Mors sees to his new guests’ requests, moving determinedly through the room. Spurred by the spike in clientele, he hangs a small "Help wanted" sign near the door.
Seeing both her cup and Lureene's empty she calls such matters to the attention of the barkeep.
"My good man!" She calls, "Would you have a beverage called 'Port'?" She enquirers.
"Of course, my lady - many vintages. Here is a fine selection - from a place they call Llaeles, I believe."
He wipes a thin layer of dust from a fat bottle, and pours a glass for Amber Di' Glaeys. He sets the bottle down next to her glass, and patiently awaits her opinion of the reddish brown liquid.
As the owner Mors brings over the fine beverage, she waves him over and asks, "Excuse me, are you hiring for a position here?"
A tall, sun-tanned youth with a nasty scar running from scalp to jaw on the right side of his face (just missing the corner of his gray eye) stumbles in fiddlin with his belt buckle. Wearing the clothes of a country-boy, all dust-covered and slightly wet as if just out of a slight drizzle, all this topped by a large, straw hat.
He stops abruptly, obviously stunned by his surroundings (quickly removing his hands from around his crotch) "Wait! This ain't the can! What the hells kinda' place is this, anyhow?"
With a quick glance (and embarrassed) look around, he spies the sign for the john and quickly makes his way through that door, asking apologies to the cowled wizard he absent-mindedly bumps on his way by. "Pard'n" he mutters quietly.
As the owner Mors brings over the fine beverage, she waves him over and asks, "Excuse me, are you hiring for a position here?"
"Indeed I am, my lady. Does it interest you?"
"Indeed I am, my lady. Does it interest you?"
Lureene says to Mors, "I would not mind serving drinks, but I am really more of a dancer. As long as I can do that, I will take the job. Also, I want free food for my friend." She points to Grak, her eilodon. Also, I do not know how long I will work for you, I am looking for...someone."
"I would not mind serving drinks, but I am really more of a dancer. As long as I can do that, I will take the job. Also, I want free food for my friend." She points to Grak, her eilodon. Also, I do not know how long I will work for you, I am looking for...someone."
"I believe that will suffice. How much does it eat?" Mors says, taking down the help wanted sign. He is about to place it under the bar, when he pauses. "WHAT does it eat?"
"He is not too particular on what he eats, as long as it is alive."
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The saloon-style doors slam open and a goblin swaggers in, his challenging gaze resting briefly on all the tavern's occupants… big red eyes sizing everyone up.
The goblin is surprisingly large and powerful-looking (for a goblin), standing a mighty one inch under three feet tall, and decked out in leather skins sewn together to almost conceal a nice chain shirt underneath. His well-muscled body is covered with battle scars, and hanging from an ear-ring in his left ear is a black raven feather. Lashed across his back is a human-sized bastard sword (nearly twice his own height), crudely re-gripped to fit his tiny but muscular hands. Over his shoulder he carries a burlap sack, mysteriously clinking and slushing as it sways over his shoulder.
For the span of a breath he strikes his mighty pose, eyes roving, then he apparently spies his target, and his intense red eyes fix with recognition on Mor's figure.
Like a bolt unexpectedly loosed from a crossbow he drops his sack and flies across the floor, his tiny legs pumping furiously to carry him across the room, and an amazing leap carries him the last 5 feet and up onto the bar itself.
"MAAN, TEKEC! Daagaan an or tuugec rhor tuun a shac men ar aguuc! HAHA!" he shrieks as he lands, arms flung wide in preparation for a bear hug.
HEY, SKINNY! Bring me your sorry butt so i can kick it around! HAHA!
his intense red eyes fix with recognition on Mor's figure.
Like a bolt unexpectedly loosed from a crossbow he drops his sack and flies across the floor, his tiny legs pumping furiously to carry him across the room, and an amazing leap carries him the last 5 feet and up onto the bar itself.
"MAAN, TEKEC! Daagaan an or tuugec rhor tuun a shac men ar aguuc! HAHA!" he shrieks as he lands, arms flung wide in preparation for a bear hug.
"Oh, dear..." Mors mumbles under his breath, as he stoically suffers the tiny greenling lifting him off the floor.
"Biter... oof!" Turning away, and gasping for breath, Mors pushes out of the goblin's grip. "What have you been eating?!?! Your breath is worse than usual - and that's saying something!"
"I don't need you tearing up my pub, and driving away my custom! I need you to be..." Mors searches for a word or translation that the goblin will understand, but realizes it's futile. "I need you to be civil." Mors didn't think the goblin tongue had a word for civil. He didn't think they had a word for bathe, either. Horrible visions of a wrecked, bloody, and worse yet - empty pub floated before his eyes.
At the entrance of the large...Gobber...Amber's motions freeze, even the large bottle she's just received seeming forgotten. Her hand, which normally hovers ever near her seeming weapon of choice, now rests lightly upon its grip. The Gobbers stare is met with a steely gaze of her own, though she does nothing untoward as the gaze sweeps past her.At the antics of the Gobber and the owner, Amber's demeanor relaxes a notch or two. Here eyes return to appraising the bottle the a keep has given her.
She ignores the goblins entrance, thinking, Goblins, always a showoff race.
Lureene grabs a tray and walks over to Gyldyr's table, and asks, "And what type and vintage would you prefer, sir?" in a very sultry vioce, well practiced it seems.
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Biter's face looks genuinely crestfallen at the mention of tearing up the pub. "Biter is feeling the much apologize for what was happening last time. But Biter is make it better. Biter is helping pay for what was being broken."
Biter takes a step back and produces a heavy platinum coin out of seemingly nowhere and slaps it down on the counter between his feet.
"This is for to fix the tables and chairs that Biter was breaking last time."
The coin came from a hidden pouch hidden under his tunic.
With an over-dramatic flourish, he produces another platinum out of thin air and slaps it next to the first with a toothy grin.
"Biter is now to be paying back for the 'spensive bottles he be broken last time."
This coin came from a small slit in his sleeve.
"And this…" with a gleeful laugh and another quick flourish next to Mors' ear, he produces a coin and slaps it down on the counter next to the first two, ".. be for Biter's great friend Mors to be hirin' de new waiting woman. Biter be sorry for scaring the other one out." Then he adds, in what he must think is a quiet under-tone, "Biter think she been uglier than a dead b#~@* dog, though, so Biter really do Mors a favor."
Yah, this coin came from Mors' own pocket while they were hugging...
A thought then apparently strikes Biter, eyes widening like saucers. "OH! Biter forget! Biter get you some fancy drinkings!" and scampers off the counter, taking a second to smile a very toothy grin to the dark-clad woman with the strange hip-sheathed weapon. "The lady's sword is being very strange."
He retraces his steps back to the entrance and picks up his sack, dragging it back to the bar. (the sounds of clinking and slushing becoming prominent once again)
"Biter is finding some good drinkings for Mors to sell. Biter is good friend to Mors." He lugs the bag up onto the counter.
This collection of foul smelling, sludgy concoctions is pure rubbish.
"What is being that strange sword, anyway? It no look sharp."
Arryn looks drunkenly up at the goblin on the bar and grins a sinister grin. Quick as lightning, he whips two daggers out of seemingly nowhere, fumbles one, and whips a replacement from under his coat.
"Exshellent, barkeep. You provide good drink and a goblin for ush to kill."
Lureene walks over to the bar and hunts for the vintage the starnge hooded figure asked for. Finding the exact one suprised her, but she doesn't let it show.
She returns to the table and hand him the glass, and any change, if necessary.
She turns to Biter and says, "I hope you don't find me ugly, I do not chase off easy."
To Arryn, she says, "No bloodshed here, take it outside."
"How about no bloodshed at all?" Praxim suggests, picking up the fallen dagger and handing it back to Arryn. "Clearly this goblin is not about to attack anybody. Why don't we go sit down at one of those tables over there and get something to eat? I think you've already had enough to drink."
The elf begins leading the intoxicated teen over to one of the tables, catching him several times as he staggers and stumbles. He takes the boy's daggers from him.
Arryn nimbly pulls out two more daggers, this time from inside his boots, and grips them tightly.
Scampers off the counter, taking a second to smile a very toothy grin to the dark-clad woman with the strange hip-sheathed weapon.
"The lady's sword is being very strange."
He retraces his steps back to the entrance and picks up his sack, dragging it back to the bar. (the sounds of clinking and slushing becoming prominent once again)
"Biter is finding some good drinkings for Mors to sell. Biter is good friend to Mors." He lugs the bag up onto the counter.
Amber ignores the flamboyant Gobbers antics, far more engrossed in reading the label upon the bottle she cradles carefully in one hand. At the Gobbers query she glances at the little fellow.
"T'is a weapon called a gun. It harnesses the power of a alchemy to strike foes down. Far more efficient than the simple brute strength of bows or swords." She smiles and goes back to her bottle.
"I can't believe the label." She whispers to herself.
By the fire, the black cat rolls over and warms its other side.
Arryn looks drunkenly up at the goblin on the bar and grins a sinister grin. Quick as lightning, he whips two daggers out of seemingly nowhere, fumbles one, and whips a replacement from under his coat.
"Exshellent, barkeep. You provide good drink and a goblin for ush to kill."
The 'gun' is out and pointed at the fellow making the slurred comments as fast as he has drawn his blades.
"Enough of this! Arryn, I would seriously rethink your actions here, unless you want to toy with me!"
Praxim stands up and puts himself between Arryn and the others. "Okay, let's everybody relax, now. Clearly, Arryn here has partaken too much of Mors' fine drink, and is not thinking clearly. Right, Arryn?"
Arryn slumps over, the daggers spilling from his hand onto the table top.
|
Lureene walks over to the bar and hunts for the vintage the starnge hooded figure asked for. Finding the exact one suprised her, but she doesn't let it show.
She returns to the table and hand him the glass, and any change, if necessary.
She turns to Biter and says, "I hope you don't find me ugly, I do not chase off easy."
To Arryn, she says, "No bloodshed here, take it outside."
The wizard, who has been ignoring the threatening violence, flips Lureene the smaller gold coin as a tip.
Oh, he was just ready to pass out
Lureene catches the coin in mid air, and slips it into her pouch. She gives the hooded stranger a wink, and blows him a kiss. Too bad, that kid is cute.
Amber is relieved at the way things have turned out. She puts her gun away, re-seats herself and then rubs her hands together as she contemplates the bottle before her.
"Ah." She sighs wistfully as she begins to work the seal free from around the cork.
"It reallyis from Ferkin." She whispers with some glee in her voice.
"Where did you acquire your, gun?" the wizard asks Amber absently.
Amber initially glances distractedly at the speaker, her attention far more focused upon opening the bottle.
"Huh? Oh, um..." And her gaze drifts back into her past for a few moments, before sharply focusing upon the person talking to her. "It is more a badge of rank than just a mere weapon." She informs this new companion, then changes her tone and trying to sound less...'snooty' explains,
"To become a fully fledged Gun-Mage, one must normally join one of a number of academies. Much like Wizard or War-Caster training. So it is with a Gun-Mage and through such establishments does one acquire one's weapon." She smiles, then finishes taking the cork from the mouth of the bottle.
After lifting the mouth of the bottle to her nose for a quick sniff of the bouquet, which brings a closed eye look of appreciative bliss to her features. She offers to poor the stranger a sample to taste for themselves.
"It really is Ferkin. Good Port." She enthuses.
Lureene walks over and checks to make sure everyone has their drinks. She nods in satisfaction. Grak is now snoozing over next to the fireplace. The panther approaching didn't even cause him to stir.
On hearing the elvish chatter, she didn;t understand it but judging by the looks she gets, as always, she could guess what he meant by it.
Once she sees the strange otherworldly weapon, she walks over to Amber's table, and nods at her, "I hope you enjoy the port, from Ferkin, you say?"
Once she sees the strange otherworldly weapon, she walks over to Amber's table, and nods at her, "I hope you enjoy the port, from Ferkin, you say?"
Amber looks up at the new bar-maid and smiles,
"Oh yes. All the best Port comes from Ferkin. Something to do with the way the soils help the grapes to grow." Amber delicately takes another sip, her eyes closing in bliss. She remains that way for a brief moment in time. Obviously fully enjoying the taste before again looking to Lureene and her other drinking companion.
"I hear there's even a thriving smuggling and black market in the stuff. Of course, some of that is to avoid paying the Crown its due, but there is such a demand for Ferkin's good Port that, well..." Her vice trails off.
"It smells heavenly, I do so want to see what Ferkin is like, if they do a great port there then I shall like to see what other...things they have to offer."
Amber laughs, "Oh no." She waves a hand dismissively. "The town is small, one could say 'rustic' even. No, other than being comfortably close to the Cygnaran capital and its divine beverage..." Her voice rails off, "I supose one could take pleasant rides through the vineyards.." Amber finishes obviously trying not to sound too disparaging of the place.
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As the situation escalates, Biter's grin slides from his impish face to be replaced by a predatory focus centered on the drunken youth. A moment after his tall dark companion whips out her "goon", the goblin slides silently from his seat and begins to stalk slowly across the floor, with the slow tension of a stalking wildcat. After the boy passes out, Biter stands stone still for a full minute, the hunter deciding whether his prey is well and truly asleep or merely playing possum.
"Pinkskins is being smart for holding down the drunk rat runt." he finally hisses to those responsible for carrying the boy to the corner. "Runts is learning the hard lesson when that claws can come out, blood is being shed… Biter willing to teach lesson."
With a sudden shift in expression, the smiling mouthful of razors reappears and Biter exclaims cheerily, "Mors, now is the time to be thanking these friending pinkskins… rounds of the drinkings on Biter! Biter just get back from good gold-makings and is wantings to have some funs!"
"And more spesh'l f&&&in' drinkings for Biter's tall, pritty friend here," casting his version of a winning smile at Amber with the "goon" at her hip… (basically just a wide maw of surprisingly white razor-sharp teeth.)
"Biter is finding some good drinkings for Mors to sell. Biter is good friend to Mors." He lugs the bag up onto the counter.
"Very well, Biter." Mors says, pocketing the coins and moving the bag behind the counter.
Eyeing the other patrons, and seeing weapons being drawn or gripped. It is apparently over as soon as it starts, to his relief.
Turning back to the swole up goblin, he says, "Just so long as you cause no trouble. I assume you'd like a pint of your usual?"
Mors then surreptitiously dispenses with the bag of rubbish through the back door, and comes back to help move young Arryn to a bench out of the way.
She turns to Biter and says, "I hope you don't find me ugly, I do not chase off easy."
"No, no... she been much more ugly'in' dan you. She nottin' like Biter's pritty smile, anyway."
Amber, I have been to many places on many alternate worlds, passing through a nexus city called Khaledrun, and different planes of existence, so I do not see how bad your home town can be. At least, you can return there..." Her voice trails off after that.
Saying to Biter, I know I am quite beautiful, but it is more of a curse than a blessing nowadays. It does not bring me what I want."
The tall youth stumbles back out of the restroom - absolutely drenched from head to foot, feet squishing with every sodden step and a look of frustrated annoyance on his lean face.
"Barkeep! Yer plumbin' be broke nine ways to hell!"
Flings himself down next to the cowled man into whom he bumped earlier, slightly smelly liquid splashing across the table and immediately creating a pool under his chair. He fumes for a second, then turns to Gyldyr, "Sorry fer the bumpin' earlier. When nature calls… um… there ain't perchance a barmaid in here is there?"
With a look into Gyldyr's drink, "Whassat yer drinkin'?"
The door opens just enough for a slight, elderly gentleman to slip inside. Without bothering to look around, Olivier shuffles to the nearest open table, muttering unintelligibly.
As soon as he sits, he pulls out a large sheet of parchment and a crude stylus of coal wrapped in clay - and he starts scribbling ferociously. Any sitting nearby will notice that half of the page has already been covered in what appears to be meaningless symbols, half-completed math equations, cartoonish drawings, and even more unusual and esoteric glyphs.
Olivier's mumbling raises in volume just enough for those nearby to hear, "Hmm...I should think it would be clear that we should add the hypotenuse of the cheese wedge to the conceptual root of equality among disparate empirical voles, but this might not account for the time displaced by the residual imperative blueness ranging from the oak between constellations and tomorrow. Perhaps, then, a reduction of aligned oppression would give way to fourteen agreements within invisible soprano compasses... yes... that might be it..."
Praxim removes Arryn's weapons while he sleeps. He starts with the obvious six daggers on the bandolier across his chest, the two in his hip sheathes and two in his thigh sheathes. Those, along with the five he's already taken, are combined with three more from under Arryn's jacket, and one from down the back of his neck for a grand total of nineteen daggers. Praxim, looking fairly impressed, hands the pile to Mors, suggesting that he find a small sack to store them in until they see what sort of mind-set Arryn is in when he regains consciousness.
He resumes drinking his ale, keeping one eye on the newer patrons, and his other on Arryn's sleeping form, making sure that nobody molests or disturbs him.
Lureene walks over to Thomdril's table, and says in a sultry voice, "What would you like, stranger?"
Amber is left slightly non surplussed as the newly hired maid sashays away. To the Gobbers comments, she returns a polite smile. Since she isn't sure whether showing teeth is a polite thing to do, or perhaps a prelude to fighting.
"I must set things straight regarding certain things." She muses softly to herself, then again becomes distracted and engrossed in enjoying her fine beverage.
With a sad smack on the table - that would have been much louder if he wasn't such a frail old man - Olivier rasped, "Yes, chickpeas!"
As his new-found friend Amber begins to drift back into herself, Biter finds himself battling once again that age-old foe of boredom.
A soft smack snaps his steel-trap instincts into focus, and Biter turns to follow the sound back to it's source… Dar an dar akec Hal'daarec Dralkhec? Biter thinks, and, as always, curiosity gets the best of him.
Padding over on barefeet, Biter yanks out the chair next to Olivier and hops up to stand in the seat, eyes level with the White-hair's own. He stands for a second, waiting for the old dude to look over… Huur och molkac rhaan rhec or draar.
Biter leans in over into the Old Man's face, palms resting on the table inches in front of the geezer's chest, and looks sincerely into Olivier's eyes from about 2 inches distance.
"What is this 'yesjikpeez', och okaan?"
"Wha... wh... whaaaat? Oh my... Goodness me, you speak!"
Olivier leans in toward Biter, with an expression that combined curiosity, humor, amazement, and a certain amount of gastrointestinal distress.
"Chickpeas? Oh, it's nothing, my little sharp-toothed marsupial. I thought for a brief moment that I had stumbled yet again upon the solution to my problem. You see, originally I had proposed a hummus-based variant to the midpoint of friction, but as it turned out, I had failed to account for the herring fractals that promote so much of the absorption of angst. Oh wait! That could be it! Why hadn't I thought of sprinting alone the force genus line before!?!??"
With that, he began scrawling even more hastily, flecks of powdered coal dancing on the table to the rhythm of his manic writing.
Lureene walks over to Thomdril's table, and says in a sultry voice, "What would you like, stranger?"
As Thom reaches down to wring some of the foul smelling liquid from one of his still-soaked pant-legs, an angelic voice tugs at him like the mind-addling song of the Siren, and Thom begins to look up to answer.
"Yes ma'am, i'd… uh… "
Perfectly manicured feet support long, luxurious but firm looking legs
"well… that is… *gulp*… "
which end in perfectly rounded hips below a waist just the right size for holdin'
".. I just… was gonna… "
which resides just below the most perky yet balanced set of…
"… uh … i … "
and resting on those creamy soft shoulders and swan-like neck is the face of an absolute angel…
"well, that is.. um… "
… wait, back up, were those... WINGS?!
"… I'll just… um… have what he's having." Thom abashedly stammers, eyes scrambling to remain on her face.
"Chickpeas? Oh, it's nothing, my little sharp-toothed marsupial. I thought for a brief moment that I had stumbled yet again upon the solution to my problem. You see, originally I had proposed a hummus-based variant to the midpoint of friction, but as it turned out, I had failed to account for the herring fractals that promote so much of the absorption of angst. Oh wait! That could be it! Why hadn't I thought of sprinting alone the force genus line before!?!??"
Half way through this explanation, Biter's eyes glaze over, roll back in his head, and in a mock faint, he tumbles from his chair and crumples on the floor, banging his (apparently) hard head on the way down.
"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ"
Lureene watches the ogling of the young farm boy patiently, having seen it before many times. She replies smoothly, "One glass of wine, coming up." She returns with the exact vintage the hooded elf was drinking and drops it on his table, giving him a wink in return.