Seaside Tavern {IC}

[Unlit]

OOC.

On a gently rising hill stood the sprawling Seaside Tavern. The greyed and aged planks of its siding stood testament to its longevity, but also of a sturdiness tested by the frequent storms off the Sea of Gales and simply by time itself. Low overhead, the setting sun was bright red, lazy plumes of rainbow clouds, driven by seaward breezes, drifting by in a orange sky bleeding to purple toward dusk. The air was crisp and autumnal, and the waves crashing against the shore well below the tavern lapped gently in this mild weather. Overall, a pleasant day transitioning to a pleasant twilight. The end of a good a day for travel, the very beginning of a night of promise. Regardless, the doors of the Seaside Tavern were wide open and ready for business.

[Unlit]

Ragnor the Barbarian, at the Bar

A looming shadow darkened the door of the tavern. Ragnor the Barbarian, hailing from the extreme frigid North, stomped inside, leveling a merciless glare over the interior of the tavern. The man was tall, even for a northerner and as big around as an oak. His jaw was clean shaven, but his long pale blonde hair spilled over his wide shoulders. His skin was pale like most from the north, though his cheeks were ruddy, as if stung by wind and weather, his eyes an icy blue. He wore animal hides wrapped around his thickly muscled body, and sported a rattling bounty of goblin skulls hanging from his belt. In one hand was gripped a crescent battle-axe, and a hide shield was strapped to his back.

With heavy stomping steps, he forged his way to the bar, glowering along the length of it, looking for a server. He propped the butt of his axe upon his knee, his brow lowered in scowl. With his other hand, he slammed his open palm upon the bartop loudly.

"Wench! Ragnor demands Ale!" he called fiercely. "Now!" Ragnor was not a man known for his patience.

[Lillian Thorne]

Florie the Barmaid, in the storeroom behind the bar, soon to be in the bar.

Florie, a short maid given to a pleasing plumpness and approaching an age where the title of maid would be falsehood, was dressed in a sturdy red wool skirt with, a tightly laced black bodice and a blousy cotton shirt which was pulled low to show off her mountainous assets the better to entice tips. On her hip was a leather sap to better control the advances that generally came in lieu of tips. Her reddish blond curls were quickly escaping her red headscarf and her apple cheeks were flushed red from the heat of the store-room where she'd gone for a puff or two of her pipe.

So it was that the bellows of the customer weren't in the least welcome. Florie rolled her blue eyes and set her pipe into the holder near the stove and with a last few rings blown up into the thatching overhead she walked out behind the bar proper with a patently happy smile on her face that didn't make it to her eyes. She took one look at the Barbarian and knew she'd be employing the sap rather than getting tips.

"Good day to you fine Sir! Ale it is, just tapped this keg today!"

She walked past him and lifted down a battered tankard and with deft movements poured out a full measure and plunked it down in front of him.

[Unlit]

Ragnor to Florie, at the Bar

Ragnor regarded Florie with a skeptical scowl as she emerged from the backroom. The skepticism ended, however, when he caught sight of her mountainous... dimensions. Bushy blonde eyebrows raising, his eyes widened. The melons on this wench were rather ripe for the harvest, he noted to himself. But the overflowing bounty did not excuse the delay, not in the least!

Ragnor grunted to the kind words offered, and he grudgingly slid coins upon the table. No tip. He sized up the quality and quantity of the ale with a curt glance, then put his sour stare back upon the wench.

"What sorry hovel is this that a man has to shout for a wench to serve him? In the North, wenches know how to serve without being told!" He snorted and nodded firmly to her for good measure. Then he snatched up his ale, taking a hearty pull, gulping noisily as he drained near half of it before it touched the counter again.

[Lillian Thorne]

Florie to Ragnar at the bar

Florie's quick eyes added up the coins and felt her jaw tighten. Lots of hot air, no tip. Lovely. Still she kept on her best smile despite the buffoon's next words. She was used to bad behavior, it came with the territory but still there was only so much a wench could take and his insults followed by his piggish nature proved to be too much for the weary, jaded barmaid. Normally in such instances she weighed the cost of keeping silent against the profit in tip but as she knew straight up that she wasn't likely to get the tip keeping silent lost all appeal.

"Well in the south Wenches may not know how to serve without being told but the men know how to drink like grown-ups, not sloshing their ale down their jerkins like infants still wet from their mother's teats."

She picked up a pewter tankard ostensibly to polish it but really to hold it ready to bash in a barbarian skull should he prove ill mannered. She figured his skull was too thick for a sap to be effective.

[Unlit]

Ragnor to Florie, at the bar

The barbarian's face turned red, and his bushy eyebrows pinched tight in the center, forehead wrinkled with his scowl. Not only was she lazy at her duty, but she back-talked too! Clearly some man had not taken this wench well in hand yet. Someone had obviously shirked their manly duty here. Ragnor grunted in heavy contention at her words, a great disagreeable harrumph!

Although... he did sullenly wipe the spilt ale off his chin.

His next swallow of ale was much more measured, even though the man's glare did not abate. He regarded Florie with a curl of his lip.

"Well... Bah!" he finally exclaimed, a rather intelligent counter-argument from the barbarian. Then his eyebrows rose, and he gave Florie a sly look. Evidently, he thought of something more to add. He spoke again.

"A man cannot help his thirsts, Wench, or his eagerness to quench it. Be gladdened that my thirst this day is for this swill I drink and not for flesh, or I'd throw you over my shoulder and haul you kicking and screaming from here for the taking. That's how a saucy wench is dealt with in my homeland, and she could expect no better! Now fill my cup again..."

He slid the tankard back toward her, a superior gleam in his eyes... eyes that could not help glancing down at the bosom thrust so eloquently by Florie's garb.

[Lillian Thorne]

Florie to Ragnar at the Bar

Florie barked out a short burst of laughter at his comment. It was always the way, just because they saw they thoguth they could have. She knew she encouraged such things by her dress and she would and did tolerate such comments but this one seemed a little dense and would need things spelled out for him.

She carried his empty tankard slowly towards the tap, rolling her hips as she walked and taking her merry time. She filled the tankard but not quite to the top and then sashayed back to him. She slammed the ale down on to the bar and sloshed out another measure. She smiled at him sweetly, her face innocently sunny, her tone friendly and conversational.

"Well I suppose that's the benefit of having such milk-bred wenches in the north, they'll put up with men such as you. Down here, you'll find you aren't man enough for the wenches."

[Heroguy]

The doorway into the tavern opens rather powerfully, causing the door to slam into the wall beside it; not enough to bounce it back into Andre's face, but enough to make a dramatic entrance.

Andre smirked. He stood in all of his glory (both imagined and existing) in the doorway to the tavern. A human of average build but somewhat waxy complexion, his black hair is pulled back into a ponytail of average length. Clad in a luxurious but mobile outfit (cloth, but well-tailored) with bits and pieces of elaborate steel armor, he looked like a princeling returning from the battlefield. At his side was a wide-bladed one-edged rapier with a large, ornate handguard. His features were sharp, and he might have been handsome, but the perpetual condenscending smirk and taunting eyes ensured his continued bachelor status.

Andre, satisfied his entrance was dramatic enough, stepped towards the bar, slipping into a seat two seats down from the barbarian. He waves over Florie. "Wine, elven. I'm in the mood to spend. Today's payday." He smirked at the barmaid, as if he found the barmaid's appearance amusing instead of enticing. Maybe he was used to better, or maybe he was just being a dick.

[Wickedness]

Into the kitchen, meeting with Elanor, soon to be in the infirmary.

~

In through the back door, she stumbled, a muscular caramel arm tensed and sheened in sweat, pressed tightly at her ever-increasing crimson coloured top. Blood glinted in the torchlight, sliding down her taut toned mid-section. Green eyes that usually dazzled and dared the male portion of clientele on weekend nights, held trapped behind long lashes, reddish brown eyebrows knitting them shut. "

Bare feet covered in caked dirt and blood, took two more steps. Her long shapely brown legs were crusted with half-dried mud barely covered by the torn and stained green skirt. Her strong chin snapped up sending red fox coloured braids whipping about her head; the beads frantically clicking and clacking away as the tendrils flew. Full dusky lips trembled before parting revealing crimson lined teeth. "D-Dammit, El... I am hurt, girl," her normally warm and laughing husky voice sounded out low and broken, reflecting her current condition and temper. The staff in her other hand was cracked and missing a poi at one end. "real bad this time.."

Two more steps like a drunkard on a bad day she took and upended several pots and lids. Luckily for her, none held the wicked concoctions of the Mistress of the Dark Bog. Clanking and whirring enough to raise the sleeping dead, the metal cookware scattered about the feet of the 'witch.' A single eyebrow raised from beneath the cowl. Pale hands with midnight tipped talons continued to clutch and stir the large handle of the wooden stick that stirred the latest 'brew' in the 'cauldron.' "Oh dear, my dearie, tis a nigh of madness thou bringst with thee, and a nigh best knew Old Mistress should sour... aye, warn'd thee 'gainst such foolishness, childe o' Flames..." She really was old, but only by the count of the years of humans. Elanor looked still spry for the time she had earned in her life. "Navie, the world works for thee when thou'st dances for the spirits to warm hearts, the world works to only betray when thou'st dances to control spirits to incerate bodies--"

"Enough, El...!" Navenne hissed and fell to her knees, her broken staff breaking free from her weakening grip and sliding across the strangely immaculate floor in the kitchen, "Please... I don't need to hear the "I told you so's" right now! Save it for when I make it out of this alive, girl! Please. El--" Navie cleared her throat and held a more formal tone when she spoke next "--Mistress Duathin El'Alawooin, wounded is the Childe o' Flames, and a bad thing she has done, the Childe does admit. Beg o' thee, Mistress, aid in her time of need."

The single eyebrow lowered beneath the cowl. The pale hands stopped stirring. The Mistress body straightened up, yet shoulders relaxed. A light chuckle escaped her as she reached down and slung an arm around Navenne to help her up. One made a grunt of effort, the other made a grunt of pain as Navenne shakily made her way back to a standing position. "Ahhh... such respects now, childe Navie," as they turned back the way Navenne came Elanor grabbed a satchel and a couple of pouches of 'magical reagents.' Even though the caramel skinned woman was hunched over, her six foot tall frame still held a full head above the pale skinned cross-elf. "Know this: The Mistress does aid thee if only to return the kindness and protection thou'st brought for the Mistress."

Navenne afforded a bubbling giggle despite the pain. "Really, El?" she leaned over and gave the other woman a kiss on her shrouded head, "you sure it's not because you have a fancy or two for me and 'my assets'...?"

A sniff of indignation. "Nay! Tis as the Mistress has spoken of thee... and to keep Navie's blood from tainting a smear upon the Dark Bog's floor! Tis a nasty omen to have a Childe o' Flames blood spilt upon a place o' power...!"

A light playful bump of the hip. "Hmmm... then don't stare too long when I wash up then, lady..."

A sigh of exasperation through a hinted smile. "That mouth closes now. Or drop this foolish girly dead right here, the Mistress will!"

A hand warming up with the power of a Childe o' Flames. "Oh you like it... I know you peek..." The warm golden brown hand stroked the pale pinked cheek.

A sideways glance and a light shaking of the head. "Fool girls with even more foolish words... save heated flirting and coyness for Fool customers believing this dancing fool girl moves hips for men..."

A giggle shyly covered with a hand. "Okay, El, okay. Hush now..." then a wince of pain and a bout of vertigo, "but thank you. Thank you soooo much, girl, for saving me."

"Again...!"

"...again."

A warm squeeze with a muscular arm, a hint of a squeeze right back. No more words were exchanged. To the infirmary Elanor hobbled along, struggling to bear the weight of the larger woman as an alarming slick trailing of crimson followed close behind them.

[tirgesfu]

Gnap waited in the bush outside the back door of the kitchen. He hid easily being just a child of about eight summer seasons. His dirty face and ratty clothes mixed with the shrubs well. It would be hard to know his muddy hair was white, his dirt encrusted skin was fair or his thin frame could run fast. But his bright green eyes were as shiny as rain covered light green leaves. They were opened wide as he watched the wounded lady stumble in the door.

He could hear them talking but the conversation didn’t matter. It was the tone he judged. They were friendly and concentrated on each other. That’s all he needed to know. What mattered to Gnap was the distraction. As they did whatever it was old women and girls did, Gnap snuck in door. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the layout of the place having been lucky once or twice before.

Staying low to the floor hunched on his bare toes his dirty grubby hand reached up to the counter and groped for whatever might be sitting there. Hopefully it was editable.