Lith — Roleplayer Guild

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<< Lobby Entrance - Main Tavern Floor >>

Huh..?

Wasn't this too long? Wasn't it!?

One moment, two. Three. Four? Huh? 

And then that familiar rush of blood. Omi Barsait's pupils danced in tight figure eights of manic flourish shaking wildly. No. This entire situation had taken on a new context entirely. There was no maid. No servant. No butler. There were "spectators" and "consumers" yes, but nobility, no. This was truly a despicable display of sloth on his part, to not catch on. This wasn't where he belonged. This wasn't a safe location. This wasn't respite from the harsh outer winds. No doubt then, these materials weren't what they seemed either; stone? Wood? No, the walls seem to be made out of a strange, otherworldly material that no human eye has seen before, and the patrons are all creatures from beyond our realm. It, this facade, was enough to make even the bravest soul quiver in fear! Sharp teeth sealing together and gritting as a physiological response, the adrenaline began coursing rapidly. 

Probable, possible, fantastical predictions:

 -This was another world.
 -This was a tangible dream of some kind, a psion's domain.
 -This was our world, but time had been twisted in some fashion.
 -Omi had been slipped some kind of mind altering substance and could no longer trust any of his senses.

Never one mind the other possibilities, these were enough to decide this was a situation worth the utmost response. It could be assumed, and therefore had to be assumed, that every wandering eye was a feat of scrying, and every jovial laugh in the background was a fabricated patch to the carpet of ambiance meant to further distort where the threat would come from. Oh those sickening fits of drunken laughter and banter in the background were crude attempts at imitating human speech they were. Certainly hinting their threat. Hairs on his skin begun their raising habit, his breathing although quiet flooding his lungs with more oxygen whilst something bristled against the interior of his flesh like veins pulsing. The previously loosely wound man fishing for food was now wide awake and no longer imitated typical behavior like blinking; for he dare not lose alertness now - everything needed scanned, investigated, probed if need be. Just as they were him right now. If there were some patrons nearby, gazing at him, then that was no doubt what was being done to his person; one giant sensory organ taking him in. Watching for every subtle weakness. Ready to break him.

He-

Too quiet to hear amidst the conversations which had bled together in his ears was the man's left hand covered in metal gently planting its palm and rivets against his own face, sharp dark silver fingertips softly easing into his long flowing hair and brushing some of it it aside as the warmth flushed back into his flesh with an oh so personable smile. Even one keeping an extra close eye on the human's position would without constant observation of his expression or perhaps a more invasive measure of brain chemistry, see someone impatiently awaiting their service as loudly declared. Nothing more. 

No, this was a tavern after all! Oh what a relief. 

Yet unlikely to be for noble's blood come to think of it. Otherwise he wouldn't need to signal for staff, staff would have already served him hand and foot. What relief. That really wouldn't have turned out so swell in hindsight but now, rather than the moments before dawn with all the apprehension for the light of day's battlefield, there was only relaxation in the eve. A slow rolling exhale between his full lips as the serotonin in his brain began to balance out properly. 

<< Alcoholic Establishment >>

Yet, this fine development had not excused the lack of service. Meandering briefly before finding his way to the main selling point of most taverns, there were certainly people here. Murmurs, bodily interactions, a mumbling ocean or perhaps more to scale pond of words and imbibing; to slurp down alcohol meant someone served it to you. That logic tracked easily. 

Naturally stepping over to an empty spot at the bar, a soothing version of the somewhat grating roar earlier flowed out from his gentle smile aimed obliviously out at nowhere because frankly, Omi had no idea who was supposed to be a staff member. Nobody around fit the bill. Not one soul. That's the trouble with commoner joints. Less pretentious vomit, yet rarely tends to be a "uniform," and what an utter waste of time that entails.  

"Pardon me, alms for the thirsty. Something hard, please." Reaching into his rather ornate bottom dressing, out came a few coins with a bizarre but gray composition which then clinked together with his right hand's index and middle finger rather loudly twice. The message was clear: he didn't care anymore if employees or a thief served him as long as they gave him top menu booze and took his money so the presumed town guard didn't harass him later.

The particulars of this establishment still hadn't dawned on this man, but his interpretation now was far more amicable than the last iteration thereof. Truly something to celebrate.
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