Shark Tank Tavern, Port Verge (evening) – Doral, Morika, Partash
Amidst the chatter and buzz of the drinking crowd, the young sailor listened blinkingly to Doral’s thoughts on his hometown. After the half-elf’s finishing statement, Renhg tossed back his head and swigged the last of his ale in an unsteady display of his own ‘guts and fire’. Not bothering to wipe the beer from his chin, he puffed his chest and leaned closer to Doral, frowning through his alcohol-thickened mind.
“Now look ‘ere, I ca’ tell yah abou’ one right now. Our own Prince, Kolberk’n y’know, he’s uh grea’ ‘ero from th’ Last War. He an’ ‘is fleet fough’-‘n many a epic battle, raidin’ and killin’ and de-featin’ th’ many en’mies who came teh conquer an’ pil’lage an’ take our city. Take Lh’zaar, even. If ih weren’t for him, none ah this”—he swung his arm around him, gesturing widely—“would be ‘ere. So don’ you go a-sayin’ we don’ have any real men ‘ere in Por’ Verge, stranger. You don’ know a thin' about what goes on here.”
He tipped his empty mug towards himself and peered in, and set it back down again, remembering it was empty. Seeing the half-elf unphased, he decided to elaborate on his point.
He leaned towards Doral again, much farther this time, so that the reek of alcohol enveloped the beguiler. “Y’see tha’ ship ou’ there?” Renhg tugged at the shoulder of Doral’s shirt with one hand, and pointed across the tavern and out the water-front windows with the other, indicating the Thresher. “Thuh real fine one? Well, you don’ think th’ Prince ‘as ‘n-Element’l Gall-yon for leisure sailin’, do yah? Tha’s the fastes’ ship ‘n Lh’zaar. An’ he keeps ah score‘n-a-‘alf of th’ fines’ men an’ sail’rs ‘round, ‘ere in Por’ Verge. ‘is private crew. An’ they’s all gutsy men too.”
“Well, ev’ryone in Por’ Verge’s gutsy. You’ve nev’r seen thah winter ‘ere. This is ah real rough place too,” he nodded. “You hafta be tough to make it here.” Then abruptly, with one last defiant nod, the young man turned in his seat, apparently completed fascinated with watching a loud group across the room.
And that group was none other than the one Morika had gone over to join after her eating her (unfortunately light) cod dinner. The group—a grisly and heavy old sailor, a sharp and smirking half-elf, an already drunken-looking younger sailor, and a stoutly-built gnomish woman—laughed when they heard Morika’s offer, but happily rather than mockingly.
The half-elf, most likely a merchant or shopkeep of some sort, scratched his short beard at the shifter’s proposal, then looked at his companions. Apparently the betting was on, because he turned back to her and answered, “We’ll play five copper a round into the catch, and last one drinking takes all.” He smiled slyly. “And you can call me Bertrand, dear miss, though I’m sure you won’t be able to remember that long with all the drinking…”
The gnome snorted at this, and the older man waved for a round of drinks. Everyone else was introduced—the old sailor, Delluch, the young, Jerrick, and the gnome, Disonda—and the coins were laid in the center of the table. A moment later they raised their mugs in a toast. “May th’ bes’ dog win!” cried the inebriated Jerrick, and they all tossed down the first gulp. “Gorgon’s Cough. Strong stuff, miss…” said Bertrand, grinning.
After the third round, everyone in the company had grown friendly, except poor Jerrick, who passed out right off his stool halfway through a mug of The Husband’s Last Regret. Delluch was starting to get a little tipsy too, but Bertrand’s smooth and sarcastic remarks continued unabated, and even Disonda was beginning to join in, though like Morika herself, hadn’t been much affected by the drinks yet at all.
As they started the fourth round, drinking a dark and heavy Karrnathi brew called Dead Rogue’s Request, Delluch turned to Morika and rumbled, “So, young woman, what brings ya teh Port Verge, eh? You don’t look to be like any sail’r err merch’nt.”
“Can’t you see those blades?” spoke up Disonda. “That’s more than simple traveler’s protection. No, those are tools for a purpose.” She looked at Morika, both challenging and controlled. “The gold you work for is more stained than what we earn, I think.”
Dining Room, Sail and Sceptor Inn (evening) – Vhir, Glasia, Carver
A few blocks away, a very different evening was underway. While Vhir and Glasia shared the newspaper, the waitress returned with the main course, turkey roast served with potatoes cooked in oil and herbs, as well as fresh bread and wine.
About the same time Carver came in, leaving the cantankerous old bowman to his own mutterings. The waitress looked at the warforged hesitantly, wondering if one of the spindly little chairs would hold the construct, or what would be proper to serve it, and sighed quietly in relief when she heard he would not be staying.
“Is there anything else I can get either of you?” she asked Vhir and Glasia. “I’ll bring the dessert course out when you’re done with this one, otherwise. And if your other friend joins you, we have an order for cabbage and milk in.”
OOC: Don't worry, Vhir is gets to read that article about Dreadhold, but unfortunately, Ringmereth wrote it up, and I didn't have it at the time I posted this. So the article's posted below.
