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Post by angwenriada on Mar 10, 2007 19:40:41 GMT -5
The man in the shapeless brown cloak ducks his head as he walks through the door of the dimly-lit tavern. He pulls off his thin-brimmed hat and shakes the last of Sigil's rain from it. Waiting for his eyes to adjust, he motions for a stein of the thick stout this tavern is famous for and sets his pack on a table. A moment later he sits with his back against the wall and looks around. For as late as it is, the place seems fairly empty for now...
OOC- This was my first post from the old wayfarer.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Mar 11, 2007 11:25:46 GMT -5
The common room isn't nearly as empty as once thought, from a first glance. True, most of the clustered tables and the stools arranged rank and file along the length of the bar, stand empty; yet pipesmoke lingers in the air above a table of nondescript greasy Godsmen seated near the hearth, playing some sort of a card game. Delightful smells of Dothion beef stew, freshly baked bread and roasting vegetables drifts from the kitchen, set back from the bar, contrasted by the odors of sweat, grease, smoke and bub. To be expected of a typical Lower Ward tavern near the Great Foundry, both the tables and floor look like they've seen better days, at once scuffed and stained, but they are clean, in good repair, and perhaps most importantly, free of bugs and vermin. It's common chant that the proprieter of this popular establishment keeps the case in good repair. And while it might not offer top shelf accomodation and gourmet cousine - nor is it exactly the place to be seen - the meals are filling, the beds are soft and warm, and the bub is cheap. The only other patron worth noting sits alone in the shadows cast by the staircase, hunched over her table drinking a thick, bitter black stout, and reading from a small black ledger. A large leather satchel of the same color and texture as the book occupies the vacant chair beside her. A damp, dusky grey cloak embroidered with the grim skull head of The Dead, drapes the scuffed raw pine. Drying mud clings to the ankles of her boots. Elegant black linen robes, styled to reflect the gothic tastes of some self-conscious, eccentric Cagers, drapes her slender, elfin frame; a simple black leather corset tightlaced over the bodice serves not only to enhance her gentle curves, but also to straighten her posture. Red trim, the shade of fresh blood, adorns the snug, fitted bodice, flared, fitted sleaves and full, flowing skirts. Black lace spills from blacker ribbon crisscrossing the upper portion on her sleaves, stopping above the elbow, and sweeps across her square-cut neckline. Both hands are sheathed in supple black leather gloves, and a gauzy black shroud hangs over her face, obscuring all but her flashing amethyst eyes, and the small fiendling horns that form points beneath the fragile cloth. Even at this distance, it's not surprising why no one wants to sit near her: both her visible faction symbol and the miasma of her sulphurous sanguine stench would drive anybody away. This fact didn't seem to bother the veiled young woman in the slightest. She seems far gone, thoroughly absorbed in her study. Her half empty tankard of stout sits neglected beside her. Only once she pauses, to massage the stiffness out of her neck, and slowly scans the room through veiled, sorrowful eyes...
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Post by angwenriada on Mar 11, 2007 19:58:46 GMT -5
The man is nondescript for the sort of beings that patronize taverns in the lower ward. With his bland, earth-coloured clothing, it almost appears that he's planned it that way. Before sitting, he'd removed the shapeless brown cloak, a pair of dark brown riding gloves, and an old, brimless hat and laid them on the table next to his pack.
The red sash across his chest, devoid of faction insignia, is the only colour on him. He wears worn-looking leather beneath the sash, but over a well-fitting white tunic. Brown breeches are tucked in at the leg to a pair of soft brown boots that are laced and re-laced in a style common amongst the footsoldiers and mercenaries of any of the many wars raging on the planes.
Around his waist is a belt sporting several pouches and purses, as well as a short sword on one side and a quiver on the other. The bow is strapped to the side of his pack, and though it seems to make sitting a little awkward, he doesn't remove any of the weapons, rather chooses to sit on the side of the chair so that the sword hangs freely and easily.
Satisified that his posessions are properly stowed away on the floor next to him, he leans back against the wall and scans the room with his eyes. Even as he lifts the tankard of stout to his lips, his eyes are constantly moving overtop of it, watching the other patrons, the door, and the window. As the door opens to admit some poor bubber from the rain of sigil, his hand slowly makes it halfway to his sword before he notices and places it firmly on the table. The fingers twitch occasionally on the wood .
He sits quietly, watching, occasionally running a finger over a fat scar on the back of his right forearm. He drinks slowly, and his brown eyes slowly lose the sharp suspicion of his entrance. His body may be at the table sipping a quiet pint, but it's clear his mind is elsewhere.
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Post by feq on Mar 12, 2007 9:23:58 GMT -5
The "poor blubber" seems undisturbed by the rain, and perhaps even leary to come in from it. However, his entrance into the room is breath of fresh air, bringing color and joy to what appears to be a drab and quiet room. Vatndir is a fairly tall man with sea weed-esq hair, which currently settled around his head in a seattle-esq grunge style doo. His greenishblue skin shone slighly, reminicent of the waters of the Hverghjelme, his faint scales accentuated by the rain. His eyes are nerid black though as the firelight hits them, they take an eerie red scheen. Unlike the drab grays, blacks and browns of the other patrons, Vatndir wears a red and white outfit over blue chain decorated with beautiful shells. To those with enough knowlege, it appears to mix of the robes of a yisgardian priest or scholor and a nerids swimwear. He adjusts his thin outter robe which he does not remove, despite being drenched in water.
He takes in the whole room quickly with a smile. When he sees someone go for a sword, he moves his hand to a very nice pearl hilted, shell bladded knife of his own construction, allowing this obvious action to hide his stealthfully going for a number of hidden throwing knives personally carved of shell, pearl or riverstone. When the hand moves away from the sword, he instead shifts to playing with one of the knives, though not in any sort of threatining manner.
While not as fond of the Ubiquitous Wayfarer as the Open Shell, Vatndir knew he couldn't spend all his time at his home away from home, or nothing would ever develop. He liked what he had imagined of this place anyway. Good food, decent company, pleasantly damp. He raised a webbed hand and stated. "I think I'll have an ale please."
Vatndir looked over the room, and selected a seat that would put him in eashot of everyone and everything. He sat down, waiting.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Mar 12, 2007 10:04:08 GMT -5
Wraith pays little heed to the newcomer, doesn't even seem to notice him in fact, nor does she see the apparent nervousness of the plainly dressed man, silently observing the taproom from his position against the wall.
She quaffs the last mouthful of her bitter, black stout, and rises from her seat; curiously leaving her satchel and ledger behind on the table with the empty tankard. She walks over to the dusty old harpsichord tucked away, untouched, in the corner, heedless of the stares and the snickering of the Godsmen.
With a light, almost reverent touch and a solemn expression on her exotic, veiled face, she trails her fingertips through the dust, and sits down on the worn padded bench. She lifts the lid, revealing the dusty ivory keys hidden beneath, but no one seems to protest, not even when she plays a few tentative, discordant notes. The barkeep throws a watchful glance her way, seeming to wonder what the silent Dustwoman is about, but says nothing, before returning to serving the patrons huddled around the bar.
Gaining confidence, and losing herself to all but the cadent music within - a corruscating darkness and light drawn from the depths of her soul, demanding voice and expression - Uathach begins to play a soft, mournful swansong.
Though the music of the harpsichord is unremarkable, plain even, the deep voice that follows in fugue is clear, exquisite and haunting; edged with the barbs of an innexpressible sorrow.
Perform: Sing 14 Perform: Keyboard 11[rand=1756069475929339452055435653354525823581793034569030862017166226607]
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Post by feq on Mar 12, 2007 13:50:25 GMT -5
Vatndir sets himself to enjoying the music and the drink, when he realizes what his mind has wrought. "I think I know that voice. And Q.E.D., I do!" Vatndir turnded quickly and looked at the harpsichord. "I do declare, I'm glad I thought to have Wraith play, or I never would have noticed her."
Abandoning his table, Vatndir quickly moved towards the harpsichord. Unlike Wraith, he left the table with all of his possessions and his drink. He closed, making sure to avoid interrupting her until she was done. The song was beautiful, as he'd imagined it would be, and thus, he knew better than to disrupt it. He took the opportunity to scan for Wraith's faction mates. He didn't imagine that anyone would threaten his life for talking to her this time, but looking around might keep his mind from wandering to such unpleasantries.
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Post by angwenriada on Mar 12, 2007 18:34:38 GMT -5
The man at the table watches as the dustwoman crosses the room, but as she sits, his wander back to the door and lose their focus. His mind must be somewhere else, though as she sings, his fingers lay still on the table, no longer twitching.
When the Signer looks about for the singer's factionmates, the man doesn't avert his eyes. He still watches the two of them, but there's no threat in his eyes. Not much of anything, really, as though he has studied how to look at someone without causing problems and is ordering his face into stillness.
It lasts only a minute before he reaches quickly down to his side and into one of the pouches on his belt. He pulls out a long-stemmed pipe, fills the bowl with some sort of thin, red leaves. A moment later, and a spicy aroma fills the air as the leaves of Acheronian ice peppers begin to smoke. He returns to his uneasy scanning of the room, watching the eyes and hands of the other patrons through the thin stream of smoke. He stays this way almost until the end of Wraith's playing, when he lifts his mug and realizes it's empty.
He waits for the music to fall into silence, and then speaks out in a loud, confident voice. "Friend Signer, what do you think I should have to drink next?" His face is still, but his eyes sparkle slightly, implying that the only battle he wishes to start is one of wits.
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Post by john on Mar 13, 2007 0:02:53 GMT -5
Lurches into the common room with all the grace of... a not particularly graceful fellow. His raven-like helm and brown eyes favor the gothic woman with a scowl, and then set on the Signer with practiced neutrality.
"I can only blame you for the weather, Fishy. I fear I shall soon rust because you imagined it would be a good day to rain."
The words are a basso growl from the little man, and he takes a seat nearby him, across from him if possible, shifting his sword over his shoulder slightly to allow him to sit properly. He makes faint clanking noises.
"Ale." he rumbles, at the nearest bar-person or serving folk, and then goes silent, watching the man address his good luck charm while smoking. His eyes narrow at the self-indulgent habit, and his lips, exposed by his ironmongery, twist into a snarl of distaste.
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Post by Stix on Mar 13, 2007 0:41:18 GMT -5
(Timing-wise, this scene will be taking place between the last meeting in the Open Shell and the departure of everyone onto their separate plot arcs -- which was only supposed to be a day or so, but we'll call it a week, since it doesn't matter. )
(Reiterating: after Open Shell, before Thrassos/the Mortuary.)
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Post by feq on Mar 13, 2007 8:54:21 GMT -5
When the music stops, Vatndir approaches the Dustwoman. "My dear, I imagine that was the finest singing I've heard outside my own Skald in a long time. I imagine singing that seriously would make you somewhat parched. I think it would be best if you joined me in a drink."
Hearing the friendly words from the table, and a familiar voice from the door, Vatndir turned slightly. "Ah, the joys of the mind. Thinking of both old and new friends at the same time. Really incredibly timed." Vatndir moved towards the table, trying to pull the dustwoman with him by sheer force of personality; a wink, a smile, and a gesture, though no actual contact.
"Well my new friend, it appears my old friend has just ordered us all Ale. Quite kind of him, but thats the sort of man I imagine he really is." Sitting down, Vatndir turned to the staff, "Yes, the Ale John ordered would be lovely. I imagine we'll need five, as I imagine our good skald always shows up when free ale is offered."
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Post by john on Mar 13, 2007 9:13:47 GMT -5
As usual, caught off guard by Vatndir's audacity, John makes a few choking noises and then says, "Remember, in this world, nothing is free. Not even an ale. I certainly hope that the skald shows up to entertain me for my trouble."
He shifts in his seat, obviously uncomfortable, and takes out the money to cover the five ales in a slow fashion that can only be defined as miserly. It is as though the jink required to cover the bub is his own lifeblood. In a metaphorical way, perhaps it is, for the Fated. His hands are a bit claw-like, reflexively clutching the cash until he hands it off to the serving person, begrudging every second of the gesture.
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Post by edisoncarter on Mar 13, 2007 10:20:59 GMT -5
No matter who you are or where you're from, it's very hard not to notice Nilou. Midnight blue from head to hoof (well, the hooves are black edged with silvery white), and a cascade of platinum curls artfully gathered up about her head, and warm, golden eyes that shine with a warmth so genuine it's astonishing, she clatters gently in from the sulfurous mists in the Lower Ward, trying to shake the stench out of her silk brocade longcoat.
"Barmy gits--no one ever believes me when I say it hurts when a hoof raps a toe sharply on a cobblestone. When I say no touching, I mean no touching," she mutters, unslinging her backpack, arranged as it is like a merchant's, with cases and ties and tatters all around.
Her fingers are quick, agile, and unnaturally long--and so are her teeth. No, no, they're just long. Not quick or agile. But they're quite white, and make for a stellar grin, much like a crescent moon on a cloudless night.
"Get myself some firewater this time around, I tell you--Vat?" she says, surprised for only an instant to see the water genasi. "Ah--ale! How eminently thoughtful of you, as always."
She comes to sit next to her friend, placing her pack at her feet just so, in case prying fingers are looking for prizes this evening--they'l have to get past hooved legs, first.
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Post by john on Mar 13, 2007 19:36:54 GMT -5
Grunts a greeting at Nilou, somewhere along the line of "Hello." but half-muffled by his helm and chin, which is lowered almost into his chest.
He queries her, "How are you?", lifting his head to view her for just a moment before going back to his hang-dog slump.
He reaches into his cloak, and pulls out a cup, and a few dice, setting them in there for a moment, and begins to seemingly play dice with himself, shaking them and setting them on the table. His expression changes from the typical sullen frown to something almost resembling a smile for a moment, which is even more horrific on his homely little face.
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Post by angwenriada on Mar 13, 2007 23:32:41 GMT -5
The man doesn't see to mind when the Signer turns to his comrades. He shrugs and scratches his chin with the stem of his pipe. At the sight of so many people entering the inn at once, however, his eyes narrow and resume roving around the room. Too many bashers to keep track of. He leans back against the wall for a moment, thinking, before he remembers his empty tankard.
Putting his legs up on the empty chair across the table from him, he points to the mug as he catches the eye of a servingman. Another stout is soon on the table in front of him, another copper or two gone from his purse. He begins to lift the frothy brew to his lips and pauses halfway, looking into the foam. He looks at the back of the departing servingman, his eyes narrowing slightly, and then he sets the drink on the table.
He leans back against the wall, puffing on his pipe and filling the room with the spicy aroma, and frowns at the drink. His eyes have gone still again, staring through the mug and floor to somewhere, and likely sometime, else.
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Post by feq on Mar 14, 2007 7:09:59 GMT -5
"Double Fisting, eh?" Vatndir says to his new compainion, handing him the Ale John purchaced. "I think thats admirable. I'm sure I'll be glad I thought of all this." Sitting so as to avoid the smoke, Vatndir adjusted his wet cloak, shifting damper portions ont his body, and dryer portions towards the floor.
"So, as I imagine you've noticed, I'm Vatndir. This is the Skald, Nilou, and the Skjoldr, John. I imagine there is somehting you prefer to be called?" Vatndir glanced at each companion in turn, leaving a pause for Wraith. If she joined, he nodded at her, but held her name, as he imagined these two knew eachother. If not he muttered "I hate when I think against what I want" and waited for his mind to reveal the man's name.
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Post by edisoncarter on Mar 14, 2007 9:49:16 GMT -5
"Still into the monosyllables, eh? Can't be stressing the brawn overmuch," Nilou says to John. "I'm fine, aside from the usual grope or two. Been there. done that, no need to do it again. Hoof to the phalanges does wonders. Makes me feel better, too."
It's clear that she's about to do something against her better judgement. "How...how are you, John?" she asks, her face a mask of politeness.
When Vatndir introduces his friends, Nilou flutters her fingers jauntily when her name is mentioned.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Mar 14, 2007 10:06:15 GMT -5
Wraith's mournful song ends, her alto voice trailing off long moments after the final harpsichord note fades away.
She sits in silence, motionless on the threadbare padded bench, lost to the torrent of stifled emotion that sweeps through her. It seems that she neither sees, nor hears, Vatndir, the grumbling of John, the peery observation of Angwen, and the flashy arrival of Nilou. Her fingers twitch, absentmindely stroking the old, discolored ivory keys before she lowers the lid again, and lays her palms flat on the scratched, dusty mahogany.
She says nothing. Her shoulders shake in the dim hazy light, wracked with the soft, quiet sobs of an innexpressible grief... stirred by her inner discord, and the power of her voice.
She doesn't know why this happens, can't explain how her own sad music could move her so profoundly, when in years gone by it helped to quieten the turmoil of her soul... not provoke it.
Ultimately, it was the loss of Aerin that afflicted her so. She didn't eat properly, often had trouble sleeping at night. When she did, her restless slumber was haunted by the surreal ghosts that lingered, even after the shadows were long since chased away by the Cage's hazy morning light.
This was the first time she'd sung... truly sung in public, in the last few weeks...
"If there is for certain but one thing I could have in this life - one thought to reverse my torment of months gone by - then it would be the safe return of my son." She says without warning, in a jaded monotone edged with grief and regret. There is no question as to whom the rhetoric is directed at, yet her tone is neither angry or bitter.
Wraith rises slowly from the bench, biting back a grimace of pain, and shuffles back to her table to collect her few treasured possessions, neatly stowing the thick tome away in her satchel again. She hesitates a moment longer, and with her back still to the Genasi Signer, she mutters at length. "But I know the multiverse doesn't work that way."
Slinging the heavy satchel over her shoulder, she looks as though she's about to leave, when she pulls up a chair, and sits down at the table near Angwen, but opposite Nilou and John. If the pipe smoke bothers her, she doesn't show it... then again, she'd smelled far worse in the Hive, on a sticky, warm, rainy day.
She observes the conversation bounce back and forth for a moment, doesn't protest the offer of ale, and softly murmurs her thanks to Vatndir, John and the serving girl who brings it to her. Her eyes study their faces, noting their familiarity.
Angwen she knew already - not quite with the same closeness as her long term friend and fellow faction-mate, Morrison - and the others she recalled from the Open Shell. How could she forget the sour faced, miserly Taker she once, none too politely, told to "Bar that!", or the grinning Signer her creepy superior had calmly - and casually - threatened?
She stares down at her hands, clasped around the dented pewter tankard before her, deep in thought, before she finally removes her veil. The pale, faded face beneath hasn't changed in the last week, though she seems a little more worse for wear; her eyes are tired, dull and bloodshot, and the shadows have deepened, further accentuating her gothick tearstain tattooes, and sad, haunted expression.
"I am Uathach... a surgeon, a healer, a threnodist, a spellslinger, a mortician." She mumbles at length to no one in particular, and fiddles uneasily with the ribbons and lace adorning her black robes. She raises her tankard to her lips for a long pull on her ale, and lowers it to the table again. She wipes the foam away on the back of her glove
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Post by Stix on Mar 14, 2007 15:44:52 GMT -5
The few Godsmen milling about the place in the after-dinner hours seem mostly relieved that the dirge-like song has come to an end, though it does appear to have stirred some empathy from one or two of them. A hulking, insectoid mezzoloth sits alone at one table, unblinking and disinterested.
A few murmurs begin to circulate in the sparse crowd... some compliments, but more complaints. "Howl it out at the Gatehouse, berk." "Very moving -- even she couldn't hold back tears!" "She's no Black Marian." "One of these days, we'll get a real musician in here." "Wonder if she'll play again." "Reminds me a' gran'mum's fun'ral... can I get 'nother over 'ere?"
The door is suddenly shoved open, clearing the way for a man to enter. His sharp features, cleanliness, and friendly disposition leave him quite easy on the eyes; his quick, fanged grin and the thin spined ridges on the backs of his hands betray his fiendish heritage. The shoulder of his light leather cloak is branded with the symbol of the Athar -- another common sight on this side of the Cage.
Approaching the bar with a steady, confident stride, he makes his request. "Anything you can recommend from the kitchen?" he asks of the bartender. "I'd really like a --"
"Unh-unh. Taps only, berk. Kitchen's closed," says the hook-nosed barman with a scowl.
"Alright," the tiefling starts in a conciliatory tone, hoping to dissuade hostilities. "Anything from Whitten House?"
"You want Whitten House, you go find it in the Bazaar your own sodding self," the human spits back, scratching his patchy blonde beard.
"Look, I don't want any trouble," the Defier adds quickly. "Can you just... pour me something that won't kill me?" With a defeated smirk, he sets down a silver piece and waits for his mug to be filled. Once served, he promptly stands and turns about, not worrying about his change -- he probably wouldn't get it anyway. Taking a few steps away from the bar, he ambles around the place, sipping and eavesdropping.
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Post by john on Mar 14, 2007 18:21:43 GMT -5
John responds first to Nilou, a change in his tone obvious, as his sentences become longer and more complex. "Things are profitable, and people are paying their taxes, so I am well. What is a phalange? I can guess it's a body part from context, but the.... specific part escapes me."
His eyes narrow, obvously trying to place a phalange, and looks over at Vatndir as though he were made of this undefined part of the body. "Vatndir, what is a Skjoldr?", he asks, struggling with the pronunciation of the unfamiliar word.
And a third question, this one directed at the male newcomer, the smoker. "Do you play dice?" He shakes his cup, not the ale-cup but the dice cup, to punctuate his question. He pays little attention to the Athar or Wraith for now, unless they take him up on issue of gaming with him.
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Post by angwenriada on Mar 14, 2007 20:38:34 GMT -5
The man had grown quiet and still as the tavern quickly filled, with the Bariaur and the Athar man, the noisy God's Men in the corner. Though something sour crossed his face at the first of their rude comments, he said nothing- public performance means taking the chance of public slander.
When the strange, metallic man speaks to him, it's as though he undergoes an instantaneous change. His deep brown eyes no longer shine with suspicion, and his face seems to open up.
"I don't know how to dice, but I do so love to gamble." He says, putting his pipe out with his thumb. If singeing it hurts, he doesn't show it, and he stows the pipe in a pouch on his belt. Anyone looking closely will notice that, for a person who seems so squared away, one of his belt pouches is on upside down.
The man stands and approaches John. "How do you play?" His smile shows straight, perfect teeth and there's something instantly confident and jovial about him. A different man from a moment ago, he asks, "and what shall we play for?"
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