Taking A Bit Of Liscence With The Introduction - Hope That's Cool
It is the quiet part of the night, as most of the patrons of the Red Dragon Inn have long since indulged beyond the point of reason and are now scattered across the cavernous common room in heaps and piles of stuporous flesh. The air reeks of sweat and spilled ale. Earlier in the evening, a heavy storm had rolled in from the west bringing with it flashes of lightening and claps of thunder that punctuated the endless drumbeat of its rain. None of the patrons had paid it much notice, being caught up as they were in the song and dance and atmosphere of revelry created by the professional entertainers who have long since retired to bed.
A peal of thunder from the dying storm rumbles through the air and at the same time the door to the Inn crashes open. A tall and imposing figure stands in the doorway, dimly silhouetted by the ruddy light from the eyes of the stone dragon outside. Whoever it is fumbles at the handle of the door, but eventually manages to pull it shut before too much rain pools in front of the door. The figure pushes back the hood of his cloak, revealing the thick and angular face of a male Half-Orc. He absently scratches at his close cropped oddly Dwarven looking beard for a few moments while surveying the room.
Apparently making up his mind about something, he heads towards the bar, altering his path only to avoid the odd table and drunken patron. His heavy traveling boots thump on the floor and set silverware and plates to rattling as he passes. Anyone sober enough to see straight notices the odd symbol embroidered in silver thread on the back of his cloak, with the matching symbol incised into the blade of the greataxe slung at an angle across his back. The symbol itself is not odd, it's the commonly recognized Holy Sigil of Chennet' god of Fire and Forge. What is odd is that a Half-Orc should be sporting the Holy Sigil of a primarily Dwarven god. It should be said though, that in a common room full of stalwart adventurers, it's surely not the oddest thing they've ever seen, merely one of the more odd.
The Half-Orc thuds up to Joe, who's drying recently washed tankards and suddenly whistling an old Dwarven battle hymn. Joe sets down his tankard and towel and looks at the Half-Orc.
"What'll it be?” he asks.
"A plate of whatever's the special an' a couple of tankards of the local ale.” the Half-Orc rumbles in reply.
"Done. It'll be out in a minute. Why don't you go sit over by the fire and dry off?" Joe says as he starts to turn away, then turns back and asks, "Y'know, I don't reckon I've seen you around before. What's your name?"
The Half-Orc spits out a mashed up string of harsh sounding syllables in reply.
Joe cocks his head to the left and points at his right ear, "Eh? Can you say that again? I got smacked in the head when I was a kid, and my hearing's been none too good ever since."
The Half-Orc pauses, takes a deep breath, clears his throat and speaks in a low
base rumble that spreads out across the common room, "Urkulyr Ashgrod. My name is Urkulyr Ashgrod."
Behind and to the left, some random drunk exhales with a "Huh? Wuh? Aaayyyalll..." that's quickly followed by a “thunk” as his forehead reconnects with the tabletop.
Joe grins and turns away. "You're food'll be out in a minute Ashgrod. Why don't y' have a seat by the fire?” he says over his shoulder and then disappears into the kitchen.
Urkulyr sighs, straightens up, turns towards the fireplace to his right and heads over to the nearest empty spot. He unstraps his greataxe and leans it against the table he's selected. He sets his shoulder pack in one of the mismatched chairs around the table, takes off his cloak, folds it in half and throws it over the pack. Then he pulls up another chair (this one well stuffed and padded but worn) and puts his feet up on a nearby footstool, sighing this time with contentment. He reaches around and grabs the long thick braid of black hair that runs to the small of his back and starts fiddling with one of the tinted straps of leather that's been woven into it. He doesn't look up until a bar wench comes out with his dinner and several tankards of ale. He mutters a short thanks, digs some coins out of his pocket, hands them to her and watches her as she returns to the kitchen.
He grabs his knife and fork, pulls a tankard of ale closer and then stops. He looks around the room.
"Anyone here sober enough to drink a tankard of ale at my table without ruining my dinner? I could use some conversation."
