"No, mama, no..." Arryn mutters in his unconscious stupor.
Your accent is fascinating, where are you from?"
'Tis no wher ye comafom, bu'wher ye goin', the tails'atale. Tha skees muh'ome. Tha skee an' a beaut offaship calla Wisp'rah. Ah, she'sa finnes ves ina cloods, she'es. May'ap yoo d'lika seer somteem? Ayecana range it, see'ens Ima cap a nenall.
'Tis no wher ye comafom, bu'wher ye goin', the tails'atale. Tha skees muh'ome. Tha skee an' a beaut offaship calla Wisp'rah. Ah, she'sa finnes ves ina cloods, she'es. May'ap yoo d'lika seer somteem? Ayecana range it, see'ens Ima cap a nenall.
That is very kind of you, maybe I will take you up on that offer...sometime."
"So a pitcher of ale, and what flavor?"
"Avyeh enne Mrorish blag? Tho 'nee thin wet n stron' uldoo."
"Avyeh enne Mrorish blag? Tho 'nee thin wet n stron' uldoo."
"I believe we have a keg of Mrorish Black in stock. And we have tabac as well. I don't get much travel from Eberron, these days. Perhaps you would consider delivering a shipment of their fare, when next you pass this way?"
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Gyldyr takes out another coin, sighs, and asks Lureene for another glass of wine. His familiar flutters onto his shoulder and talks to him in elvish.
Gyldyr takes out another coin, sighs, and asks Lureene for another glass of wine. His familiar flutters onto his shoulder and talks to him in elvish.
elvish/perception 15
"By tha Nor'sta! Are we goonta gamblar sita boot starn inta ar moogs?"
Lureene brings over another glass of wine, but she doesn't understand the chatter from his familiar. However she can see he is getting drunk.
She leans over and whispers into his ear, "You may want to slow down there, hun."
|
|
Gyldyr takes out another coin, sighs, and asks Lureene for another glass of wine. His familiar flutters onto his shoulder and talks to him in elvish.
elvish/perception 15
1d20+7
** spoiler omitted **
Gylgyr's cowl is still down, but Mors can see two deep blue elven eyes. And though the wizard's face is shaded by his hood, it still looks suspiciously dark... and was that a wisp of white hair?
Lureene looks over at him and notices his heritage. She hides a smirk, but does not say anything.
Gylgyr's cowl is still down, but Mors can see two deep blue elven eyes. And though the wizard's face is shaded by his hood, it still looks suspiciously dark... and was that a wisp of white hair?
Realizing that Gyldyr might have reason to hide his heritage, (after all look how everyone reacted when Biter walked in) Mors dismisses his concern. Race, creed and politics hold no weight in here. All come equal to Limbo - the high-born and the low; the mighty and the meek. Exotic mercenaries, farmboys, and even excitable goblins, provided they don't chew the place (and patrons) to ribbons.
"There you go, sir." Mors places a frothy mug of dark ale on Keane's table, with a large pitcher of the same. "And a deck of cards for you and the Elven gentleman."
Lureene finishes seeing to everyones drinks and then stops by the bar and helps herself to a glass of wine. Then she moseys over to at Amber's table once again and sits down, taking a sip of wine.
"Waiting tables is hard work."
Just when everything seems to be calming down, a towering half-orc lumbers in, in a hodgepodge of scavenged cloth and hide armor, and a jagged, wicked-looking kukri at his belt. He sports a necklace made of herdsmans wire, the barbs dulled and weathered, and threading a grim adornment of shriveled leather shapes that may have once been ears. Most have the standard rounded shape, but a few bear the telltale points of elven trait. His beady black eyes and greenish brown skin leave no question of dominant orcish heritage, softened slightly by the suggestion of a human ancestor, perhaps a few generations distant. He stops abruptly; it was apparent that he was not expecting a mostly-human crowd. He pauses for the briefest of moments, as if to turn back the way he came, but instead he looks around the room menacingly and takes a distinctive sniff of the air. He shudders with a grimace, but walks up to the bar with an air of challenging superiority, roughly bumping into Thomdril and Praxim, who in turn is knocked into Biter.
Locking his beady eyes onto Mors, behind the bar, he bellows, "Blood Grog, ooman!"
In an intriguing display of either ambidexterity or insanity (depending on one's own point of view), Olivier sips from the cup of tea held in his left hand while his right continues to scrawl.
At one point, his eyes open even wider - and he puts the tea down and starts to scribble even faster, with the volume and speed of his muttering increasing as well.
"...and then we divide that participle by the coefficient of the mass of chivalrous hieroglyphs, which will yield a flawless lavender yearning... yes! And that resulting missive could be boiled under glassy systemic syllogisms until the ibex and the acacia juxtapose their respective tendencies toward anemia under the influence of concatenated juvenile eights... of course! From there we can bribe the undercarriage of polished molar bearings..."
Any who look in his direction will notice that Olivier has long since filled his sheet of parchment with his illegible notes, and has taken to writing on the table itself. At this point, he's already filled almost a third of the table's surface with seemingly incoherent markings.
"Waiting tables is hard work."
"Biter is taking that to be apologizing for calling Biter trash. Biter is not being without gra… graci… um…" his dark green head swivels over to Mors, "Dar an molkac duur dhuur haleraan?*"
:
Shrugging his powerfully tiny shoulders (and spying the ancient scholar running seriously low on writing space), Biter shakes his head in confused resignation.
Why would Och Okaan want to lose so many words from his head? Though maybe he'll think more clearly if he does clear some of that space out, he thinks as he hops down from the counter, finds an empty table, and drags it over next to Olivier. Then Biter moves to stand behind Olivier's chair and grabs the back two legs in his powerful hands and braces his legs, apparently waiting for something.
After a few seconds, Olivier's writing hand slows as he takes a sip from his warmed mug, and in an instant, the goblin, in a mighty display of warrior-like charity, shifts Olivier's chair so he's now facing a blank canvas for his musings - a loud groan filling the room as the chairlegs scuff up the wooden floor. The old table filled with cryptic drawings and equations now to Olivier's left shows only one spot of spilled warm beverage from the old one's mug.
Biter barely notes the entrance of the probably stupid orc-thing.
After a few uninterrupted moments of concentrated scribbling, Olivier's open wider than most would think possible, and he spews a mouthful of tea in a bubbly cloud of caffeinated vapor.
"Wha..what? My single sheet of parchment has been suddenly transmogrified into a sheet of parchment and a pair of square wooden tables!? Fantastic! It's as though the very laws of universe hold no sway in this wondrous establishment!"
He looks up and spies Biter standing nearby.
"Well, hello there, my diminutive friend. I do sincerely hope that you were unscathed by the impromptu display of my ersatz oolong breath weapon...hee hee heeeee *gasp* *choke* *cough* heeeeeee!"
"Waiting tables is hard work."
Locking his beady eyes onto Mors, behind the bar, he bellows, "Blood Grog, ooman!"
"Well it's certainly been a long time since anyone has ordered Blood Grog - I believe I do have a bit of it, though."
Mors wanders into the cabinet, and after some time, returns with a large leather wineskin and a pale lumpy bowl, which he places before Nolg.
Olivier looks up from his feverish work, and looks around curiously.
In a voice significantly more clear, strong, and vigorous than any have heard from him as of yet, he declares, "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath bore me on his back a thousand times, and now how abhorr'd in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it."
As quickly as it faded, the glaze comes back over his eyes, and he mutters, "Young lass, might I trouble you for another oolong? Thank you, my dear."
With that, Olivier returns to his furious scribbling...
Lureene had barely sat down before the old strange man had spoken up. she gives in inward sigh. This is why I hate waiting tables, the patrons never give you a rest. I would much rather be dancing and I know I could charm the pants and skirts off everyone here, especially that farm boy, he he. But I think I will wait on that
She delivers his drink, and peers over at his scribbling. "Interesting stuff, care to explain what it all means?"
Avoiding both bodily and eye contact with the Limbo's newest (and smelliest) occupant, Thom makes his way to where the nearly incomprehensible dwarf and Praxim are beginning a game.
"So, what'r we playin' fellers?" He takes a seat if one is offered, nodding graciously. Then turns a grin over towards the elf. "I reckon ya could'a taken that overgrown cow turd. I can respect a man who knows when to stay his hand, though."
Then, under his breath, "Did the boy really mess his pants?"
"I do not believe it was of his own accord," Praxim replies to Thomdrin, nodding at the goblin.
Olivier hastily scrawled one more bit of unintelligible glyph on the table, and then he looked up to meet Lureene's eyes.
"Oh, my dear, well of course - and thank you so much for asking! In simplest terms, I suppose I am trying to recreate a memory. You see, all of us in the multiverse are interconnected by ethereal strands of amorphous bio-energy...and these strands are sometimes almost tangible to certain individuals with particularly intuitive sensitivities. Therefore, as you can see here," as he gestures excitedly toward one specific section of his illegible scribbling, "occasionally the precipitate of neurochemical processes of certain sentient beings experience a slight overlap, thus allowing for a minute amount of crossover, as you can see here." With his other hand he circles yet another obscure graphic.
"With this crossover, we can extrapolate minuscule, but measurable, elemental sharing of selected bio-electric impulses - what we commonly call thought or memory or the interpretations of sensory inputs, as clearly demonstrated here!" Olivier jabbed intently at what appears to be a crude drawing of a winged turtle with numerals pouring out of its ears.
"Thus, as you can now see, I am preparing to recall a memory I had some 83 or 4 years ago by accessing the psycho-chemical flux that exists between the brain farts of all thinking creatures. Ooooo, pardon my indelicate language, my dear... and no offense intended, my large greenish-brown friend."
Satisfied that he has made everything clear, Olivier resumes his frenetic calligraphy.
Lureene listens wih fascination about the discussion, but has some difficulty in following his thought processes.
"Thanks much, cutie. I always liked guys who aren't afraid to show off their brains." she leans over and gives him a little kiss on the cheek.
"Oh my... well, my dear, it was most certainly my pleasure!"
Attempting to hide his blush, he bends quickly back to his work...
Mors returns with a large leather wineskin and a pale lumpy bowl, which he places before Nolg.
Nolg spits out his grog with a loud harumph. He grabs Mors roughly by the collar and lifts him off the ground, so they are eye to beady eye.
"You call this blood grog, ooman? I will not be insulted with this swill! I will have proper blood grog if I have to snap your bones and boil the marrow myself!"
The commotion at the bar brings Biter immediately out of his Olivier induced coma, and instincts snap him into motion.
Adrenaline pours through his body, fueling his legs to propel him up onto the table, then across the intervening space to the bar, his giant blade ripping free from his scabbard to hiss through the air and stop at the throat of the vile orc.
Through gritted teeth, a threatening hiss escapes. "Orc is wanting to be re-thinking what orc is doing. Orc is putting down the Mors… now."
At the stunted Ogruns' actions towards the barkeep Amber is standing fluidly, pistol drawn and pointed. While her free hand weaves and twists above the barrel. Instantly circles of glowing arcane power form around both her hand and the weapon. With the spell set she raises the pistol and draws a closer aim upon the Runty-Ogruns' head
"Put the man down slowly. I shan't repeat myself, lout." She warns, her eyes aglow with the same arcane fire that encircles her outstretched weapon.
Lureene stretches slowly to her feet, unfurling her batlike wings fully, and allowing her demonic auras to manifest fully. She glares at the offending orc, and says in a lethal voice, "It seems the only blood to be drunk will be your own, unless you PUT HIM DOWN!"
"Orc is wanting to be re-thinking what orc is doing. Orc is putting down the Mors… now."
"Put the man down slowly. I shan't repeat myself, lout."
A deep rumble builds in Nolg's chest, building from a sinister chuckle into a deafening bellow. Mwaaaaahh hhhaaaaahhhh haahhhhhh! INSECTS!"
He then throws Mors directly at the human woman, and draws his kukri as he spins to face the goblin.
Time to go squish, little bug!
"Biter is take down little orc, peoples! No worries for here!!"
"Heeeeeeere, orksie, orksie, orksie, orksie..."
"So be it, coward ooman-things! It will take all of you to stand against me! Raaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwrrrrrrr!"
Olivier looks up at the ensuing chaos and shakes his head. With a resigned sigh, he puts down his charcoal stylus and starts rummaging through his tattered satchel.
As he sifted through the sack's voluminous contents, he mutters to himself.
"Why does this always happen? Just as I'm beginning to make some progress, someone chooses to become a nuisance. Perhaps it's my fault for offending him by referring to brain farts? It's not like me to presume that his brain is functioning well enough to accomplish any sort of metabolic activity - shame on me! Now where is it? I know that scrollcase is in here somewhere... ah here it is. I wonder now, would our brutish monosyllabic misanthrope enjoy becoming a rabbit? Or perhaps he would prefer a nice 10-year hibernation? So many choices?"
Mors would be pissed if i got more blood in his inn...
Letting the adrenaline overcome him, the stalwart little gobbo heroically drops his weapon and dives in for a throat-choke, but his legs tangle in the dropped sword, throwing him off-target.
Initiative:
Praxim calmly stands and draws his elven curve blade as he moves around the bar to stand next to Mors. "Put him down."
Excited by the scuffle, Keane jumps to his feet, tossing his fists in the air, and lets out a joyous guffaw.
"Wahoooooooooooo! Nathaas wutompt aulkon a boot! Giffem wha'fore!"
Watches the melee progress with feverish gleam in his eyes, and a smile beaming on his face.
"Oooooh! Ah didna theen tha or'gadit inim! Nary toogis eddoff we thadun - ow'at elvis til oniz fee' is be on me!"
Praxim shudders at how close the vile creature had come to getting him. He turns to check on Mors. "Sir, please forgive me for bringing violence into your establishment."
"Nicely done," he says to Biter before heading over to a chair, sitting down, and laying hands on himself a couple times.
Olivier sighs yet again as he realizes the fight is over before he had the chance to choose an appropriate scroll. With a resigned shrug, the old man puts his scrollcase back into his worn and weathered satchel.
After looking around the room to be sure he wasn't mistaken, he turns his attention back to his table-top scrawling.
The rage ebbs from the goblin's crimson eyes, and his miniature body slumps in fatigue as he begins to climb back up to sit on the edge of the bar... gore-covered blade hanging limply from one white-knuckled hand.
"…*pant*……*huff*…….*pant*……*huff*…. Is Mors….*wheeze*…. being okay?" Between gasping breaths, Biter's eyes move to the towering elf, "Biter is…thanking Longears…. for his help… in biting the orc. *Pant….. pant* Biter is having…. *wheeze*… much debt to Longear…. *pant*… Can Biter buy…. Longears a drinkings?" Biter pauses to catch a few more breaths, and a weak smile splits his face, "Biter is liking… *huff*…. Longears' new paint-job."
Praxim shudders at how close the vile creature had come to getting him. He turns to check on Mors. "Sir, please forgive me for bringing violence into your establishment."
"No need, friend elf." Mors says, picking himself up off the floor, and straightening his vest. His eyes drift sadly to the fallen orc. "It was he, that brought violence here. You were merely defending me, and you tried to stop him without bloodshed. I hate that it became necessary, but he gave you little choice."
Gibbering with laughter, Keane rocks back and forth in his chair.
"Wuhah ba'ul! I canit bilee fit!" He goes into another fit of laughter.
Pointing at the fallen orc, he cheers, "Eek ont bilee fit ether! Eesbee sied eemslef!"
His laughter consumes him, until he falls back out of his chair onto the floor. This only makes him laugh harder.
Thom turns to look at the hysterical dwarf, but instead of laughter on his face, there rests a smattering of blood and what appears to be a finger's length of small intestine - which proceeds to slip down his cheek, roll off his lower lip and land in his lap.
"I'm'a be sick…" and with that, he bolts from his chair… headed back towards the john.
Lureene, lets her summoning spell dissipate, asit is no longer needed. She did toy with the idea of summoning it over the goblins head, but decided not to at the last moment.
She turns to Mors, and says"Don't expect me to clean up that mess!"
Praxim sighs and smiles faintly at Biter. "I think we both owe each other on that one, so why don't we call it a draw and buy each other a drinkings?"
"You fought that menace to protect our gracious host, not just for the sake of fighting. I do apologize directly for referring to you as 'trash'. Perhaps we can start over."