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In walks a vision. Sheliantha has long, lustrous hair shimmering as she flows. Once she stops, her legs are inside the powder blue skirt, but once she struts again, they are quite the view. Her smile is a glorious thing, enhanced by the light smattering of tattoos on her face. She moves to the bar, and whispers softly to the bartender, whose eyes light and he almost drops the glass he is polishing.
"You sure, Miss? All drinks tonight? I have some thirsty customers here."
"I am sure, my good man. I am buying for everyone this evening. If your customers are as thirsty as you say, you look to make a tidy profit indeed." The smile glows once again, and a purse slides over, heavy with the metal it contains.
The sorceress turns, leaning back with elbows on the bar, and looks over the clientele, blue-within-blue eyes surveying the crowd that she expects to grow.
"No fightin'? All weapons'll be peacebonded? Troublemakers? The 'ell kind'a shag pub is this?"
The lady eagerly snaps up a free bitter ale is a vision of a dirty blonde, an elegant avatar of grit and trouble. Her hair is in a simple ponytail, and her delicate frame is perfectly veiled by a shirt and pants.
"Thank'ya for the drink, dear, but by 'everyone,' you seem to have caught two of us. Sounds like the boys saw the 'No Animals' rule and moved on."
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Her shrug to Ingrid makes her hair ripple and glint in the light. "If the boys moved on, it's their loss. -I- intend to meet some people, and have a good time, and if it is just a few of us, so be it." Her finger wags to the barkeep, and something green and blue in a tall glass is pushed towards her. "Or, I can keep pushing the bartender to his limits of creativity."
The eyes that rake up and down the tiefling are entirely blue, with the the iris darker than the rest, but the pupil darkest, almost a midnight hue. "Good evening to you, our host. Forgive me if I pry, but I sometimes become too inquisitive. I've been told that I should have been a wizard, on occasion. I'm Sheliantha, and I know you are up on your Chronicles, so you've read of me and my exploits in Varisia and Belkzen."
She presses up from the bar, and seems to float just off the floorboards, perhaps making her look a bit taller than the five-foot-eight frame she has. "I would never have thought Besmara to be a pickpocket, but then, I'm no expert. Do be careful just whose pocket gets explored by fingers, though." She covers her mouth as a rich alto trills a laugh. Her eyes go back to Ingrid, still filled with merriment.
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Saetria pushes open the door and enters the bar. Hazel-colored hair is pulled back into a neat braid that stops at the middle of her back, a leather tie securing the ends Today she is wearing a blue tunic and dark brown pants, complete with study black leather boots.
Around the half-elven woman's waist is a belt with a small dagger and a rapier. The battered leather satchel is also making a reappearance, the wooden flute case sticking out of it.
"Any chance of a hot meal here?" She ventured, her eyes seem a darker blue in the bar's lights. "It's been a very long day..."
Elbows on the bar, the blonde Galtan is obviously no stranger to mugs of ale. "Oh, there oughta be plenty of interesting people who drift by, but desirable?" she tilts her head in the direction of the spectacled mongrel. "You're gonna be buying a lot of drinks for little benefit."
"Of course, ladies... they're also trained in other arts. In case no one who wanders in catches your lovely eyes."
"What kinda place are you runnin' here? The Salon girls know about this?"
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"Of course, ladies... they're also trained in other arts. In case no one who wanders in catches your lovely eyes."
Saetria flushed to the tips of her ears at that, and then made a beeline for a empty seat at the bar. Making sure the satchel with its' precious cargo was inbetween her feet, she pulled over a menu and began to study it.
"Where do you think I hired them?" he chuckles. "Though, some are Arsheans too..." he adds, then winks and grins like a wolf.
"You've got a rather low opinion of lady Pathfinders, then," she replies, after another swig of ale. "Or is this the makings of some twisted fantasy of yours?" she asks, her face taking on an icky expression. "You thinkin' we're going to start humpin' each other over the bar or somethin'?"
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I am Dr. Phil Moore Love, counselor confidant and oh so furry Rakshasan Tiefling. I check my club and spear with my lovable porter Montplier, just stand across the street there dear. I dislike weapons, but undead have no place in the world of the living. Someday I may be able to change their minds until then..... its unwholesome violence. Peace is much preferred. Joy is better. And wine!
Oh yes please the red vintage, seems Chelaxian in origin...don't ask how they prepare it, but the result is delicious. I spent a few years in that place, they didn't appreciate my complexion....he drifts off.
A massive half-orc strides through the doorway, not realising he took a chunk out of the door frame. He looks around at the odd assortment. "I heard somun was throwin around free drinks." His face splits into a tusked grin. "This could get 'spensive."
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Pushing open the heavy oaken door, a young half-orc, barely into adulthood, awkwardly made her way into the establishment. From her pack stuck out a quarterstaff and a sphere awkwardly bound together in some obvious form of a peace bond, along with various other nick-knacks, including a small statuette of an owlbear made from clay. Although not the most stunning woman to walk into this bar tonight, Roseline had turned her share of heads when walking through the marketplace earlier today.
Rose's thick, wavy brown hair was pulled back into some semblance of a braid, and her golden eyes sparkled with barley controlled excitement. As she gave the room a quick once-over, she fought hard to contain the grin that wanted to appear. After all, how many stories did her Papa tell her that all started in a tavern? Roseline had a slight under-bite, caused by two small tusks that poked out from her lips no matter how hard she tried to cover them. Along her jaw, she had a series of white tattos in the shape of hand prints that popped from her gray skin.
As she shuffled her way to the bar, she made a swishing noise with every step, due to the warm, brown furs she wore. After a few moments of wrestling her pack off and placing it down gingerly on the floor, Rose spoke.
"Excuse me, comrade?" A thick Irrisen accent flowed from her, making her speech pattern choppy, "Could I bother you for a hапиtок, er.. a drink?" She requested from the barkeep, having to stop occasionally to search for the proper term. As she pulled out a small amount of silver and gold, Roseline slid it across the bar, before settling down into a bar stool.