Author: Maglos
Title: Thrend Lyksae meets Sedaris Oash
Date: 2009-06-30 14:39:43
Type: Logs
Synopsis: A northern noble meets a southern noble. They have such a tremendous time chatting about the things they have in common: disdain for each other.
Title: Thrend Lyksae meets Sedaris Oash
Date: 2009-06-30 14:39:43
Type: Logs
Synopsis: A northern noble meets a southern noble. They have such a tremendous time chatting about the things they have in common: disdain for each other.
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We join the story at Luirsfest. A northern noble encounters a southern noble for the first time.
************************************
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
Glancing up from a long, carved wooden bar, you look up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
This young human man stands taller than most at just over five cords
in height. His slender frame possesses little in the way of muscle or body
fat, though he doesn't appear sickly or malnourished. On the contrary, his
feminine features are full and robust: his azure-grey eyes are alert and
attentive from their perch atop his fleshy, round nose and a pair of full,
generously-curved lips that seem naturally pouted. His hair, long and dark,
hangs down to his shoulders, glossy and well-kept.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is in excellent condition.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is using:
a tall, elegant azure and black trimmed hat
an azure pendant
an azure-sigiled black velvet choker
a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag
a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link
a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link
a pair of long, azure silk gloves
an azure-sigiled, black silk greatcloak
a pair of azure-stitched, black-silk pants
a pair of knee-high black boots with azure sigils
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man has arrived from the south.
The sinewy, weather-worn man has arrived from the south.
You think:
"...you're shitting me."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"At least we're about to have something better to do than taunt a witless Scorpion. I have to say, Fak'ir, this is the most fun I've had in months."
You think:
"Seriously. Is that...."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
The sinewy, weather-worn man walks north.
Lifting his bushy brows, the ancient, wispy-bearded man says to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"M'lord.. you need me for anything just now? I've got a date with a spice pipe."
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"...what House colors do you know, of the south?"
Shaking his head, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the ancient, wispy-bearded man, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"No."
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth opens a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth gets his pile of allanaki coins from his dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
Heading up to the bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man pushes one vacant stool in, and takes another for his own seat.
Turning slightly on his stool, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man pulls a hardwood barstool around a long, carved wooden bar.
Tossing a sack over, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth gives some coins to the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man pulls a hardwood barstool around a long, carved wooden bar.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
l youth's cloak
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
Thick black silk has been used in the making of this fine
greatcloak.
Billowing and roomy, it is long enough to reach just below the knees of the
wearer. Flaring out towards the bottom, this cloak is large enough to wrap
around the shoulders to protect from the elements. Inside, it has been
lined with a sheer azure silk, and set with a pair of small pockets. Along
the bottom, and edges of the cloak is a thin golden stitching. On the back
of the cloak, the sigil of House Oash has been done in fine azure
embroidery. Just above the sigil on the back hangs a large, drooping hood
of the same black silk as the rest of the cloak.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth puts his pile of allanaki coins into his dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth closes a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man fumbles, almost dropping the sack..
Absently, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the ancient, wispy-bearded man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"A bonus, Magus."
You look up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
Almost every hair on this elderly man's mainly bald head and face are
of a bleak, grayish white color, being a bright white at the tips and
darkening as they get closer to his head. His chin is adorned with a thin,
wispy beard that stretches down an arms length or so, and his eyes are
nearly completely covered with a set of extremely bushy gray-white eyebrows.
His face is worn and leathery, wrinkles adorning almost every inch of his
flesh, and he is quite thin, almost emaciated. His weathered, lean
appearance hints at hardships, though his eyes are nearly completely closed
when he smiles under the tangle of hair over his mouth. When his reasonably
straight, slightly stained teeth are covered by his lips in a more solemn
expression, his eyes are exposed, the pupils a cloudy, beryl hue. His gaunt
frame is almost always hunched over in a posture fitting of his age, causing
his thin, wispy beard to hang a little lower than it would usually, making
it seem longer than it is.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man is in excellent condition.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man is using:
a wide-brimmed black hat
a dull black gem
a large azure leather backpack
an old, gnarled wooden staff
a hooded, black and azure aba
a pair of studded, black leather pants
a black onyx, skull-linked anklechain
a pair of dragon-emblazoned, black knee-high boots
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
Approaching a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth looks down at you.
Bringing a thin, bony hand to his chest, the ancient, wispy-bearded man says to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in
southern-accented sirihish:
"Most gracious, my Lord."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Borsail, Tor, Fale and a few others. He isn't any of the lower houses, Rennik or Sath, either. He's none of those."
The freckled, light-skinned man stiffens momentarily, a hand sliding to your glossy, black leather swordbelt.
You think:
"Abomination."
You think:
"Fucking gemmer."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Gemmer."
Hobbling through the crowded tavern, the ancient, wispy-bearded man walks north.
At 1) a long, carved wooden bar are:
the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, the cinnamon, lithe young woman,
the freckled, light-skinned man, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man,
and a few empty seats.
At 2) a small table near the stairs are:
a couple of empty seats.
At 3) a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room are:
some empty seats.
At 4) a rounded agafari table are:
a few empty seats.
At 5) a rounded agafari table are:
a few empty seats.
A brief tremble shakes the scrawny-looking unibrowed man's shoulders for a moment, and he scoots his stool a little closer
to you.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The freckled, light-skinned man glances off through the spicy haze to the north, relaxing only slightly as he returns his attention to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
Assessively glancing him over, you look up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
This young human man stands taller than most at just over five cords
in height. His slender frame possesses little in the way of muscle or body
fat, though he doesn't appear sickly or malnourished. On the contrary, his
feminine features are full and robust: his azure-grey eyes are alert and
attentive from their perch atop his fleshy, round nose and a pair of full,
generously-curved lips that seem naturally pouted. His hair, long and dark,
hangs down to his shoulders, glossy and well-kept.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is in excellent condition.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is using:
a tall, elegant azure and black trimmed hat
an azure pendant
an azure-sigiled black velvet choker
a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag
a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link
a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link
a pair of long, azure silk gloves
an azure-sigiled, black silk greatcloak
a pair of azure-stitched, black-silk pants
a pair of knee-high black boots with azure sigils
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
Somebody jostles a large man, then apologizes before disappearing into the crowd.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sends you a telepathic message:
"No offense by being too close to you..but that guy who just walked away is a gemmer."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Fucking abominations think they can come into a bar and talk like people? What kind of place -is- the Black?"
Disdainfully eyeing the bar, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth waits for the veteran mercenary to draw a chair out from a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Fucking insane."
You dissolve the psychic link.
Turning his gaze, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man looks up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the scrawny-looking unibrowed man with the Way.
A mul, clad in the garb of the desert traveller and bearing a huge hammer on his back, moves through the crowd.
Slowly lowering himself into the chair, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth sits at a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
You send a telepathic message to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man:
"So I saw. I'll keep an eye out for it."
You dissolve the psychic link.
The Storm's End Tavern [NESWU Quit]
This building evidences the same architectural principles as the inner
wall and gate towers, but to a much lesser degree. Its horns and spiked
flanges have either been worn with time or were designed to a more subtle
appearance. Inside, veins of obsidian run along the ceiling and walls,
generating the impression of a cold, stony skin, black-blooded and evil.
A massive wooden bar, stained to a deep grey and lacquered to a mirror
shine, dominates the eastern half of the room. An image of an eclipsed sun,
the paint vivid and fresh, blazes along the front of the bar, the rays
reaching the full length of it. The walls appear to have been scrubbed till
they shine with the deep malevolence only limitless black can hold.
A stone stairway curls around itself, spiraling up through the veined
ceiling. To the north, an impressive archway leads the way to a
laughter-filled spice den.
An empty finely crafted flagon with a eclipse burning in its side has been left here.
The Luir's Outpost Bulletin Board is here, propped up on a stand.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
A veteran mercenary is standing here at attention.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is sitting at a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
A veteran mercenary is standing here at attention.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
The burly, red-haired woman stands at attention.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
The austere, cleft-jawed man stands next to a muscular woman at the bar.
The darkly tanned innkeeper stands here, wiping his hands on his apron.
The well-muscled, blue-eyed woman stands silently along a wall.
The muscular, blue-eyed man stands quietly beside the bar here.
A burly half-giant soldier with a flat nose stands hunched here.
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sends you a telepathic message:
"Me too, we won't let nothing happen to you!"
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Chin lifting, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Might I help you?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man glances to you, turning back towards the bar with a shake of his head.
Wrinkling his nose up briefly, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Fortunately, no."
Brows perking, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"What was that?"
The lithe, curly-haired man has arrived from the west.
The lithe, curly-haired man has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his hooded, mace-stitched grey linen cloak.
At your table, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says in sirihish, nodding to the darkly tanned innkeeper:
"Tarkon. Firebreather."
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a shot glass to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a shot glass to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
Emphasizing, a bit more loudly, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"I said, fortunately...no. But thank you."
You think:
"Fucking Southron upstart noble child."
At your table, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says in sirihish, studying the effeminate, fair-skinned youth's attire for a moment:
"He got nice gloves. Except they wouldn't be no good in a match...pretty looking though."
You think:
"Someone should've beat his head in when he was younger."
Pressing his lips together into a thin line, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Do you know who I am?"
Tilting his head back and draining it, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man drinks firebreather from his shot glass.
Setting the previous one on the bar before quickly taking up the second, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man drinks
firebreather from his shot glass.
Glancing him over again, head to toe, you look at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
This young human man stands taller than most at just over five cords
in height. His slender frame possesses little in the way of muscle or body
fat, though he doesn't appear sickly or malnourished. On the contrary, his
feminine features are full and robust: his azure-grey eyes are alert and
attentive from their perch atop his fleshy, round nose and a pair of full,
generously-curved lips that seem naturally pouted. His hair, long and dark,
hangs down to his shoulders, glossy and well-kept.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is in excellent condition.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is using:
a tall, elegant azure and black trimmed hat
an azure pendant
an azure-sigiled black velvet choker
a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag
a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link
a sapphire-studded, ivory cuff-link
a pair of long, azure silk gloves
an azure-sigiled, black silk greatcloak
a pair of azure-stitched, black-silk pants
a pair of knee-high black boots with azure sigils
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
You think:
"Damn it, what are the colors?"
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the ancient, brutally-scarred man with the Way.
Setting it on the bar with a nod to the darkly tanned innkeeper, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man discards his shot glass.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Which Southern House has...azure, as their colors?"
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Deep blue."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man watches your expression with a darted gaze back, and lets out a chuckle.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
Placing it haphazardly beside the other, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man discards his shot glass.
The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
"House Oash."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sends you a telepathic message:
"Does -he- know who -you- are? Sheesh..he autta remember his place..and that place is - not the city."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Speaking slowly as he looks him over, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Looks like a young--exceptionally young--Oash noble."
At your table, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says in sirihish, muttering darkly:
"Knew I should've bought a keg."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man puts his pile of allanaki coins into his hooded, mace-stitched grey linen cloak.
Curiously, as he lifts a shaped eyebrow, you ask the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Should I be impressed, or does that come after you introduce yourself?"
Four men and three women, all garbed in dun and possessing the weapons of war common to soldiers, enter the tavern and take a seat at a large table in the west corner.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"I think I just very, ah, loudly...insulted the Oash Lord."
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth grits his teeth together, his nostrils flaring.
The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
"Well, apparently it's a rather common thing to do in the south, insulting one another and showing disrespect. I imagine it will be fine."
The chubby, brown-haired man has arrived from the south.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman has arrived from the south.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Yeah. He gave me an odd look when I sat down at the bar with you."
The freckled, light-skinned man simply stares at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, your eclipse emblazoned flagon in hand.
You are carrying:
an empty eclipse emblazoned flagon
a half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash
After a long moment, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And yourself?"
The chubby, brown-haired man steps inside, looking about.
You hold your eclipse emblazoned flagon.
Hands in her pockets, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman moves in the door to stand beside the chubby, brown-haired man.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man turns a little on his stool, eyeing the effeminate, fair-skinned youth casually.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman flicks a faint smile at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman looks down at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
Shrugging his shoulders, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"I was watching you. You were the one taking offense to it. Nice cloak, by the way--very good quality."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Oh, good."
The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
"Though try to keep it civil, no sense in bringing ourselves down to their level."
You suffer from use of the Way.
Gesturing to you, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"By your cloak, and uncivilized tongue, I suppose I am to assume you are what passes for a noble north of the
Outpost."
The sinewy, weather-worn man has arrived from the north.
Moving into the tavern, the chubby, brown-haired man asks the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"So, seems everyone is quite clear on the laws here, hmm?"
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Well, he acted as though I was supposed to be impressed he was a noble."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"I made it clear that I wasn't."
You dissolve the psychic link.
The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
"*amusement*"
The sinewy, weather-worn man puts his dusty leather-strapped green glow-crystal into his supple grey leather swordbelt.
Leaning over, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man whispers to you, in sirihish:
"We're uncivilized, Dryk. I think we've been insulted."
Nodding easily, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I'm fairly sure everyone is, yes."
You are carrying:
a half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash
Moving towards a long, carved wooden bar, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Everyone treated equally, hmm? Good...going to be a good Festival."
The chubby, brown-haired man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
With a wry smile, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Spot-on. Sometimes I pass for a Southern Noble. I certainly did at the Masquerade Ball."
To the chubby, brown-haired man and the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, cheerfully, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Agents! Good to see you both!"
Gesturing grandly, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"That's the idea. Everyone on equal ground."
As an aside, you whisper to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man in sirihish:
"Oh, I would think nothing of it, they do this all the -time- in Allanak."
Glancing aside, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the veteran mercenary, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You see? As I've said - many times before - an alliance -cannot-teach their kind civility. Their barbarism is too far ingrained, I suppose."
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman pauses on her way to the bar.
Thoughtfully, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Well, except us in the Fist. We still gotta salute the Sarge."
The chubby, brown-haired man turns in his seat to look towards you and the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man glances up, noticing the sinewy, weather-worn man's presence suddenly, and thumps his fist to his gurth-shell round shield.
Her eyes narrowing, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Yeah. Remind me to tell you something funny the Lieutenant said earlier."
At your table, the cinnamon, lithe young woman says in southern-accented sirihish, pouting:
"I like funny things"
Glancing aside to him, you say to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:
"We're allies now. Allanak says so."
The dusky black dwarf has arrived from the south.
The dusky black dwarf makes his way to a long, carved wooden bar.
The dusky black dwarf sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
At your table, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says in sirihish, clearing his throat and fidgeting nervously:
"Well, maybe it is, maybe it ain't. It don't rightly matter which...we're all here in Luir's Outpost, having a good time, at a big party. Right?"
Glancing toward the scrawny-looking unibrowed man with a smirk, the sinewy, weather-worn man says, in sirihish:
"Well, we're not all equal. Ya still get ta beat folks around if they fuck up. Space in the jail is at a premium."
Grinning, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the sinewy, weather-worn man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I can think of one or two I actually... dream about you beating around."
Reaching reflexively up to his spiky stone morning-star and nodding, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man asks the sinewy,
weather-worn man, in sirihish:
"Premium..that means they need to pay extra if we take them there, right?"
Nodding deeply, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says to you, in sirihish:
"It must be, if they say so, Dryk."
Watching you and the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in
sirihish:
"You know...we should set up a rule for disputes...like a drinking contest."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man looks at you.
You are carrying:
a half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash
Turning to him with a bright smile, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented
sirihish:
"That is an -excellent idea, Agent."
Snapping a quick wink, the sinewy, weather-worn man says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in sirihish:
"Exactly."
Brusquely, you say to the chubby, brown-haired man, in sirihish:
"Certainly."
The cinnamon, lithe young woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Wouldn't be fair"
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Make them each down three shots of firebreather."
Pushing up from a long, carved wooden bar, setting a plate of squash down, you stand up from a long, carved wooden bar.
Gesturing expansively, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Then put them in the ginka-sauce pit."
You eat part of your half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash.
You eat your small portion of a few thick slices of roasted squash.
You stop using your eclipse emblazoned flagon.
Offering eagerly, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man asks the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Do I get to take a piece of armor from the first one who passes out?"
After a laugh, the chubby, brown-haired man says, in sirihish:
"That would be ideal."
Setting it on a long, carved wooden bar, you discard your eclipse emblazoned flagon.
Drawing in a deep breath through his nostrils, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"Tell me... what is your name?"
The chubby, brown-haired man says, in sirihish:
"And they have to wear the kank suits."
Aside, toward a nearby patron, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says, in sirihish:
"For experimenting, of course."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman laughs.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"We can take bets on the side."
Blinking a few times, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says to you, in sirihish:
"Apologies. Should I have annouced you? I'm not used to not being a barbarian."
Simply, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"I'll tell you after you decide whether or not to take House Kurac up on their offer."
The bald, prism-scarred elf has arrived from the north, his steps moving fluidly through the crowds, though he bares two kegs held in a rope meshwork over his back.
The freckled, light-skinned man stands a few cords from a long, carved wooden bar, gaze resting firmly on the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
You begin watching the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
The dusky black dwarf looks up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
The sinewy, weather-worn man glances toward the scrawny-looking unibrowed man with a shrug of his shoulders.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, his tone cheerful.
The bald, prism-scarred elf hides a wide yawn with the back of one thin fingered hand.
Quirking a smile at him, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in tribal-accented
sirihish:
"We'll let it slide, this time."
Leaning sternly over his shoulder, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in
tribal-accented sirihish:
"You're a Kuraci."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, sighing.
Stopping for a moment as he nears a long, carved wooden bar, nostrils flaring, the bald, prism-scarred elf asks, in
sirihish:
"What in the name of holy Kurac is that horrible smell?"
At a long, carved wooden bar, the chubby, brown-haired man speaks, to the cinnamon, lithe young woman with a wink.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, frowning.
Pouting, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"I was starting to really like the sound of barbarian."
The cinnamon, lithe young woman looks up at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Barbarian Skarp. Has a sort of ring to it, sure."
The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm appreciating the patience, Chosen Lord."
With a grunt, the bald, prism-scarred elf eases the meshwork of rope from his back, setting the kegs down near a stool at
a long, carved wooden bar.
The bald, prism-scarred elf sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the chubby, brown-haired man with the Way.
Lips pursing, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Your -name-?"
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"I'd never cause violence here, I know the laws. But provoking and instigating Southerners?"
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"...this is why I came here. And the spice and drinks. Hope you don't mind."
You dissolve the psychic link.
The dusky black dwarf leans back against a long, carved wooden bar with a slight smirk.
Calling loudly over the crowd and thumping his gurth-shell round shield between each word, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man shouts, in sirihish:
"I am Barbarian Skarp of Kurac! All hail...uh..all hail erm..all hale the spice ale!"
The veteran mercenary shifts somewhat uncomfortably on his feet, looking between the effeminate, fair-skinned youth and
you.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man opens a jozhal-hide backpack.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his jozhal-hide backpack.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades an eclipse emblazoned flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
Waving over at him, the cinnamon, lithe young woman asks the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"Hey Barbarian, can you buy me one of them spice ales?"
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Good, buy me a drink."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man puts his pile of allanaki coins into his jozhal-hide backpack.
The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"This one is easy to provoke too..."
The cinnamon, lithe young woman says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I said it first."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the cinnamon, lithe young woman, snorting.
Sharply, the sinewy, weather-worn man says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in sirihish:
"Barbarian -Sparky-. Get it right."
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman winks at the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
Nodding over at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, the bald, prism-scarred elf exclaims, in sirihish:
"Another here, Valiant Barbarian Sparky!"
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman laughs quietly at the cinnamon, lithe young woman and the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the chubby, brown-haired man, grimacing.
Eyeing him, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"It was a conditional challenge, Lord Oash. You can choose to deny it, and then I'll tell you my name...or accept it, and I will tell you my name."
The chubby, brown-haired man chuckles, reaching into his cloak.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, to herself.
The chubby, brown-haired man gives some coins to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The sinewy, weather-worn man cracks a small grin toward the scrawny-looking unibrowed man as he moves up to a stool at a
long, carved wooden bar.
The sinewy, weather-worn man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, with a snort.
You are carrying:
nothing.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man nods to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
eq
You are using:
a black-scaled leather surmac
a black-scaled leather gorget
a sky-red leather and tortoiseshell shield
a black-scaled leather longvest
a pair of black-scaled leather sleeves
a leather and chitin strap-sheath
a black-scaled leather vambrace
a pair of spiked duskhorn gauntlets
a ruby and moonstone inlaid, silver signet ring
a glossy, black leather swordbelt
a narrow-hilted, jaded khopesh blade
a silver-etched, stone-spiked mace
a crimson-sigiled, grey silk greatcloak
a grey, black, and crimson silk sash
a pair of black-scaled leather leggings
a pair of black-scaled leather boots
You think:
"This one...is fun."
You aren't in contact with anyone.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the chubby, brown-haired man with the Way.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"Two small if you give me his name, Agent."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the dusky black dwarf speaks, nodding once.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman lifts a brow at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, glancing toward the bald, prism-scarred elf with a smirk.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, with a bright laugh, nodding at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Ha...krath...Lord Sadaris...Sedaris..."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"Plus what you know of Oash. I don't really claim to know much of them."
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives his glass flagon to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives his glass flagon to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The chubby, brown-haired man frowns towards the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"I saw they have a gemmer with them."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives his glass flagon to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
Flatly, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I don't make a habit of drinking the alcohol of the commonfilth."
The cinnamon, lithe young woman smiles ruefully.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, bowing his head to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Sedaris, it is."
You suffer from use of the Way.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, lifting both brows.
The coal-black haired half-giant has entered the world.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"Ah. What does Oash do?"
Tilting his head back, the sinewy, weather-worn man drinks ale from his glass flagon.
With a bright laugh, the bald, prism-scarred elf exclaims, in sirihish:
"S'alright, Oash! You jus keep drinkin your kank piss, leave the good stuff for us!"
The cinnamon, lithe young woman sips from her glass flagon.
The coal-black haired half-giant sits down to rest.
The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Wines, I think."
You suffer from use of the Way.
Glancing over quickly, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth looks up at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The coal-black haired half-giant looks down at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
Nodding casually, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"I'll take that as a "no," then, unless you brought some wines."
The ancient, wispy-bearded man has arrived from the north, hobbling along.
Beckoning up and down the bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf asks, in sirihish:
"Got a keg of firebreatha here for sale. Best price in the sands, best liquor under the sun. Beat's the piss outta Oash swill. Any takers?"
Fists clenching, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks the bald, prism-scarred elf, in southern-accented sirihish:
"-What- did you say to be, filth?"
The chubby, brown-haired man stands up from a long, carved wooden bar.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman moves from her stance by the door.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"Ah."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives some coins to the chubby, brown-haired man.
The chubby, brown-haired man approaches the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, smiling.
The bald, prism-scarred elf opens a burned darkly stained wooden tinderbox.
Lifting an eyebrow curiously, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Well. Chosen Lord Thrend Lyksae. Pleasure to meet you, Lord Sedaris Oash."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, glancing over at the dusky black dwarf.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The bald, prism-scarred elf puts his skinny baobab twig into his burned darkly stained wooden tinderbox.
Moving ridiculously slow, the ancient, wispy-bearded man shuffles through the crowd, easing onto a barstool.
The bald, prism-scarred elf closes a burned darkly stained wooden tinderbox.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"My thanks. I can give the sid to you in, well, sid form, or buy something. Whatever you prefer."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, glancing at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The small, serpentine young woman has arrived from the north.
The small, serpentine young woman walks south.
You dissolve the psychic link.
Gesturing to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, the chubby, brown-haired man asks the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Lord Oash, did you need some more spice?"
At a long, carved wooden bar, the dusky black dwarf speaks, to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
Curtly, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I have plenty."
Four men and three women, all garbed in dun and possessing the weapons of war common to soldiers, enter the tavern and take a seat at a large table in the west corner.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, with a low grunt.
The slender, raven-haired woman has arrived from the south.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm ready, just in case, Fak'ir."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman moves over towards the bar.
A thin trail of rich, mossy smelling smoke trickles from the ancient, wispy-bearded man's mouth as he smokes a limp rolled tube of spice.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Ktakr, no. We have no reason to be worrying about things. Kurac has this place handled..."
The cinnamon, lithe young woman sips from her glass flagon.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"...and Lord or not, Chosen or not..."
The ancient, wispy-bearded man flicks the remnants of his spice aside.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"...they are indiscriminate against those that break laws."
Four men and three women, all garbed in dun and possessing the weapons of war common to soldiers, enter the tavern and take a seat at a large table in the west corner.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"...I'd like to think a bit less indiscriminate towards me."
Stepping over and pulling out a vacant stool, the slender, raven-haired woman sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"But that's wishful thinking, and I haven't lived this long hoping for the best."
Nodding, the chubby, brown-haired man asks the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Good...good...you do understand the laws here, Lord Oash?"
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, looking toward the cinnamon, lithe young woman with a smirk.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"So, ka. It will be as you will, Fak'ir."
The chubby, brown-haired man nods to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The bald, prism-scarred elf glances over at the cinnamon, lithe young woman, and thumps a foot against his tall, narrow wooden keg.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, with a slow nod.
The sinewy, weather-worn man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his supple grey leather swordbelt.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man drinks ale from his glass flagon.
Sliding onto a stool near the bald, prism-scarred elf, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth narrows his eyes towards the chubby, brown-haired man, reaching for his cloak.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, holding a hand up to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth gets his glass serpent spice pipe from his azure-sigiled, black silk greatcloak.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth holds his glass serpent spice pipe.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth leans over, lighting his glass serpent spice pipe on a candle.
The bald, prism-scarred elf flashes a sidelong grin at the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the effeminate, fair-skinned youth's mouth as he smokes a glass serpent
spice pipe.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth's eyes become glassy-red and half-closed.
After a brief pause, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Well. Good talking at you, Lord Oash. Hope to do this again sometime soon."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, waving a hand toward the darkly tanned innkeeper.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth puffs on his glass serpent spice pipe a few times, leaning back in his chair with a somewhat milder expression.
The freckled, light-skinned man turns back to a long, carved wooden bar, plopping down on a stool.
There is no space at a long, carved wooden bar.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman speaks, her features amiable and her tone mild, but her eyes
sharp and cold.
At 1) a long, carved wooden bar are:
the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, the ancient, wispy-bearded man,
the cinnamon, lithe young woman, the bald, prism-scarred elf,
the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, the dusky black dwarf,
the sinewy, weather-worn man, the slender, raven-haired woman,
and the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
At 2) a small table near the stairs are:
a couple of empty seats.
At 3) a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room are:
the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, and a few empty seats.
At 4) a rounded agafari table are:
a few empty seats.
At 5) a rounded agafari table are:
a few empty seats.
The freckled, light-skinned man leans against a long, carved wooden bar at one side of the shaggy-haired, sun-branded
man.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth stands up from a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a grey wooden cup to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a grey wooden cup to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, his tone matching, eyes dancing with delight.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a shot glass to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
Gesturing for him, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the ancient, wispy-bearded man, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"Come, Magus."
The chubby, brown-haired man smiles to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, bowing.
His gaze coming across him as the effeminate, fair-skinned youth indicates him, you look down at the ancient,
wispy-bearded man.
Almost every hair on this elderly man's mainly bald head and face are
of a bleak, grayish white color, being a bright white at the tips and
darkening as they get closer to his head. His chin is adorned with a thin,
wispy beard that stretches down an arms length or so, and his eyes are
nearly completely covered with a set of extremely bushy gray-white eyebrows.
His face is worn and leathery, wrinkles adorning almost every inch of his
flesh, and he is quite thin, almost emaciated. His weathered, lean
appearance hints at hardships, though his eyes are nearly completely closed
when he smiles under the tangle of hair over his mouth. When his reasonably
straight, slightly stained teeth are covered by his lips in a more solemn
expression, his eyes are exposed, the pupils a cloudy, beryl hue. His gaunt
frame is almost always hunched over in a posture fitting of his age, causing
his thin, wispy beard to hang a little lower than it would usually, making
it seem longer than it is.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man is in excellent condition.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man is using:
a wide-brimmed black hat
a dull black gem
a large azure leather backpack
an old, gnarled wooden staff
a hooded, black and azure aba
a pair of studded, black leather pants
a black onyx, skull-linked anklechain
a pair of dragon-emblazoned, black knee-high boots
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
His chair creaking as he gets to his feet, the ancient, wispy-bearded man stands up from a long, carved wooden bar.
The chubby, brown-haired man has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Setting it on the bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman discards her glass flagon.
The freckled, light-skinned man stiffens again, a hand snaking to your glossy, black leather swordbelt quickly--but
stopping there, clenched tightly into a fist.
Sliding it down the bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man gives his grey wooden cup to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
The sinewy, weather-worn man gives his shot glass to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman speaks, easily.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man fires you a narrowed glance.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman smiles brightly at the sinewy, weather-worn man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, smiling amiably to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, his eyes dancing as he turns to regard the tall,
whiskey-eyed woman with amusement.
Glancing over, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You're alright, Chosen Lord?"
The coal-black haired half-giant rises from the ground, and clambers to his feet.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman drinks firebreather from her shot glass.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, holding up a hand briefly.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The coal-black haired half-giant has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman's eyes budge out after she downs the shot and coughs a little.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man shuffles through the crowded tavern, reaching the effeminate, fair-skinned youth's side.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman nods amiably to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, between coughs.
You suffer from use of the Way.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, with a glance at the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
Not taking his eyes off of the ancient, wispy-bearded man, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Oh, fine. I tend to think before acting or speaking out of turn, Lord Oash."
The bald, prism-scarred elf looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man drinks spice ale from his eclipse emblazoned flagon.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, shaking her head at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The bald, prism-scarred elf's expression quickly sours.
You think:
"Out of turn with these LAWS. Fucking abomination."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, pushing off his stool.
The sinewy, weather-worn man stands up from a long, carved wooden bar.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman waves to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man glances over at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth momentarily, nodding.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth looks from the ancient, wispy-bearded man, to you, smiling.
Waving his glass flagon up, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man exclaims to the sinewy, weather-worn man, in sirihish:
"Yessir!"
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, growling a bit, eyes on the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
The sinewy, weather-worn man pauses by the bald, prism-scarred elf as he moves away from the bar.
The braid-tressed young woman has arrived from the north.
The squat, full-figured woman has arrived from the north.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man lifts his hand in farewell to you.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Shadows on the sand leave tracks northwards, when they're vulnerable."
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, nodding to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The squat, full-figured woman wanders out beside the braid-tressed young woman peering about through the large crowd.
Placing one hand on his shoulder, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The bald, prism-scarred elf continues to glower, his foot rubbing idly against a keg near his stool.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, mournfully.
The braid-tressed young woman hums to herself as she steps through the room, then pauses near the northern end of a long,
carved wooden bar to look out over the crowd.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman flicks a grin at the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
You are carrying:
nothing.
His voice a low growl, the bald, prism-scarred elf whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You are already in contact with someone else.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man puts his glass flagon onto a long, carved wooden bar.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man puts his eclipse emblazoned flagon onto a long, carved wooden bar.
You dissolve the psychic link.
With a satisfied nod, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth turns for the door.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth walks south.
To the south: the effeminate, fair-skinned youth has arrived from the north.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man walks south.
The veteran mercenary walks south.
The veteran mercenary walks south.
We join the story at Luirsfest. A northern noble encounters a southern noble for the first time.
************************************
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
Glancing up from a long, carved wooden bar, you look up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
This young human man stands taller than most at just over five cords
in height. His slender frame possesses little in the way of muscle or body
fat, though he doesn't appear sickly or malnourished. On the contrary, his
feminine features are full and robust: his azure-grey eyes are alert and
attentive from their perch atop his fleshy, round nose and a pair of full,
generously-curved lips that seem naturally pouted. His hair, long and dark,
hangs down to his shoulders, glossy and well-kept.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is in excellent condition.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is using:
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man has arrived from the south.
The sinewy, weather-worn man has arrived from the south.
You think:
"...you're shitting me."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"At least we're about to have something better to do than taunt a witless Scorpion. I have to say, Fak'ir, this is the most fun I've had in months."
You think:
"Seriously. Is that...."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
The sinewy, weather-worn man walks north.
Lifting his bushy brows, the ancient, wispy-bearded man says to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"M'lord.. you need me for anything just now? I've got a date with a spice pipe."
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"...what House colors do you know, of the south?"
Shaking his head, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the ancient, wispy-bearded man, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"No."
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth opens a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth gets his pile of allanaki coins from his dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
Heading up to the bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man pushes one vacant stool in, and takes another for his own seat.
Turning slightly on his stool, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man pulls a hardwood barstool around a long, carved wooden bar.
Tossing a sack over, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth gives some coins to the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man pulls a hardwood barstool around a long, carved wooden bar.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
l youth's cloak
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
Thick black silk has been used in the making of this fine
greatcloak.
Billowing and roomy, it is long enough to reach just below the knees of the
wearer. Flaring out towards the bottom, this cloak is large enough to wrap
around the shoulders to protect from the elements. Inside, it has been
lined with a sheer azure silk, and set with a pair of small pockets. Along
the bottom, and edges of the cloak is a thin golden stitching. On the back
of the cloak, the sigil of House Oash has been done in fine azure
embroidery. Just above the sigil on the back hangs a large, drooping hood
of the same black silk as the rest of the cloak.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth puts his pile of allanaki coins into his dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth closes a dark blue, white-trimmed shoulder bag.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man fumbles, almost dropping the sack..
Absently, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the ancient, wispy-bearded man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"A bonus, Magus."
You look up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
Almost every hair on this elderly man's mainly bald head and face are
of a bleak, grayish white color, being a bright white at the tips and
darkening as they get closer to his head. His chin is adorned with a thin,
wispy beard that stretches down an arms length or so, and his eyes are
nearly completely covered with a set of extremely bushy gray-white eyebrows.
His face is worn and leathery, wrinkles adorning almost every inch of his
flesh, and he is quite thin, almost emaciated. His weathered, lean
appearance hints at hardships, though his eyes are nearly completely closed
when he smiles under the tangle of hair over his mouth. When his reasonably
straight, slightly stained teeth are covered by his lips in a more solemn
expression, his eyes are exposed, the pupils a cloudy, beryl hue. His gaunt
frame is almost always hunched over in a posture fitting of his age, causing
his thin, wispy beard to hang a little lower than it would usually, making
it seem longer than it is.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man is in excellent condition.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man is using:
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
Approaching a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth looks down at you.
Bringing a thin, bony hand to his chest, the ancient, wispy-bearded man says to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in
southern-accented sirihish:
"Most gracious, my Lord."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Borsail, Tor, Fale and a few others. He isn't any of the lower houses, Rennik or Sath, either. He's none of those."
The freckled, light-skinned man stiffens momentarily, a hand sliding to your glossy, black leather swordbelt.
You think:
"Abomination."
You think:
"Fucking gemmer."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Gemmer."
Hobbling through the crowded tavern, the ancient, wispy-bearded man walks north.
At 1) a long, carved wooden bar are:
the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, the cinnamon, lithe young woman,
the freckled, light-skinned man, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man,
and a few empty seats.
At 2) a small table near the stairs are:
a couple of empty seats.
At 3) a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room are:
some empty seats.
At 4) a rounded agafari table are:
a few empty seats.
At 5) a rounded agafari table are:
a few empty seats.
A brief tremble shakes the scrawny-looking unibrowed man's shoulders for a moment, and he scoots his stool a little closer
to you.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The freckled, light-skinned man glances off through the spicy haze to the north, relaxing only slightly as he returns his attention to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
Assessively glancing him over, you look up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
This young human man stands taller than most at just over five cords
in height. His slender frame possesses little in the way of muscle or body
fat, though he doesn't appear sickly or malnourished. On the contrary, his
feminine features are full and robust: his azure-grey eyes are alert and
attentive from their perch atop his fleshy, round nose and a pair of full,
generously-curved lips that seem naturally pouted. His hair, long and dark,
hangs down to his shoulders, glossy and well-kept.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is in excellent condition.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is using:
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
Somebody jostles a large man, then apologizes before disappearing into the crowd.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sends you a telepathic message:
"No offense by being too close to you..but that guy who just walked away is a gemmer."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Fucking abominations think they can come into a bar and talk like people? What kind of place -is- the Black?"
Disdainfully eyeing the bar, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth waits for the veteran mercenary to draw a chair out from a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Fucking insane."
You dissolve the psychic link.
Turning his gaze, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man looks up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the scrawny-looking unibrowed man with the Way.
A mul, clad in the garb of the desert traveller and bearing a huge hammer on his back, moves through the crowd.
Slowly lowering himself into the chair, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth sits at a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
You send a telepathic message to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man:
"So I saw. I'll keep an eye out for it."
You dissolve the psychic link.
The Storm's End Tavern [NESWU Quit]
This building evidences the same architectural principles as the inner
wall and gate towers, but to a much lesser degree. Its horns and spiked
flanges have either been worn with time or were designed to a more subtle
appearance. Inside, veins of obsidian run along the ceiling and walls,
generating the impression of a cold, stony skin, black-blooded and evil.
A massive wooden bar, stained to a deep grey and lacquered to a mirror
shine, dominates the eastern half of the room. An image of an eclipsed sun,
the paint vivid and fresh, blazes along the front of the bar, the rays
reaching the full length of it. The walls appear to have been scrubbed till
they shine with the deep malevolence only limitless black can hold.
A stone stairway curls around itself, spiraling up through the veined
ceiling. To the north, an impressive archway leads the way to a
laughter-filled spice den.
An empty finely crafted flagon with a eclipse burning in its side has been left here.
The Luir's Outpost Bulletin Board is here, propped up on a stand.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
A veteran mercenary is standing here at attention.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is sitting at a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
A veteran mercenary is standing here at attention.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
The burly, red-haired woman stands at attention.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
The austere, cleft-jawed man stands next to a muscular woman at the bar.
The darkly tanned innkeeper stands here, wiping his hands on his apron.
The well-muscled, blue-eyed woman stands silently along a wall.
The muscular, blue-eyed man stands quietly beside the bar here.
A burly half-giant soldier with a flat nose stands hunched here.
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sends you a telepathic message:
"Me too, we won't let nothing happen to you!"
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Chin lifting, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Might I help you?"
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man glances to you, turning back towards the bar with a shake of his head.
Wrinkling his nose up briefly, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Fortunately, no."
Brows perking, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"What was that?"
The lithe, curly-haired man has arrived from the west.
The lithe, curly-haired man has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his hooded, mace-stitched grey linen cloak.
At your table, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says in sirihish, nodding to the darkly tanned innkeeper:
"Tarkon. Firebreather."
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a shot glass to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a shot glass to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man.
Emphasizing, a bit more loudly, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"I said, fortunately...no. But thank you."
You think:
"Fucking Southron upstart noble child."
At your table, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says in sirihish, studying the effeminate, fair-skinned youth's attire for a moment:
"He got nice gloves. Except they wouldn't be no good in a match...pretty looking though."
You think:
"Someone should've beat his head in when he was younger."
Pressing his lips together into a thin line, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Do you know who I am?"
Tilting his head back and draining it, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man drinks firebreather from his shot glass.
Setting the previous one on the bar before quickly taking up the second, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man drinks
firebreather from his shot glass.
Glancing him over again, head to toe, you look at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
This young human man stands taller than most at just over five cords
in height. His slender frame possesses little in the way of muscle or body
fat, though he doesn't appear sickly or malnourished. On the contrary, his
feminine features are full and robust: his azure-grey eyes are alert and
attentive from their perch atop his fleshy, round nose and a pair of full,
generously-curved lips that seem naturally pouted. His hair, long and dark,
hangs down to his shoulders, glossy and well-kept.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is in excellent condition.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth is using:
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
You think:
"Damn it, what are the colors?"
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the ancient, brutally-scarred man with the Way.
Setting it on the bar with a nod to the darkly tanned innkeeper, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man discards his shot glass.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Which Southern House has...azure, as their colors?"
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Deep blue."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man watches your expression with a darted gaze back, and lets out a chuckle.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
Placing it haphazardly beside the other, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man discards his shot glass.
The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
"House Oash."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man sends you a telepathic message:
"Does -he- know who -you- are? Sheesh..he autta remember his place..and that place is - not the city."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Speaking slowly as he looks him over, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Looks like a young--exceptionally young--Oash noble."
At your table, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says in sirihish, muttering darkly:
"Knew I should've bought a keg."
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man puts his pile of allanaki coins into his hooded, mace-stitched grey linen cloak.
Curiously, as he lifts a shaped eyebrow, you ask the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Should I be impressed, or does that come after you introduce yourself?"
Four men and three women, all garbed in dun and possessing the weapons of war common to soldiers, enter the tavern and take a seat at a large table in the west corner.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"I think I just very, ah, loudly...insulted the Oash Lord."
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth grits his teeth together, his nostrils flaring.
The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
"Well, apparently it's a rather common thing to do in the south, insulting one another and showing disrespect. I imagine it will be fine."
The chubby, brown-haired man has arrived from the south.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman has arrived from the south.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Yeah. He gave me an odd look when I sat down at the bar with you."
The freckled, light-skinned man simply stares at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, your eclipse emblazoned flagon in hand.
You are carrying:
an empty eclipse emblazoned flagon
a half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash
After a long moment, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And yourself?"
The chubby, brown-haired man steps inside, looking about.
You hold your eclipse emblazoned flagon.
Hands in her pockets, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman moves in the door to stand beside the chubby, brown-haired man.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man turns a little on his stool, eyeing the effeminate, fair-skinned youth casually.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman flicks a faint smile at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman looks down at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
Shrugging his shoulders, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"I was watching you. You were the one taking offense to it. Nice cloak, by the way--very good quality."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Oh, good."
The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
"Though try to keep it civil, no sense in bringing ourselves down to their level."
You suffer from use of the Way.
Gesturing to you, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"By your cloak, and uncivilized tongue, I suppose I am to assume you are what passes for a noble north of the
Outpost."
The sinewy, weather-worn man has arrived from the north.
Moving into the tavern, the chubby, brown-haired man asks the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"So, seems everyone is quite clear on the laws here, hmm?"
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"Well, he acted as though I was supposed to be impressed he was a noble."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the ancient, brutally-scarred man:
"I made it clear that I wasn't."
You dissolve the psychic link.
The ancient, brutally-scarred man sends you a telepathic message:
"*amusement*"
The sinewy, weather-worn man puts his dusty leather-strapped green glow-crystal into his supple grey leather swordbelt.
Leaning over, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man whispers to you, in sirihish:
"We're uncivilized, Dryk. I think we've been insulted."
Nodding easily, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I'm fairly sure everyone is, yes."
You are carrying:
a half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash
Moving towards a long, carved wooden bar, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Everyone treated equally, hmm? Good...going to be a good Festival."
The chubby, brown-haired man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
With a wry smile, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Spot-on. Sometimes I pass for a Southern Noble. I certainly did at the Masquerade Ball."
To the chubby, brown-haired man and the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, cheerfully, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man exclaims, in sirihish:
"Agents! Good to see you both!"
Gesturing grandly, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"That's the idea. Everyone on equal ground."
As an aside, you whisper to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man in sirihish:
"Oh, I would think nothing of it, they do this all the -time- in Allanak."
Glancing aside, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the veteran mercenary, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You see? As I've said - many times before - an alliance -cannot-teach their kind civility. Their barbarism is too far ingrained, I suppose."
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman pauses on her way to the bar.
Thoughtfully, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Well, except us in the Fist. We still gotta salute the Sarge."
The chubby, brown-haired man turns in his seat to look towards you and the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man glances up, noticing the sinewy, weather-worn man's presence suddenly, and thumps his fist to his gurth-shell round shield.
Her eyes narrowing, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Yeah. Remind me to tell you something funny the Lieutenant said earlier."
At your table, the cinnamon, lithe young woman says in southern-accented sirihish, pouting:
"I like funny things"
Glancing aside to him, you say to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in sirihish:
"We're allies now. Allanak says so."
The dusky black dwarf has arrived from the south.
The dusky black dwarf makes his way to a long, carved wooden bar.
The dusky black dwarf sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
At your table, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says in sirihish, clearing his throat and fidgeting nervously:
"Well, maybe it is, maybe it ain't. It don't rightly matter which...we're all here in Luir's Outpost, having a good time, at a big party. Right?"
Glancing toward the scrawny-looking unibrowed man with a smirk, the sinewy, weather-worn man says, in sirihish:
"Well, we're not all equal. Ya still get ta beat folks around if they fuck up. Space in the jail is at a premium."
Grinning, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the sinewy, weather-worn man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"I can think of one or two I actually... dream about you beating around."
Reaching reflexively up to his spiky stone morning-star and nodding, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man asks the sinewy,
weather-worn man, in sirihish:
"Premium..that means they need to pay extra if we take them there, right?"
Nodding deeply, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says to you, in sirihish:
"It must be, if they say so, Dryk."
Watching you and the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, the chubby, brown-haired man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in
sirihish:
"You know...we should set up a rule for disputes...like a drinking contest."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man looks at you.
You are carrying:
a half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash
Turning to him with a bright smile, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented
sirihish:
"That is an -excellent idea, Agent."
Snapping a quick wink, the sinewy, weather-worn man says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in sirihish:
"Exactly."
Brusquely, you say to the chubby, brown-haired man, in sirihish:
"Certainly."
The cinnamon, lithe young woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Wouldn't be fair"
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Make them each down three shots of firebreather."
Pushing up from a long, carved wooden bar, setting a plate of squash down, you stand up from a long, carved wooden bar.
Gesturing expansively, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Then put them in the ginka-sauce pit."
You eat part of your half eaten few thick slices of roasted squash.
You eat your small portion of a few thick slices of roasted squash.
You stop using your eclipse emblazoned flagon.
Offering eagerly, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man asks the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"Do I get to take a piece of armor from the first one who passes out?"
After a laugh, the chubby, brown-haired man says, in sirihish:
"That would be ideal."
Setting it on a long, carved wooden bar, you discard your eclipse emblazoned flagon.
Drawing in a deep breath through his nostrils, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"Tell me... what is your name?"
The chubby, brown-haired man says, in sirihish:
"And they have to wear the kank suits."
Aside, toward a nearby patron, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says, in sirihish:
"For experimenting, of course."
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman laughs.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"We can take bets on the side."
Blinking a few times, the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man says to you, in sirihish:
"Apologies. Should I have annouced you? I'm not used to not being a barbarian."
Simply, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"I'll tell you after you decide whether or not to take House Kurac up on their offer."
The bald, prism-scarred elf has arrived from the north, his steps moving fluidly through the crowds, though he bares two kegs held in a rope meshwork over his back.
The freckled, light-skinned man stands a few cords from a long, carved wooden bar, gaze resting firmly on the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
You begin watching the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
The dusky black dwarf looks up at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth.
The sinewy, weather-worn man glances toward the scrawny-looking unibrowed man with a shrug of his shoulders.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, his tone cheerful.
The bald, prism-scarred elf hides a wide yawn with the back of one thin fingered hand.
Quirking a smile at him, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, in tribal-accented
sirihish:
"We'll let it slide, this time."
Leaning sternly over his shoulder, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in
tribal-accented sirihish:
"You're a Kuraci."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, sighing.
Stopping for a moment as he nears a long, carved wooden bar, nostrils flaring, the bald, prism-scarred elf asks, in
sirihish:
"What in the name of holy Kurac is that horrible smell?"
At a long, carved wooden bar, the chubby, brown-haired man speaks, to the cinnamon, lithe young woman with a wink.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, frowning.
Pouting, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in sirihish:
"I was starting to really like the sound of barbarian."
The cinnamon, lithe young woman looks up at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Barbarian Skarp. Has a sort of ring to it, sure."
The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm appreciating the patience, Chosen Lord."
With a grunt, the bald, prism-scarred elf eases the meshwork of rope from his back, setting the kegs down near a stool at
a long, carved wooden bar.
The bald, prism-scarred elf sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the chubby, brown-haired man with the Way.
Lips pursing, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Your -name-?"
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"I'd never cause violence here, I know the laws. But provoking and instigating Southerners?"
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"...this is why I came here. And the spice and drinks. Hope you don't mind."
You dissolve the psychic link.
The dusky black dwarf leans back against a long, carved wooden bar with a slight smirk.
Calling loudly over the crowd and thumping his gurth-shell round shield between each word, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man shouts, in sirihish:
"I am Barbarian Skarp of Kurac! All hail...uh..all hail erm..all hale the spice ale!"
The veteran mercenary shifts somewhat uncomfortably on his feet, looking between the effeminate, fair-skinned youth and
you.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man opens a jozhal-hide backpack.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his jozhal-hide backpack.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades an eclipse emblazoned flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
Waving over at him, the cinnamon, lithe young woman asks the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"Hey Barbarian, can you buy me one of them spice ales?"
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in tribal-accented sirihish:
"Good, buy me a drink."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man puts his pile of allanaki coins into his jozhal-hide backpack.
The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"This one is easy to provoke too..."
The cinnamon, lithe young woman says to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I said it first."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the cinnamon, lithe young woman, snorting.
Sharply, the sinewy, weather-worn man says to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, in sirihish:
"Barbarian -Sparky-. Get it right."
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman winks at the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
Nodding over at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, the bald, prism-scarred elf exclaims, in sirihish:
"Another here, Valiant Barbarian Sparky!"
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman laughs quietly at the cinnamon, lithe young woman and the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the chubby, brown-haired man, grimacing.
Eyeing him, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"It was a conditional challenge, Lord Oash. You can choose to deny it, and then I'll tell you my name...or accept it, and I will tell you my name."
The chubby, brown-haired man chuckles, reaching into his cloak.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, to herself.
The chubby, brown-haired man gives some coins to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The sinewy, weather-worn man cracks a small grin toward the scrawny-looking unibrowed man as he moves up to a stool at a
long, carved wooden bar.
The sinewy, weather-worn man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, with a snort.
You are carrying:
nothing.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man nods to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
eq
You are using:
You think:
"This one...is fun."
You aren't in contact with anyone.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the chubby, brown-haired man with the Way.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"Two small if you give me his name, Agent."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the dusky black dwarf speaks, nodding once.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman lifts a brow at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, glancing toward the bald, prism-scarred elf with a smirk.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, with a bright laugh, nodding at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Ha...krath...Lord Sadaris...Sedaris..."
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"Plus what you know of Oash. I don't really claim to know much of them."
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives his glass flagon to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives his glass flagon to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The chubby, brown-haired man frowns towards the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"I saw they have a gemmer with them."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives his glass flagon to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
Flatly, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I don't make a habit of drinking the alcohol of the commonfilth."
The cinnamon, lithe young woman smiles ruefully.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, bowing his head to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Sedaris, it is."
You suffer from use of the Way.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, lifting both brows.
The coal-black haired half-giant has entered the world.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"Ah. What does Oash do?"
Tilting his head back, the sinewy, weather-worn man drinks ale from his glass flagon.
With a bright laugh, the bald, prism-scarred elf exclaims, in sirihish:
"S'alright, Oash! You jus keep drinkin your kank piss, leave the good stuff for us!"
The cinnamon, lithe young woman sips from her glass flagon.
The coal-black haired half-giant sits down to rest.
The chubby, brown-haired man sends you a telepathic message:
"Wines, I think."
You suffer from use of the Way.
Glancing over quickly, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth looks up at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The coal-black haired half-giant looks down at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
Nodding casually, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"I'll take that as a "no," then, unless you brought some wines."
The ancient, wispy-bearded man has arrived from the north, hobbling along.
Beckoning up and down the bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf asks, in sirihish:
"Got a keg of firebreatha here for sale. Best price in the sands, best liquor under the sun. Beat's the piss outta Oash swill. Any takers?"
Fists clenching, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks the bald, prism-scarred elf, in southern-accented sirihish:
"-What- did you say to be, filth?"
The chubby, brown-haired man stands up from a long, carved wooden bar.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman moves from her stance by the door.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"Ah."
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man gives some coins to the chubby, brown-haired man.
The chubby, brown-haired man approaches the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, smiling.
The bald, prism-scarred elf opens a burned darkly stained wooden tinderbox.
Lifting an eyebrow curiously, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Well. Chosen Lord Thrend Lyksae. Pleasure to meet you, Lord Sedaris Oash."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, glancing over at the dusky black dwarf.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The bald, prism-scarred elf puts his skinny baobab twig into his burned darkly stained wooden tinderbox.
Moving ridiculously slow, the ancient, wispy-bearded man shuffles through the crowd, easing onto a barstool.
The bald, prism-scarred elf closes a burned darkly stained wooden tinderbox.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
You send a telepathic message to the chubby, brown-haired man:
"My thanks. I can give the sid to you in, well, sid form, or buy something. Whatever you prefer."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, glancing at the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The small, serpentine young woman has arrived from the north.
The small, serpentine young woman walks south.
You dissolve the psychic link.
Gesturing to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, the chubby, brown-haired man asks the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Lord Oash, did you need some more spice?"
At a long, carved wooden bar, the dusky black dwarf speaks, to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
Curtly, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the chubby, brown-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I have plenty."
Four men and three women, all garbed in dun and possessing the weapons of war common to soldiers, enter the tavern and take a seat at a large table in the west corner.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, with a low grunt.
The slender, raven-haired woman has arrived from the south.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"I'm ready, just in case, Fak'ir."
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man with the Way.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman moves over towards the bar.
A thin trail of rich, mossy smelling smoke trickles from the ancient, wispy-bearded man's mouth as he smokes a limp rolled tube of spice.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"Ktakr, no. We have no reason to be worrying about things. Kurac has this place handled..."
The cinnamon, lithe young woman sips from her glass flagon.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"...and Lord or not, Chosen or not..."
The ancient, wispy-bearded man flicks the remnants of his spice aside.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"...they are indiscriminate against those that break laws."
Four men and three women, all garbed in dun and possessing the weapons of war common to soldiers, enter the tavern and take a seat at a large table in the west corner.
A foreign presence contacts your mind.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"...I'd like to think a bit less indiscriminate towards me."
Stepping over and pulling out a vacant stool, the slender, raven-haired woman sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man:
"But that's wishful thinking, and I haven't lived this long hoping for the best."
Nodding, the chubby, brown-haired man asks the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Good...good...you do understand the laws here, Lord Oash?"
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, looking toward the cinnamon, lithe young woman with a smirk.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"So, ka. It will be as you will, Fak'ir."
The chubby, brown-haired man nods to the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The bald, prism-scarred elf glances over at the cinnamon, lithe young woman, and thumps a foot against his tall, narrow wooden keg.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, with a slow nod.
The sinewy, weather-worn man gets his pile of allanaki coins from his supple grey leather swordbelt.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man drinks ale from his glass flagon.
Sliding onto a stool near the bald, prism-scarred elf, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth narrows his eyes towards the chubby, brown-haired man, reaching for his cloak.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, holding a hand up to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth gets his glass serpent spice pipe from his azure-sigiled, black silk greatcloak.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth holds his glass serpent spice pipe.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth leans over, lighting his glass serpent spice pipe on a candle.
The bald, prism-scarred elf flashes a sidelong grin at the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
A thin trail of rich, heady smoke trickles from the effeminate, fair-skinned youth's mouth as he smokes a glass serpent
spice pipe.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth's eyes become glassy-red and half-closed.
After a brief pause, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Well. Good talking at you, Lord Oash. Hope to do this again sometime soon."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, waving a hand toward the darkly tanned innkeeper.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth puffs on his glass serpent spice pipe a few times, leaning back in his chair with a somewhat milder expression.
The freckled, light-skinned man turns back to a long, carved wooden bar, plopping down on a stool.
There is no space at a long, carved wooden bar.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman speaks, her features amiable and her tone mild, but her eyes
sharp and cold.
At 1) a long, carved wooden bar are:
the scrawny-looking unibrowed man, the ancient, wispy-bearded man,
the cinnamon, lithe young woman, the bald, prism-scarred elf,
the shaggy-haired, sun-branded man, the dusky black dwarf,
the sinewy, weather-worn man, the slender, raven-haired woman,
and the tall, whiskey-eyed woman.
At 2) a small table near the stairs are:
a couple of empty seats.
At 3) a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room are:
the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, and a few empty seats.
At 4) a rounded agafari table are:
a few empty seats.
At 5) a rounded agafari table are:
a few empty seats.
The freckled, light-skinned man leans against a long, carved wooden bar at one side of the shaggy-haired, sun-branded
man.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth stands up from a heavy, blockish table in the middle of the room.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a grey wooden cup to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a grey wooden cup to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, his tone matching, eyes dancing with delight.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a shot glass to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
Gesturing for him, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth says to the ancient, wispy-bearded man, in southern-accented
sirihish:
"Come, Magus."
The chubby, brown-haired man smiles to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, bowing.
His gaze coming across him as the effeminate, fair-skinned youth indicates him, you look down at the ancient,
wispy-bearded man.
Almost every hair on this elderly man's mainly bald head and face are
of a bleak, grayish white color, being a bright white at the tips and
darkening as they get closer to his head. His chin is adorned with a thin,
wispy beard that stretches down an arms length or so, and his eyes are
nearly completely covered with a set of extremely bushy gray-white eyebrows.
His face is worn and leathery, wrinkles adorning almost every inch of his
flesh, and he is quite thin, almost emaciated. His weathered, lean
appearance hints at hardships, though his eyes are nearly completely closed
when he smiles under the tangle of hair over his mouth. When his reasonably
straight, slightly stained teeth are covered by his lips in a more solemn
expression, his eyes are exposed, the pupils a cloudy, beryl hue. His gaunt
frame is almost always hunched over in a posture fitting of his age, causing
his thin, wispy beard to hang a little lower than it would usually, making
it seem longer than it is.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man is in excellent condition.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man is using:
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
His chair creaking as he gets to his feet, the ancient, wispy-bearded man stands up from a long, carved wooden bar.
The chubby, brown-haired man has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.
Setting it on the bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman discards her glass flagon.
The freckled, light-skinned man stiffens again, a hand snaking to your glossy, black leather swordbelt quickly--but
stopping there, clenched tightly into a fist.
Sliding it down the bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man gives his grey wooden cup to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
The sinewy, weather-worn man gives his shot glass to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the tall, whiskey-eyed woman speaks, easily.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man fires you a narrowed glance.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman smiles brightly at the sinewy, weather-worn man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, smiling amiably to the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, his eyes dancing as he turns to regard the tall,
whiskey-eyed woman with amusement.
Glancing over, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You're alright, Chosen Lord?"
The coal-black haired half-giant rises from the ground, and clambers to his feet.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman drinks firebreather from her shot glass.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, holding up a hand briefly.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The coal-black haired half-giant has departed from the land of Zalanthas.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman's eyes budge out after she downs the shot and coughs a little.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man shuffles through the crowded tavern, reaching the effeminate, fair-skinned youth's side.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman nods amiably to the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, between coughs.
You suffer from use of the Way.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, with a glance at the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
Not taking his eyes off of the ancient, wispy-bearded man, you say to the effeminate, fair-skinned youth, in sirihish:
"Oh, fine. I tend to think before acting or speaking out of turn, Lord Oash."
The bald, prism-scarred elf looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man drinks spice ale from his eclipse emblazoned flagon.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, shaking her head at the scrawny-looking unibrowed man.
The bald, prism-scarred elf's expression quickly sours.
You think:
"Out of turn with these LAWS. Fucking abomination."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the sinewy, weather-worn man speaks, pushing off his stool.
The sinewy, weather-worn man stands up from a long, carved wooden bar.
The cinnamon, lithe young woman waves to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man glances over at the effeminate, fair-skinned youth momentarily, nodding.
You suffer from use of the Way.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth looks from the ancient, wispy-bearded man, to you, smiling.
Waving his glass flagon up, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man exclaims to the sinewy, weather-worn man, in sirihish:
"Yessir!"
At a long, carved wooden bar, the bald, prism-scarred elf speaks, growling a bit, eyes on the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
The sinewy, weather-worn man pauses by the bald, prism-scarred elf as he moves away from the bar.
The braid-tressed young woman has arrived from the north.
The squat, full-figured woman has arrived from the north.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man lifts his hand in farewell to you.
The shaggy-haired, sun-branded man sends you a telepathic message:
"Shadows on the sand leave tracks northwards, when they're vulnerable."
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman looks up at the ancient, wispy-bearded man.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the scrawny-looking unibrowed man speaks, nodding to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The squat, full-figured woman wanders out beside the braid-tressed young woman peering about through the large crowd.
Placing one hand on his shoulder, the sinewy, weather-worn man whispers something to the bald, prism-scarred elf.
The bald, prism-scarred elf continues to glower, his foot rubbing idly against a keg near his stool.
At a long, carved wooden bar, the cinnamon, lithe young woman speaks, mournfully.
The braid-tressed young woman hums to herself as she steps through the room, then pauses near the northern end of a long,
carved wooden bar to look out over the crowd.
The tall, whiskey-eyed woman flicks a grin at the cinnamon, lithe young woman.
You are carrying:
nothing.
His voice a low growl, the bald, prism-scarred elf whispers something to the sinewy, weather-worn man.
You suffer from use of the Way.
You are already in contact with someone else.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man puts his glass flagon onto a long, carved wooden bar.
The scrawny-looking unibrowed man puts his eclipse emblazoned flagon onto a long, carved wooden bar.
You dissolve the psychic link.
With a satisfied nod, the effeminate, fair-skinned youth turns for the door.
The effeminate, fair-skinned youth walks south.
To the south: the effeminate, fair-skinned youth has arrived from the north.
The ancient, wispy-bearded man walks south.
The veteran mercenary walks south.
The veteran mercenary walks south.