Lazlow
First Post
Sunderkeg on the job
The bar dwellers don't seem to mind your long look, as most of them ignore you. The few who do look in your direction seem to look past you, as if wondering where this line of strangers will end, and when they'll stop interrupting their bleak, uneventful existences.
"Proprietor, gimme some grog. And get some for this pretty little lady, here, too." <winks at elf, nods, turns back around to face the crowd>
"Feargal! Little help up front please," the barmaid says before disappearing through the kitchen door.
Instantaneously, almost magically, a rugged Dwarf with a mass of rust-colored hair flecked with streaks and specks of grey pops up from behind the bar. His attire appears to be an eclectic mix of old, worn adventuring-style odds paired with newer, expensive-looking merchant-style ends, over which a bright white barkeeper's apron has been tied. He quickly surveys the room and smiles broadly at the new faces in town. He draws up a tall mug of a frothy liquid from a keg and sets it down in front of the dusty, tobaccy-stick-chewing man. "Ach weel, m'lad, noo thas'll be th' bayst grog ye'll be havin' 'n a long toime, aye," he says in the most ridiculous 'Dwarven' accent you've ever heard.
He turns to the brightly adorned elf and whistles long and low. "Faith'n begorrah, lad! I..."
He pauses, seemingly at a loss for words. A couple of regulars at the bar glance over at the Dwarf with a surprised look on their faces.
He clears his throat and composes himself. "Ahem, aye... Weel mayt, stranger, th' name's Sunderkeg. Weelcome t' th' Oold Bald One-Eyed Salty Red Dog Tavern! 'n' wheer might ye be hailin' from this foine ayvnin'? Fields af-"
He stops short, distracted (impossible as it sounds) by something bright and shiny that is, amazingly, not adorning the elf.
He turns back to the dusty man and says, "Say... 's that a badge yoor weerin'?"
Gray Shade said:There's a jingling and clomping outside the door of the bar and loud curses about horse leavings. After a few moments of this, the doors splay wide and an imposing figure with a chest like a Gnollish beer barrel and arms like dragon sausages steps in. He stops, one hand holding a door open, the other lifting the brim of his wide, cinnamon-stick curled hat so his squinted, glinting eyes can get a long look at all the bar-dwellers.
The bar dwellers don't seem to mind your long look, as most of them ignore you. The few who do look in your direction seem to look past you, as if wondering where this line of strangers will end, and when they'll stop interrupting their bleak, uneventful existences.
His chest is covered in a solid hunk of Mithral, dulled with dust from the long road. A matching shield is strapped to his back, and a straight sword with a hilt shaped like the head of great dog-of-war hangs on a red scabbard at his hip. A bright blue feather juts from his backpack over his left shoulder. His pants, boots and gloves are all thick leather stained by well-oiling beneath the layer of trail dirt that exhales dust when he moves. He pounds at his arms and legs to knock most of the dust off then steps further into the room. His boot spurs jangle twice before he stops abruptly with a wrinkle of his nose and steps outside to stomp around on the porch a bit more before re-entering, this time without any flourish, but apparently satisfied with his smell.
He saunters up to the bar with still-squinted eyes and listens to the friendly yet babbling elf before popping a cigarillo between his lips. While he continues to listen to the elf, he takes a rag from his pocket and shines a bronze star attached to a strap on his armor, beneath which lies his gritty heart (too much grit?).
Once the elf's finally stopped . . . oh, wait, no . . . okay . . . NOW that the elf's stopped talking, between gnaws at his tobaccy-stick...
"Proprietor, gimme some grog. And get some for this pretty little lady, here, too." <winks at elf, nods, turns back around to face the crowd>
"Feargal! Little help up front please," the barmaid says before disappearing through the kitchen door.
Instantaneously, almost magically, a rugged Dwarf with a mass of rust-colored hair flecked with streaks and specks of grey pops up from behind the bar. His attire appears to be an eclectic mix of old, worn adventuring-style odds paired with newer, expensive-looking merchant-style ends, over which a bright white barkeeper's apron has been tied. He quickly surveys the room and smiles broadly at the new faces in town. He draws up a tall mug of a frothy liquid from a keg and sets it down in front of the dusty, tobaccy-stick-chewing man. "Ach weel, m'lad, noo thas'll be th' bayst grog ye'll be havin' 'n a long toime, aye," he says in the most ridiculous 'Dwarven' accent you've ever heard.
He turns to the brightly adorned elf and whistles long and low. "Faith'n begorrah, lad! I..."
He pauses, seemingly at a loss for words. A couple of regulars at the bar glance over at the Dwarf with a surprised look on their faces.
He clears his throat and composes himself. "Ahem, aye... Weel mayt, stranger, th' name's Sunderkeg. Weelcome t' th' Oold Bald One-Eyed Salty Red Dog Tavern! 'n' wheer might ye be hailin' from this foine ayvnin'? Fields af-"
He stops short, distracted (impossible as it sounds) by something bright and shiny that is, amazingly, not adorning the elf.
He turns back to the dusty man and says, "Say... 's that a badge yoor weerin'?"