltof was a man of short patience, a middle aged human there to represent the wills of Kalair’s brewers and sellers of ale.
It was going to be a long day.
The public wasn’t of course, allowed to sit with them. They were however allowed to request entry to the lower section of floor. The time had come to deal with estates, requests to expand business, resolve civil disputes and the like. Much of it was listening to moaning and groaning, brown-tongued folk, and a few arrogant individuals seeking personal favor. Boring. They had to suffer this whilst the rest of the town, in their minds, was out enjoying the festivities.
"Let the first guest in!" Riltof called to a freckle-faced young boy at the base of the steps. Order issued, he scampered off down a passageway towards a wooden door.
"Bet its a damn gnome, here to complain his mushroom has fallen over," the dwarf said, before being quickly shut down by Riltof's angry pointing finger.
"No more! Let us get on with it. I for one, would like to be home before dark."
That would be a first. This process usually kept them awake most of the day and the following night.
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