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Post by Stix on Mar 16, 2008 16:20:10 GMT -5
(Perhaps you've agreed to meet someone here on a whim, or were on business in the Lower Ward and found the tavern more tempting than the muddy streets and chill rain. Just remember what the place is known for.  ) The great door to the Red Pony slowly opens, spilling out light and the jaunty, inviting tune of a fiddler, filling the cold and muddy street outside with the smell of beer and roast beef. A bubber stumbles out from within, wearing an expression of far-too-drunken agony, wrestling with his inebriation in an effort to reach the gutter before losing his last few drinks. Crossing the threshold is an altogether unique experience. The tempting smell is laced with the odor of unwashed forge-workers, carters, and day laborers crowded into a warm building. Most of the wood in the bar is slick with buildup, into which has been carved some obscenity, joke, or caricature of every crass variety. The men and women boast of their accomplishments, dance and cheer like fools, and drink themselves into elated stupor. The bartender, a plump human with a wiry beard, regards the newest patron of the night with a spare glance as he wipes out a mug. " What'll it be?" |
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Post by john on Mar 16, 2008 19:04:52 GMT -5
John rumbles, "Some brandy if you've got it, Ale if you don't. Something warm...."
He shifts his weight, having just come ack from a successful tax-collection venture, but one that ended up well for the collected as well as him. No need for replevin or auction of a debtor's house this time. He didn't particularly care, but it means less paperwork for him long term. He sits down, exhausted from doing legwork in the City of doors all day, enjoying the feel of fatigue in his muscles from using them.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Mar 18, 2008 22:32:36 GMT -5
[This is assuming things play out favorably in the Hive on day 212, and that nothing else bad happens to Aerin between now and back then. I'll keep this as general as possible, because I understand that what happens then will have a huge impact on Wraith's immediate future.  ] Burdened as always, and driven inside by the sudden cold rain, Uathach stumbles through the door, juggling Aerin's weight on one hip, and her satchel on the other. Though the boy was emaciated after his ordeal, and she'd done her best to nurse him back to full health, he was thinner than he used to be... As was she. New worry lines were carved into her wan features, and now she took to wearing her gloves and veil full-time; if only to hide the healed chemical burns on both hands, and the long puckered scar across one cheek. Setting the tired boy down on his feet, and pausing to massage the kinks in her back, she dries his face and hair with her cloak, and ushers him to the bar; keeping him close to her side. "Two hot meals, cutter. Whatever is the house special tonight. Fresh goat's milk for my son, and wine or mead for myself, please." She says in a soft raspy voice to the portly bar tender, counts out the tarnished coins in front of him, and leads Aerin to a nice secluded corner by the fire. Immediately she sets to treating the blisters on the boy's feet, neglecting her own discomfort for the time being. They'd been walking all day, and now as nightfall set in, she felt it keenly in her aching bones, and weather-beaten frame. Time and hard work had taken it's toll on her... |
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Post by john on Mar 20, 2008 22:21:01 GMT -5
"I see you found the child." John observes, making this sound like neither a good or bad thing. He shifts slightly to glower at the small spawnling, trying to make sure it doesn't decide to be curious about him.
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Post by Stix on Mar 21, 2008 6:35:10 GMT -5
John rumbles, "Some brandy if you've got it, Ale if you don't. Something warm...." The bartender is quick to set a warm, foaming mug of brown ale in front of John. It's been watered down, and the flavor is unremarkable but not unpleasant. " You want something to eat, jus' ask." "Two hot meals, cutter. Whatever is the house special tonight. Fresh goat's milk for my son, and wine or mead for myself, please." " Fresh goat's milk?" the barman asks incredulously after the tiefling heads toward the hearth. Mumbling something about a fresh goat, he makes his way to the kitchen and returns shortly after with two plates, setting a lukewarm meal of beef, potatoes and sliced bread in front of the Dustman and her son. The meat is fairly fatty and the potatoes have been baked for a little too long, but it should at least make for a filling meal, and the aroma is very tempting. " We don't have those other things you want," he says, stifling a belch or hiccup. " Brown ale, red ale, stout, and a couple lagers is all we have room to keep on tap. You want a round for you and the boy?" |
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Post by john on Mar 21, 2008 20:55:28 GMT -5
"Consider me having asked." John sips the ale with his normal air of faint displeasure at the world, grimacing but not spitting or commenting on the taste, he hasn't moved from his normal expression in the slightest. He slides the coins across to the tender without wince or sign of pleasure, simply moving things from one balance sheet to another, as he often thinks of it.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Mar 22, 2008 3:19:55 GMT -5
"I see you found the child." John observes, making this sound like neither a good or bad thing. He shifts slightly to glower at the small spawnling, trying to make sure it doesn't decide to be curious about him. Uathach glances at John. She peers at him through the gauzy folds of her veil, not seeming to recognise him for a moment, and nods slowly in acknowledgement. The gesture seems pained, but if it bothers her, she doesn't show it. "Yes. Somethings have finally resolved themselves. Come, follow me. I have business I wish to discuss with you, John." The Dustwoman retreats to her table with her son close to her side, not even stopping to see if he follows or not. " Fresh goat's milk?" the barman asks incredulously after the tiefling heads toward the hearth. Mumbling something about a fresh goat, he makes his way to the kitchen and returns shortly after with two plates, setting a lukewarm meal of beef, potatoes and sliced bread in front of the Dustman and her son. The meat is fairly fatty and the potatoes have been baked for a little too long, but it should at least make for a filling meal, and the aroma is very tempting. " We don't have those other things you want," he says, stifling a belch or hiccup. " Brown ale, red ale, stout, and a couple lagers is all we have room to keep on tap. You want a round for you and the boy?" Uathach glances dispassionately at the bartender, gestures at Aerin to start eating, and resumes her seat beside the weary child. Immediately he digs into his meal, not seeming to care that the potatoes are overcooked, and the meat is of a poor quality; he scoops it up in his small hands s quickly as he can, and stuffs the food into his mouth. Uathach passes her knife to the boy, but he ignores it. Sighing, she unties her purse strings, and passes over a handful of tarnished coins that look like they've passes through so many hands, the stamps proclaiming where they were minted has since been rubbed away. She smiles faintly at the bartender, though the expression is mostly lost beneath the funereal garb. "My thanks, cutter. This should be sufficient to pay for the meal, plus two rounds of watered ale for myself and my son." She places the coins in the man's fleshy hand; the long bony digits are cold - dealthy so - even beneath the ancient supple leather concealing them. Glancing pointedly at what passes for entertainment tonight, she asks at length. "The man has little understanding of how to play his instrument." It isn't said with any disdain or arrogance, merely a certain knowledge of one who has pursued music and lyric for most of her life. "If you have no other bard available this evening, I would be interested in taking his place, once my son and I have eaten." She says with a polite nod. |
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Post by john on Mar 23, 2008 0:05:54 GMT -5
John grunts and follows her.
"Always in the mood for business." He comments, taking food with him, but takes care to avoid touching the child. Not his responsibility, now, and any concern he had for it when it was lost is instantly replaced by annoyance now that he knows it is back with it's proper owner.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Mar 25, 2008 0:18:05 GMT -5
John grunts and follows her. "Always in the mood for business." He comments, taking food with him, but takes care to avoid touching the child. Not his responsibility, now, and any concern he had for it when it was lost is instantly replaced by annoyance now that he knows it is back with it's proper owner. Uathach watches the sour faced little man take a seat opposite her and Aerin. Immediately the half-elf boy makes a face at John, obviously unsure of what to make of him, but not liking what he sees, though for now he remains in his seat, dutifully by his mother's side. Waiting until the bartender departs, the tiefling Dead removes her veil; exposing a blanched face disfigured by the puckered pink line that sweeps across high cheek and angular jaw, disappearing beneath her blue-black hair. By all accounts it looks as though she was caught on the wrong side of a knife blade, and the wound went septic very quickly. She tended to it herself, with obvious skill and care, but even now, months later, kit is still healing. Ignoring her food, Uathach looks John in the eye, and states rather brusquely. "Right, to business. I understand you still frequent the Blood Pit, no? If that be the case, don't place your life in the hands of any of the useless hacks around there. I find the very thought of the place unsavory. I'd sooner see it torn down than continue to senselessly claim the lives of others before their time. So..." She pauses to pick idly at a slice of bread. "Now that my child has been returned to me, I am in need of regular employment, and of course, the jink with which to secure stable accomodation. I will hire my services to you as a physician, spellslinger, scribe, translator and housekeeper, in exchange for a weekly wage, and some information regarding my father's whereabouts. I haven't forgotten our original exchange." She doesn't blink nor shift position during the monotonous tirade, giving the impression of a weathered statue, or even a corpse that is much too lifelike for it's own good. Her appearance has wasted away like a withered rose in recent months, stripped of what vitality remained in her lips, her cheeks, and her eyes. "What say you, John? Are you interested in maintaining your health as well as your purse?" |
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Post by john on Mar 25, 2008 9:23:21 GMT -5
JOhn looks at the tiefling, then at the boy, shrugs his shoulders and says, "Sure. But what wages do you need? Also, remember, I stay at the Hall of Records in a dormitory, so I've little need for a housekeeper, but I can afford to put you up someplace if you keep my body intact."
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Mar 26, 2008 0:29:21 GMT -5
JOhn looks at the tiefling, then at the boy, shrugs his shoulders and says, "Sure. But what wages do you need? Also, remember, I stay at the Hall of Records in a dormitory, so I've little need for a housekeeper, but I can afford to put you up someplace if you keep my body intact." Uathach doesn't blink as she eyes the Taker squarely across the scuffed tabletop, and idly runs a finger along the garish scar. "How much can you afford to offer, cutter?" She inquires after a moment of reflection. "I'm no hack, I know what my skills are worth, but I'm also willing to negotiate on something we can both live with." Picking up her knife, she cuts into her portion of beef, gesturing harshly at Aerin to stop making faces at John, and finish eating his food. Sulking, the tired boy complies without complaint. "I do apologise for my son's rude behaviour, John. He's been... unwell lately. There's been a few nasty bugs going around the city in recent weeks, but what's new in this smoke-choked bird-cage?" She mutters around a mouthful of meat, and wipes the grease from her chin with a crumpled napkin. Pursing her lips thoughtfully, she lowers the knife, tears a slice of bread in half, and dips one portion into the meat juices. "This reminds me of another idea I have in mind." Uathach chews on the meat flavoured bread; again slapping the tabletop to get the boy's attention, before he pokes his tongue out at John. "I don't intend to remain in the Cage for the rest of my existence. It's not good for my, nor my son's long-term health. I'm interested in setting myself up on the Land somewhere, once I have the jink of course. I'm also planning to conduct a little research on the Inner planes, and a short trip to Archeron and the Grey Waste, once I'm done with my business here... but I'll need a good swordsman to cover my back." |
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Post by Stix on Mar 27, 2008 15:41:19 GMT -5
(Since we didn't get to it yet in that thread: Aerin wasn't actually sick, he's completely traumatized.)
The bartender brings the drink orders and John's meal to the table. He pauses to grunt at his indigestion and pat his stomach with one hand before returning to the bar.
The fiddling stops abruptly as the song ends. Applause is loud but dies down quickly, and the sound of a faint scuffle near the entrance fill the gap before the musician starts up again.
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Post by john on Mar 28, 2008 21:20:28 GMT -5
"Geh. Acheron. The Grey wastes. What do want that's there? Except war. An eternity full of it, grim and bloody."
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Mar 31, 2008 20:23:23 GMT -5
"Geh. Acheron. The Grey wastes. What do want that's there? Except war. An eternity full of it, grim and bloody." Wraith thoughtfully chews on another chunk of bread dipped in meat juices, and runs her finger along the ugly puckered scar. She grimaces, and digs into the fatty beef with her knife; skewering the first piece she cuts away, and shovels it into her mouth. "Truth. But..." She points up at the ceiling with her knife, and stabs down into another rough slice of meat. "Much of interest can be found amongst the detritus of war. Broken bits of machinery, dissevered bodyparts, all of it can be poked through, recycled and studied by one such as I. It may be of no consequence to you, John - I don't expect you to understand - but to me..."She pauses thoughtfully, aware that the Taker may refuse her offer in favor of a less gruesome, and far more lucritive deal, and continues to cut and stab efficiently into her meal. "I wish to study the anatomy of the fiends, the modrons - yes, a sidetrip to Mechanus would be ideal - sift through the pieces sloughed off from Avalas, and construct a golem that is a fusion of flesh and metal. That's not all I have in mind though. But to achieve all this, I need a good strong swordarm and tactical mind to guard my back." A bright, almost manic light, flares behind the Dustman's purple eyes as she speaks of her future plans. |
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Post by john on Mar 31, 2008 22:36:53 GMT -5
"I think you're insane but I've no problem being a vulture on a battlefield."
He shrugs his shoulders, "I'm in I suppose. No more foolhardy than any of Fishy's ideas."
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Post by exile on Apr 1, 2008 17:35:46 GMT -5
“Bloody minded fools,” Hadrian muttered as he cast back the door of the Red Pony and forced his way into the crowded interior. Elbowing his way past vociferous patrons, the Bleaker slowly made his way to the bar. It has been a rather unsatisfying day so far to say the least, and he was in dire need of a drink to ease the pounding at his temples.
The source of his irritation was this: Verging on ten months ago, Hadrian had been placed in charge of the care of one of the Gatehouse’s many inpatients. This particular fellow, a human by the name of Lazarus, had led a rather unfortunate existence to date. From what fleeting moments of lucidity the man still possessed, Hadrian had managed to piece together a sad tale of a bitter life lived in the gatetown of Torch, followed by years of impressed service aboard a Tanar’ri man-of-war at the hands of a cruel boatswain. As though to illustrate that a soul burdened to the point of breaking by sorrow can always be subjected to further torment, his erstwhile masters ran afoul of the marraenoloths that plied the blood-tinged waters of the Styx and his vessel ran aground in the lightless catacombs of Pandemonium.
Though he had escaped the maddening halls to tell the tale, the experience had left him ruined, both physically and mentally. Now he spent most of his days alone in his fractured thoughts, haunting the Gatehouse gardens. On his better days he would occasionally let slip another detail about his past to whatever caretaker might be on hand to overhear his mutterings. The latest concerned another Stigian shipwreck of almost mythical status, the Bone Singer. The Bone Singer had been another Tanar’ri warship that had once enjoyed unparalleled success in the naval history of the Blood War, and which was said to have been lost thousands of years ago to the depths of the Madhouse along with a full compliment of crew and a cargo hold full of Baatorian plunder. Lazarus claimed to know where it was. But then again, he was barmy.
Despite some initial successes, Lazarus’ recovery had been long and difficult. That was why Hadrian had come here today, seeking advice from his colleagues at Harbinger House. What he had found instead was nothing short of despicable. The inmates at Harbinger weren’t being treated for their psychoses; rather they were being encouraged and indulged. ‘This incarnation is but a rung on the great ladder of ascension,’ he had been told. ‘Everyday they draw closer to achieving Truth. We strive to help them unravel their puzzles, so that perhaps one day they can help us to unravel ours.’ The Godsmen were so blinded by their foolish mythos that the damn fools couldn’t see their patients for the diseased minds that they truly were.
It made his blood boil to think that so many lives were being squandered when aid was freely available to help them back onto a steadier path.
With a final push, Hadrian drew abreast of the bar. “Something stiff,” he announced. “Better make it a double.”
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Post by Stix on Apr 3, 2008 8:06:44 GMT -5
The bartender obliges Hadrian by quickly filling a mug from a keg and serving it to him. "Bootlegger's Lager, brewed by the dwarves of Ironridge. Strongest we've got." While the beer isn't particularly flavorful, it pleasantly warms the gullet and whets the appetite, leaving a slightly sweet aftertaste. "I'll be back in a blink if you need another one or want food or...." He continues with his sentence after turning away, mumbling in the opposite direction, and looks to be developing a bit of a stagger in his step from one too many.
After excusing himself, the man makes his way to Wraith and John's table. "Anybody want another?" he interjects, indicating their mugs.
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Post by john on Apr 3, 2008 22:09:36 GMT -5
John shakes his head and says, "I make it a point not to overindulge. But food would be welcome, if you have it."
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 4, 2008 21:05:39 GMT -5
[ooc: since Aerin was traumatised by his ordeal, would you like me to alter my post to reflect that? ] "I think you're insane but I've no problem being a vulture on a battlefield." He shrugs his shoulders, "I'm in I suppose. No more foolhardy than any of Fishy's ideas." Wraith doesn't blink as she stares across the table at John. She considered making some crass remark, but... why bother? Her jaw twitches slightly, and cuts away another chunk of meat. "I am going insane, basher. Though one could say it takes a sane woman to know when she's going barmy." She shovels the meat into her mouth, and wipes away the last traces of her meal with a slice of bread. "I figure it's time I expanded beyond the familiar, and made a mark for myself elsewhere. The Cage has been my home for as long as I can remember. Now it's time I moved on from what's so comforting, and made a home somewhere for Aerin." She gestures at the silent child, and gently combs his hair back from his face. The boy flinches slightly, and finishes his meal in silence. He ignores John throughout the rest of the exchange. After excusing himself, the man makes his way to Wraith and John's table. " Anybody want another?" he interjects, indicating their mugs. She says, stacking the empty plates neatly, as pushes them toward the bartender. "My business here is nearly concluded, anyway." Turning back to John, she laces her fingers togther on the table before her. "For the time being, I still call kip at the Open Shell, though it won't be for much longer. Call on me when you're in need of my services, John. Now, I have I few others I need to talk to regarding my plan." She rises from her seat, and helps her son out of his own chair. "Hadrian and Hilathic come to mind." She muses, more to herself. [OOC: I'm assuming Wraith still has lodgings at the Open Shell. Or has she since been forced to move on elsewhere?] |
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Post by exile on Apr 5, 2008 18:39:44 GMT -5
No sooner had Hadrian brought the mug to his lips then he felt a gruff hand fall firmly about his shoulders. Turning irately to confront the source of his disturbance, the aasimar came face to ale soaked chest with a glowering earth prince. The gensai’s black onyx eyes glinted dangerously in the tavern light, and his grip felt like it carried the weight of a mountain behind it.
“ y‘spilt my drink,” he slurred malevolently.
The aasimar’s gaze traveled to the man’s saturated shirt, before settling on a faction sign emblazoned on an amulet about his neck that had already raised Hadrian’s ire that day. The man was a believer of the source, and Hadrian could feel the mercury rising in his bones.
“So I have, berk. And I’ll thank you not to disturb mine,” he tried ineffectually to brush the man’s hand aside, but the tone in his voice carried no shortage of vitriol.
“Ye were about to buy me another,” the stone prince insisted darkly.
“If you’d asked politely I might have been inclined, berk, but today is not a good day to press me.”
Those baleful onyx eyes narrowed and flashes of pain began to register in Hadrian’s shoulder. As though to accentuate his point, the gensai raised his other hand up in a balled fist.
Fine. That’s how it was going to be. Social niceties could go stand on their ear. Hadrian raised his hands up as though in submission and began to turn towards the bar. Twisting about in mid pivot however, he leveled a blow with his ale mug at the towering man’s chin.
(Going to make this interesting and turn it into a combat instead of a narrative. Assume Hadrian has Mage Armor active, he wouldn’t be strolling through Sigil without it considering how long it lasts.)
Attack roll:
[dice=20+4][rand=7647528705624864868305271347684429578014637317924542526661305518]
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