Redcovey

TNT - The Nameless Tavern. (Always Open)

Niccola Sheeran

"Hope is a sour desire"

Tall, extremely thin, almost to the point of being gaunt, with a long face, thin mobile lips and narrow eyes of a clear blue. Her skin is neither dark nor pale, with a dusting of freckles on wind-burned cheeks. Her hair is black and bound in a thin braid that falls to the back of her knees. She favors loose clothing, utility over looks.

Age:
37

Gender:
Female

Rich or Poor?:
Eh...she makes her own way

Power Descriptions:
None. She's just a run-of-the-mill human

Skills:
Able fighter. Not the strongest and not the stealthiest, but often the quickest. A fair hand at poetry, passable singing voice, and fair amount of wood lore

Personality:
Quiet, and a bit melancholy, but with a quick smile. She enjoys music and poetry in addition to storytelling and long talks with friends.

Biography:
Originally from a small village on the eastern cost of Ireland during the mid 9th century, her father was a blacksmith and her mother skilled in women's work. Both died of disease when she was young and she took up with a Norseman, Asger, sailing and fighting alongside him for many years as he raided. After a decade Asger lost his arm and the pair settled the small bit of land that had once been Niccola's parents. Asger raises sheep and barley while Niccola struggles to learn how to be a farm-wife, dreams of old glories, and laments their lack of children.

Likes:
Gold, stew, poetry, warm fire, wine, the ocean, summer, traveling

Dislikes:
dogs, strangers, priests, rhubarb, and storms

Fears:
Old age

Weaknesses:
Children, a toe that aches in the winter

The Surly Wench Inn

Tamarin, bartender/owner. Short, and full bodied, mid to late thirties. Reddish hair to her shoulders, hazel eyes. Wears loose dresses. Doesn't speak much and her face is often inexpressive. No magical abilities to speak of or fighting prowess. Intelligent. Daughter of the previous bartender, Tavish and his wife Sophie.

The Surly Wench Inn

It is early morning at the Inn and Tamarin moves around on soft feet. A nameless hunk of meat is placed in the large oven atop a bed of vegetables for those of huge hunger and no taste buds. A new cask of beer is tapped behind the large imposing bar and puddles of stale brew from the night before are smeared over the bar with Tamarin's spotted rag. She lifts the wooden bar from the door and takes up her station behind the bar. Her hazel eyes watch the door impassively and her chewed nails are gnawed on again.

The Surly Wench Inn

The Surly Wench Inn sits on a dusty nondescript hilltop that could be anywhere. In a way, it is anywhere. And anywhen. It stands at a crossroads, not of twining ribbons of road but of the fabric of our worlds. Spacers drink with cowboys, maidens play darts with evil scientists, and demons dance the gavotte with post-humans. Many find the inn by mistake, never to return after their first visit, while others have the knack and come back again and again. There are simple rooms upstairs to let, certified flea-free and the common room is warm. The beer is cold, the roast beast hot, and the chairs not too hard. Presiding over it all is the surly wench Tamarin, no surname that she admits to. She tends the bar with a grudge, wipes counters with a mildewed rag, speaks ten languages, brews her own beer and ages her own pumpkin brandy. She doesn't smile much, speaks even less, but listens without judgement. Come have a seat, spin a tale, and learn a thing.