The Publican's page

A tall Half-Orc woman with bright red hair and shiny new Full Plate walks into the bar. She grins confidently, the torchlight sparkling on her small tusks. "Huzzah, bartender! Give me some of the good stuff - I am celebrating. I made friends with a Bear God!"

"You mean Jorge?" says the publican looking up from wiping the dirt more evenly across the bar with his damp and dirty rag. "When you see him again tell him he still owes me twenty-two gold pieces."

She looks around for a burly person to arm wrestle with, then overhears the Taldan man's suggestion for copious drinking. When the bartender brings her her drink she will gently place a hand on his arm and wink "Leave the bottle" then go join the Son of Cayden for some good old fashioned alcohol poisoning.

"Just go easy on the singing, alright." It's not a question.

There's a loud bang from the door.

"Oh, for the love of-"

"Here you go my lord Grey, three cups of tea for you the lady and the lizard."

"Sorry, who?"

"Sure, friend."

"See? What did I say?" says the Publican shielding his words from the new arrival with one hand.

"Nah, that's about par for the course. Next they'll all be talking about how cool it would be if they all set off for the 'Gallows of Madness' or the 'Emerald Spire' or some other stupidly dangerous place. It happens all the time. Synchronicity. You get a pacel of Tengu, or magical vigilante girls, or Shelyn Worshipers, and inevitably someone thinks they should all go on some adventure together, because they are the 'same' somehow, but 'different'. You'll see. You hang around long enough and four or five more guys with odd facial hair, or obtuse hard-to-pronounce classes, or something else will wander in, and you'll find yourself invited on 'an amaaaazing adventure' somewhere that continues the theme. Just you wait." the Publican says while rubbing the dirt, and stains deeper into the grain of the bar with his dirty dishtowel. One stain doesn't seem to budge so he spits on it, and rubs harder.

"No blasters!" cries the barman, staring at a tableful of kineticists.

With a dab hand he quickly uses his damp, dirty towel to buff any of the blood, and germs into the bar-top veneer. "That's for the bar round back."

"We could probably just have the undine swallow each of the ingredients individually, and then just shake her up a bit."

"RUM!" A woman with teal skin and deep blue hair plops onto a seat. "And none of that cheap stuff. Coconut flakes and some pineapple, quick." She burps. "I'm still sober!"

"Sure. Just by drinking it, you would be watering it down enough." says the Publican. "We'll get you to at least 30-proof before the night is over."

“So this is the famous Flaxseed Lodge!”

The broad shouldered man planted his feet and placed his hands on his hips. A smile formed on his face as he looked around the main hall. A faded amethyst cloak obscured the blue and white uniform of the Steel Falcons.

“Not too shabby,”

"Sorry. I've been meanin' to shabby it up a bit." says the Publican smoothing out the germs on the bartop into a glossy veneer with his filthy wet rag.

A gnome with a comically large hat and a platypus perched on his shoulder walks in.

“Barkeep, a mug of your finest ale. And some water for my friend here.”

With that he finds an empty table.

"Sure." he says to the platypus not seeing the gnome behind the tall bar. "You one of them 'Nagaji'? I always pictured your folk as more reptilian, and less marsupial for some reason."

The tanned woman in ship-hand attire looked on as the man dipped again into the bowl of uncracked peanuts. "Sadly don't think they'll accept me for the more, classic events. But congratulations on your stunning twenty-thousandth announcement good crier."

"Oh, why not? Your classic mode Pathfinders are pretty open to race, class, and creed, not like those CORE orginalists."

"And it's actually 20,016 now. Not that anyone cares." says the publican smoothing out the germs over the bar top with a damp rag.

"Sheesh! If only four to six classic Pathfinder Society members, of levels first through fifth would help that guy with his sleeping problem. Aw geez, he's fallen into the peanut bowl again."

"Oh, and it's my 20,000th post. You know. In case you were wondering."

An Oread stomps into the lodge, covered with crystals of blue and purple, scythe on his back. Behind him follows a roc of similar size. As they come in, Bithrilmit feeds the roc some tasty dried meat.

Any quests for a new guy?

Freshly minted Oread druid here!

"Pet roc, huh?"

Firewing lets out a small "Rwraaawk!" in gratitude.

"Whatdya know, he can say his own name."

A well-dressed man steps into the lodge, delivering paperwork from his previous mission. While he keeps a serious attitude, he's clearly just beginning his career as a pathfinder. Hearing Bithrilmit's question, he replies-"Yes, I'm eager to go out again for another mission too. I hope the lodge isn't slacking or anything."

Level 2 Gunslinger ready to go into PbP!

"Mr. Anderson is waiting for you in the back Agent Smith."

"Sorry, sir. But you know goblins and signage. That there was an uncommon, 4th level, beer. Perhaps I could interest you in a lower-level Generican beer like Buddy Light™ for your next drink? I realize it looks like used beer but, guidelines is guidelines, sir. Oh, and if you think you're gonna belch try to turn away from anyone, or anything flammable. You know how goblins are sir."

"Hey buddy, why so blue?" says the publican evening out the dirt on the counter with a damp rag.