Even Newer(er) Tavern Thread: The Hanged Man

[Phoenix8008]

An invisible ghost floats through the door of the tavern. The ghost doesn't even remember it's own name, let alone what drew it to this place of silent stillness. The lone elf sitting in the darkness can't see the ghost pass through and disappear into the void beyond, but they share the same sadness in their hearts.

 

[Voda Vosa]

There was one creature alone with the elf in her time of sorrow. A forgotten one, once the warden of the natural world that had overrun the entire city. In its blind advance, it had also overrun its protector.
Once, a warforged made of rock and dirt walked in the halls of the Hanged Man's tavern, stalwart protector of Nature. Now his mission was completed, and the small plant that grew in his back had become a gargantuan oak that grew over and through the roof of the decaying building.
Among the twisted wood, the ghostly stone face of Earth was still visible. His eye sockets were empty of life, one skewered by a root.
But as the elf started singing, something inside the oak awakened. As if the melodious voice of the elf carried some hidden and powerful magic, the right eye socket of Earth flared with green light.
"Who..." muttered the voice so gravely that would give the reaper the chills.
"Who has awaken me from my slumber?"

 

[Lord Sessadore]

In the darkness of the night, a ship passes near the old Daunton harbour, a rowboat lands, and a solitary figure disembarks. The boat returns to the ship, which then leaves, an air of disconcerted hurriedness about it. The figure looks about the abandoned, sinking docks and collapsed warehouses where once was a bustling arena of trade and commerce. Its shoulders rise and fall in a sigh, realizing now why those on the ship would want to hurry away, and it walks slowly into the town.

Moonlight glints off of silver armour covered in small swirling patterns and a long, curved shield across the figure's back. A slim, angular face framed by loose locks of straight black hair. Pointed ears protrude through the hair, betraying the figure's heritage as elven.

Memories fly through the elf's mind as he walks along the once familiar roads, passing buildings he remembers as full of life. Another sigh escapes his lips. Has it really been so long? How many years? Alas, fast and fickle are the lives of humans, he finds himself thinking. Why did you call me back to this place, Palladys? What good could possibly come of seeing the ruins of Daunton? Share your wisdom, my Grey Eyed Lady.

Eventually, the elf's slow walk brings him to the neighborhood of the Hanged Man, or what is left of it. The soft clink and clatter of the plates of his armour and the buckles of his pack and scabbard seem to echo all around him, to his sharp elven ears. But then, suddenly, unexpectedly, he hears a song. It is soft at first; rough and vaguely unsure but still catchingly beautiful in the desolate ruins of the city. The elf stops in the middle of the street (it isn't as though he would interfere with traffic, hah), enraptured by the song but filled with a fear that were he to continue he would break the tenuous connection of it. He listens as the voice gains confidence, volume, and his heart rings with the echo of every sad lament as it is sung.

Finally, the song ceases, and as quickly as the beauty of the song had filled him he now felt the emptiness of the city press even closer to him. After a time he forces his legs to walk again, fighting against the spell of lethargy the city seems to be working in him. He comes to the door of the Hanged Man - now fallen on the floor, a pool of floor blown clear of dust around it. Inside he sees another elf. Is it so surprising that it is another elf here? I fear any other adventurers I shared these halls with have long passed to the grave. The hope that he would see a familiar companion from the old days fades - she does not look familiar. After a halting, awkward moment, he breaks the silence. "H... Hello," he says, his voice rough from the lump which had formed in his throat. He clears it with a cough then speaks again. "I am Raiyek Meliam," he says as he crosses the threshold, a bittersweet smile flitting across his lips as he relives the old tradition, but his eyes are still sad. "Well met," he adds as he advances a few steps into the remnants of the old tavern room and extends his hand to the stranger.

 

[H.M.Gimlord]

"Who..." muttered the voice so gravely that would give the reaper the chills.
"Who has awaken me from my slumber?"

Mikara is too drunk, at this point to give an intelligent answer. She lolls her head in the direction of the voice and thinks she's hallucinating when she only sees a tree poking through the window.

Shhhhhh....Threeth aren't thuppothed to talk like that. What would you do if... her eyes widen and adrenalin provides her with a fleeting half-moment of sobriety as she sees the stone face glinting in the moonlight. Whoah! OK, tho maybe you're not jutht an ordinary three. Thorry to dithturb you. I'll thee that it dothn't hhhhappen again.

With that, as if in proof of her statement, but more likely as a result of the 128oz of well-aged ale, her forehead drops to the table with a muted thud that nevertheless rings throughout the empty common room.

"Well met"

Mikara is barely conscious when Raiyek extends his hand in greeting. Mikara eases open her eyes, and with her forehead still planted on the table, rolls them up toward the other elf. Raiyek's elven form gives her a little energy, more out of embarrassment than out of joy or hope. She pushes herself up to a sitting position at the table, revealing a gray ring where her sweat had cemented the dust from the table to her forehead. She slumps forward, sleepily resting her chin in the palm of her left hand and extending the right to accept Raiyek's, but the alcohol was a little more potent than expected. Her hand misses Raiyek's by about 14 inches and, lacking the expected support, drops to the table, thudding and scattering dust everywhere. Yeah. Mikara li Mathadh, pleathed to meet you. Evidently unaware that her handshake has missed its mark, Mikara leans back in a reclining position, though there is no back to stool on which she sits, and balanced on the edge of physics, spreads her hands in a welcoming gesture as if inviting the elf into her home. She looks around sleepily, obliviously, sarcastically, C'home on in! Hhhhave a theat! Hhhhave a jrink! She hefts one of the mugs, the weight of which indicates that it is empty. She upends the mug, testing her theory and proving it to be true. She smiles sheepishly to Raiyek, and lifts a finger with all the dexterity of a sapling in a hurricane, Hhhhang on. She reaches under the table and produces the jug. There is only enough ale left to fill the mug a quarter of the way, but she pours anyway and pushes the nearly empty mug to the other side of the table. She pats the table next to the mug, sending dust flying, Come, thit with me and 'member the old dayth. Don' worry. There'th nobody here...'thept him. She lazily points to the tree with the stone face, then pulls her hand back shielding her voice from the tree with an outwardly directed, open palm, I jutht woke'm up, tho don' thpeak too loud.

 

[Neil1889]

Suddenly the old portal begins to glow softly.

A faint, distant feminine voice can be heard, "I'm trying, but it is difficult. Wait, I see something now...are those cobwebs, dear?"

 

[H.M.Gimlord]

Sobriety is slow to return to Mikara. The glow of the portal, though faint and soft, irritates her eyes through their closed lids just enough. Did thumbuddy light the fireplathe?

 

[Lord Sessadore]

Raiyek lowers his hand and smiles down to Mikara. As inebriated as she is, the paladin is just happy that there is someone else here. "It seems to be the portal, Mikara. The legend of the Hanged Man is not quite dead yet," he says with the barest hint of cheer while trying to catch a glimpse at who or what is prying open the portal. "I wish I could assist, another face would be welcome."

 

[H.M.Gimlord]

Mikara looks up at Raiyek through a cross-eyed, drunk stupor, Why? Aren't you hhappy with the ththree you'vvve got?

 

[dimsdale]

The portal suddenly turns a brilliant emerald green before a half-elf woman appears. She pauses, looking up to scan the area as if she's looking for familiar faces. Hmmm I heard something happened to this place but... She doesn't bother to finish her sentence. She steps forward and then stops as she notices something on her cloak now that she entered a lighted room. She frowns and sighs, then picks off pieces of decayed rotten plant-like matter somehow attached to the cloak. She looks around for a place to put the stuff and then settles for placing it on a table. She then moves to an unoccupied chair and sits.



ooc: Half elf cleric lvl 8 or 9...somewhere in there.

 

[H.M.Gimlord]

[sblock=OOC Dimsdale] You might want to read over the last few posts. It's going to be hard to reconcile your narrative in the context of the previously posted events, though I imagine that it would be fun to try [/sblock]