More Ox
Tenebrae - Monday, May 19, 2014, 8:20 PM
-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-<* A06: Ox-Strength Tavern *>--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-
The Ox-Strength Ale Tavern is known for being one of the most dangerous dives in the city. Frequented by the worst sailors, mercenaries, thugs and looters, the place is hardly the prettiest nor the tidiest of taverns, though--of late, that has been changing. Locals claim the once foul-tasting food "No longer burns the stomach--as much, anyways." Plates show signs of repair instead of cracks, though the still infamous odor of old beer and stale sweat insists on hanging about the place, and the smell of brine is near-constant.
What used to be bricked-up windows have been somewhat opened. Heavy bars let in a reluctant breeze and prevent the clanging of heads against glass (which seems nearly afraid to exist). Bloodstains adorn both the nearby walls and the bricks themselves from thrown patrons and fists.
The lights are dim, a few oil lamps hung from hooks in the splintered ceiling beams. A smattering of tables, scratched and carved into by many a blade, dot the expanse of the floor. Most of the tables are arranged in a wide circle to give plenty of room in the center of the bar for hasty escapes or the routine bar-brawl or fight. A worn-out steam piped stove sometimes provides warmth to the tavern. Occasionally an aging dog of some mangy breed or another can be seen sleeping near the stove or by the bar itself. Overhead the fireplace is a tribute to Rada, the patron of fishermen and rivermen everywhere.
Towards one side, there is also a bedraggled dart board. Type +view here/darts to begin a game.
Loud, rowdy, obnoxious, smelly, and usually belligerent describes the common scene at the Ox and tonight is no different. However, despite all it's short comings, one thing that can be appreciated is that most people will leave you alone if you're here. Especially if you're a Giantborn that towers over all of them, and drink his ale out of a bucket. Such is the case for Bor, and he happily obliges the fact that this is one place he can allow his mind to wander. Having learned long ago not to use the chairs in most establishments, he sits on the floor, with his back up against the wall. Bor's table is pulled close to his position, bucket of ale nearby, and his eyes not focusing in on any of the action around the tavern.
Loud and obnoxious?
That's just the place for Sandy! She storms inside and moves towards a table as well, dropping into it. She double takes when she notices Bor, though ,and blinks at him. "Oh, the fuck."
Svarshan pushes open the door. It thuds against the wall in a way reminiscent of an old fist punching wood. Another Sunguard or two are with him, though they spread out as soon as they enter. Most of them head towards the fireplace, talking amicably between themselves.
"Hey, Bor!" one of them calls out, before they all snag chairs and begin to order.
Svarshan follows more slowly. He keeps looking to the side distractedly, and the nod he gives the others is just as distracted, if not more so.
Munch typically isn't allowed in kitchens. For a number of reasons. Most of them very good reasons. So it shouldn't be too much of a susprise he's being shooed out. "No, really, just a pinch of powdered limestone over top. You'll like it!"
Tipping back the bucket in hand, Bor gulps down a few long drinks, and hears his name called. Looking around the common room, his eyes first fall on Sandy, still unsure about her, he raises his bucket in salute. Then as his gaze sweeps the crowd he sees his Brothers in Arms (hard to miss, most of the time), and offers another raise of his 'mug'. Finally his eyes fall on Svarshan, and his grin widens slightly, "Aye, Well Met Brightscales!" His voice booms over the crowd, and waves him over to the table "Salt of the Earth types here... Good place for a drink..."
Svarshan does a double-take at the golem 'Munch' being shoved out the door. His eyes narrow in thought, though whatever was there gets distracted at the giantborn's hail. He pauses again...then makes his way over. "You. Cleared sssome space," he says amusedly. Then his words become more somber, "Trip to the. Hellss...drinking it. Off," he adds, with a thrust of the jaw towards the other Daeusites.
Verna's entrance might easily be missed in the cacophony of the tavern. Perhaps it is best that way. She is neither loud, nor boisterous, nor remotely large and/or imposing. Quite the opposite, as she barely spares a hand from the tome she reads to open the door.
Why would she select such a location? Perhaps she holds a fondness for the stew (without the limestone garnish). Perhaps other shall be far too occupied with boasting, inebriation, or brawls to interrupt her reading. Perhaps, following said brawling, some may need escort to the chirugeon or her Lady's Hall.
Munch nods, looking to Bor. "Yes, right, salt of the earth! Limestone's a salt. Sorta. With a nice citric aftertaste. It's not even poisonous!"
Setting the bucket down, Bor's face takes on a solemn cast, and he nods his head in understanding at the other Paladin's words. "Glad to see ya'll made it back..." as a serving girl comes over, he looks at Svarshan, "...anything ya want?" His eyes do slide past the Sith'makar, focusing on the Golem, curiosity evident, but quickly returns his gaze to make sure he doesn't miss Svarshan's order. "Uhm..." his concentration broken momentarily, "Thinkin' more o' the people than what goes in my belly?" he replies to Munch with a chuckle.
Ordering herself a mug of ale, Sandy settles into her chair comfortably (it only creaks a little) and she gives it a look. She then eyes Bor some more because he's thgere. And it rhymes.
Jibbom abruptly throws open the doors of the tavern, marching inside and spreading his wings wide. "Citizens, behold!" He bellows. "It is I, Steel Von Ironblood, Bane of the Night, Alexandrian Hero! And I have come... to drink with you!" Oh no.
A bare thought, a brief lowering of jaw. Then, "Rum," says the sith. Dark eyes spark with the word, cheerful but wretched as he grasps a chair and turns it around. Sits beside the giantborn. As large as he is, with a warrior's scars and form, he's bare half the other man's size. "Old. Black Rum," he says, the words taking on the lyric of a popular tavern song, before looking over to Munch. Then to Verna, "We will not need you sservices after all, Gray One. But praisse to the. Lady. And thank you for Her. Vigilan--" he breaks off, his mouth hanging open like a gutterfish.
Because.
Otherwise, the room is crowded and full. Typical for a day at the Ox. The food is cheap and mostly bad, though the ale and rum run plentiful.
Munch blinks at Bor. "No... pretty sure they get all kinds of upset when you put people in the stew. Even as a garnish." He glances sidelong at Sandy. "Putting stew on people, also not good, but more socially accepted."
Verna's tome lowers and her hood lifts as it turns towards the scarred Sith. "I presume that none are deceased nor grievously wounded, in that case. I am rather surprised. Perhaps he is to blame." The large tome slips slightl towards Jibbom before it, and Verna, move to a table.
"Rum it is!" Bor rumbles in response, and hands the girl the coins needed. At about that time comes Jibbrom's entrance, and Bor's grin widens even further "Gods, I love this place..." Raising his bucket in salute, he bellows back in return "Then come drink! It's all bad, but there's lots o' it!!" Chuckling still, the Giantborn nods his head in agreement with Munch, "Aye. People like to eat their stews, but not wear 'em or be parts of it." With a respectful nod in Verna's direction, before saying to Svarshan "There's Sandy. Saw her at Goblintown real quick, but didn't have much time to talk... You're right, she seems familiar..."
"I sssuspect. He iss here for. Sandy," to Verna. Svarshan is quiet for a while after that, but some paladins are wiser than others...or perhaps there's something foolhardy in them all, something foolish, something willing to take a risk where someone more prudent (read: possessing of common sense) would not. An almost-smile accompanies it, and looks from the sildanyari to the lucht, as though there was a thought or two forming in that skull of his. He nods towards Bor as the giant speaks up, but whatever thought this is, apparently occupies what few brain cells he has left, these days, after a bout or two with demons.
Munch blinks to Verna. "It's the Ox. Sure someone will be injured soon enough." A glance to Sandy, and then to Jibbom. "Espically tonight."
Predictably enough, Jibbom swaggers towards Sandy with a grin full of misplaced confidence. "Well, hello there, my no longer ex-former-maybe-wife." He waggles his eyebrows. "Care to dance?"
Verna's hood pans to Jibbom, then again to follow him on his Sanywards route of swagger. "I will prepare a barrel. I expect that many emptied are available." The tome is, for the moment, of secondary interest. This could prove entertaining, educational, or some combination thereof.
Not quite following the flow of the conversation, the Giantborn shrugs a large shoulder, and tips back the rest of his bucket. The serving girl returns with the rum for Svarshan, and dutifully another bucket for Bor. "Aye, m'lady. Thank you, kindly." Which draws a chuckle from the small girl, and he lets out a long sigh. "My friend, drinks are here... what should we raise our glass to?" his gaze turning to Svarshan for any ideas.
"It iss good. We have a priest," Svarshan says to Bor, once the brain cells have collided, once they have produced enough static to form the bare words. A slow smile comes with the words, and a glint of... the slow, almost-hidden glint of mischief, with it.
Because, of course. By popular rumor. Paladins possess no sense of humor.
And so the face stays stoic, but nearby, the eyes give it away, even as he nods towards the studious Mourner. "A priessst. Jibbom wass saying earlier. Thiss week. He sshould give Sandy another chance. What better than a. Priesstess of Death to witness. Hiss endeavors?" He thumps his tail in salute to Verna, and when the giantborn speaks up...grips Bor's mug (as his own has not yet arrived), and hoists both their arms skyward. "To courtsship!" he roars! "To marriage! CIHUAAAA!"
Munch shrugs. "When in doubt raise your mug to the sky." The golem blinks, and looks around a moment. "Just a sec, need to get a mug..." The artifical man is served swift enough, as he tends to go looking for himself otherwise, and that doesn't end well.
On that note, Verna raises one small, gloved hand, "I will also require a mug, please." She does not specify the contents. In truth, she expects that would make little difference. Swill is fairly uniform, regardless of its origins.
Munch ahs, and fetches a second mug for Verna. Or rather, hands her his mug and gets a second for himself. Which is likely dangerous. Swill, is indeed, fairly uniform. Booze, however, is not. Espically when it comes to Gunpowder Whisky. Suffice to say it's not typically served in mugs, nor around open flame.
Watching as his bucket is hoisted skyward, his eyes shifting between Sandy to Jibbom to Svarshan to Verna, Bor is pretty much at a loss for anything other than "Aye!" and waits to get a chance to take a drink from his ale to go along with his gesture.
"..."
Sandy seems rekably strong. You know, those big heavy pewter mugs they give you sometimes at bars? One just shattered in her hand.
Clearly, this shattering is a sign that she is OVERJOYED.
Jibbom just beams at the reaction his greeting receives. "Ah, the ceremonial shattering of mugs. I have studied the ways of your lithe and beautious people from several informative illustrated phamplets I found in Goblintown. As I understand it, shattering things is a sign of great affection and arousal in your kind, right?" Jibbom seems thrilled by this deduction.
Svarshan keeps the mug hoisted a moment, before letting go and nudging Bor then, companiably. When the pewter jug shatters, he nods once, as though they had been gifted with some, grave ceremony. Paladins. Some of them may just possess no common sense. Or perhaps, a lack of fear. ...or both. ...or a love of risk-taking. Or insanity. One or the other must explain the slow humor that's overtaken the sith's features in the face of such mighty hippage.
...And that...a few of the ones who had come in earlier are beginning to hum, or tap out a tune. Nothing else, though. Just the suggestion of a tune, which sounds all the world like: "Meri Mac."
Sandy is /glaring/ at Svarshan even more. Then she just looks at Jibbom. Just looks at him and says a single, word.
"/No/."
The to Svarsahn, she says, "You know the furniture here breaks really easy, right?"
"If I may make a suggestion," Verna offers in Jibbom's direction, "I believe that you overlooked a very important part of the process. A suitor must first prove himself worthy." As female and partially sil, she is qualified to make the observation and suggestion.
"Hrm..." Bor rumbles as he takes not of the response, not sure, but pretty sure that it isn't what Jibbom thinks it is... Then the words, followed by Death Glare, followed by more words. "Maybe he's been lookin' at the wrong books?" Picking up his drink, Bor takes a long chug, and sputters as he finally catches onto the tune. He again looks between the assembled group, and mutters, "Oh boy..."
Munch blinks innocently at Sandy. "No it doesn't. All the flimsy stuff is smashed before dinner. By now, only the stout stuff's left."
'There's a neat little lass and her name is Sandi-Mac
Make no mistake, she's the girl I'm gonna track...'
The chorus picks up, along with some throat-clearing as...when Sandy glares at them and the priest of Death speaks up, a few of the Sunblades find reason to invest in their drinks.
"It iss. A favorite. ...that and. Old. Black Rum. ...but one..." Svarshan pauses here, his features growing still as he reaches for the brain cells, the words, the... "...changes. It. For when we. Hunt." Longer pause. "...but mosst of the time. We are very. Ssserious. There iss no humor among the Orders, Bor," he says solemnly, gravely. A partial smile breaks through, though, from the corner of his muzzle. It is sad and slow, and he nudges the giant, eventually. "Welcome. Home."
Jibbom is undeterred. He waddles forward and offers Sandy his hand, beaming happily. "Come, let us enjoy the dance! My grace is rivaled only by my amazing heroic power. Can you not hear the excitement of the crowd, thrilled by the coming together of two such legendary heroes? Would you deny them their joy? Would you deny... your heart?"
She is bleeding, you know. Sandy is. You don't smash a pewter mug like that without cutting your hand at least somewhat. She looks down at her hand. Then at Jibbom. Then down at her hand. Then at Svarshan. She is clearly pondering which one of them she wants to kill more right now. There are no words.
/NO WORDS/.
Munch considers himself something of an alpha predator. Top of the food chain. Any food chain. But... Sandy... the metal man just stays still and quiet. He's simple, not stupid.
"Ahh... Home." The Giantborn says the word, letting it roll easily off the tongue, "Aye... like the sound of that." Then taking another long drink, "Seems I'm in need o' taking a bit of a walk..." Slowly standing up, he lets out a long sigh, "...this place is such fun." As he walks by Jibbom and Sandy, he does comment "Careful, friend. I'm thinkin' she might not give back what ya offer unless it's in pieces... and in an unpleasant place... but good luck to ya." His stride slightly unsteady as he makes his way towards the privvy, singing his own song "Feel the fire, she's entering the ring, The Sildanyar will break you in two..."
Bor has left.
The rum arrives, and Svarshan eases back into his chair with an old creak, and a sigh. It sounds like an old wind, the kind heard on a back porch, while rocking on old boards. He looks over at Bor, an arm draped over each knee, and thumps the tail, once. "Take. Your maul," he says slowly, and then looks back towards the fray, towards Munch and Verna, Jibbom and Sandy. He's quiet a while before asking, slowly, "And what ssshould he do. To prove hiss love?" the question is addressed the Gray Lady's servant.
After a moment, Sandy gets up. She walks towards Svashan and kicks him in the shin. Then says, "Jibbom. I want to kick Svarshan in the shin. Repeatedly. Can you do that?" That's a start.
"Anything to prove my devotion, my cranky jewel!" Jibbom begins kicking Svarshan in the shin. This would probably be annoying if Jibbom weren't so pathetically flabby and weak.
Munch eyes Jibbom's efforts. "...maybe if you hit the same place... sorta wear it away. Water wears away stone, eventually..."
"Ow," says the reptile. Because Sandy can kick. Still, see re: above, the foolishness of some paladins. He lifts his drink. A salute and a nod, in the Myrrish-style. "To your beautiful-ow-marriage. Ow." He contines saying it so long as Jibbom is kicking him mightily! ...and then falls over, abruptly.
CRASH!
...with the mug held over his chest like the most precious of Death-flowers.
"I want you to keep doing that, Jibbom. For as long as you can manage. Okay?" says Sandy, brightly. The nshe sits back down. She is annoying Svarshan now and thus her life is complete. Momentarily. She does kick him first, though.
The tail animates itself post-death and nudges Jibbom towards Sandy. There is a zombie-whisper: "The monssster is. Felled. Take the girl!"
"Interesting," Verna observes. "I would have suggested self-flagellation. No matter. I will prepare his soul for the journey when it is time." She lifts her tome and resumes reading.
And then... "The priessst is. Here." 'The monster' closes his eyes again.
Munch eyes Svar with ever so slight worry. Von Ironblood does tend to have a weird habit of victory. But at the tail twitch, the golem relaxes again, glancing to the Mourner. "Might be a good time to start getting ready. By the time are prepared, may be time to go."
"Is this some sort of elven remarriage custom?" Jibbom asks as he continues to feebly kick Svarshan.
"Keep it up," says Sandy to Jibbom, "No. You have a great many kicks before it reaches that point. You have to keep going." Solemn tone. She has herself a long drink. She needs it. Then to Verna: "Do not listen to him."
Svarshan opens an eye, and then quickly closes it.
Munch shrugs, and settles back to drink himself, while keeping an eye on the ficking... 'feeble kicking'. "If you actually hurt him, I may have to throw you though a window." The golem glances towards the front of the tavern. "The ones with bars on them." He shrugs almost apologetic. "Tavern brawl rules."
Verna's hood tilts as she considers. "There is no reason that a celebration of conjunction could not occur with a celebration of the journey beyond." After a moment, she adds, "It would provide twice the justification for inebriation."
"So like... five more?" Jibbom asks, continuing to repetitively kick the poor Sith'Makar. He sounds very optimistic about all this.
Svarshan makes a 'gaaauuk' sound, and relaxes as though dead. Admittedly, he shifted...a little. There was an itch there. Jibbom's foot size? /Perfect/!
GAME: Svarshan rolls bluff: (7)+7: 14
GAME: Jibbom rolls sense motive: (20)+2: 22
"Keep it up, Jibbom," repeats Snady, "You've got /thousands/ to go." She is solemnly stating this. There is, you know, no end to the kicking.
Munch glances to Svar, glances to Sandy, glances to Jibbom, glances back to Sandy. "How will he know? Doesn't have that many fingers."
"Double time!" Jibbom begins alternating kicks with each leg, both to pick up the pace and to keep his foot from being tired. He does seem to be aiming for Svarshan's itchy spot.
"Oh. That feels gooood. Svarshan leans into the scra--the kick a few times, before opening an eye and looking up at the lucht. "Do you want to go. Hunting. Tomorrow?" he asks. Visit the Hells. Iceblast a few things. ...because only the insane would enjoy such an endeavor.
To set the scene: Jibbom stands there mightily, kicking the downed sith-makar as Sandy cackles and wrings her hand, whispering twisted words of encouragement into Jibbom's ear. Munch stands there idly drinking, while Verna takes notes within her inscrutable tome.
Pendleton comes into the tavern ... carefully, pipe in hand, followed by a young dwarf pulling a hardcart heavily laden with firkins. What the hell is a firkin? Well, it's a little smaller than a kilderkin, and a LOT smaller than a tierce! ... small barrels, illiterates. Sniff.
"...great. That's a great idea! Jibbom, go hunting with Svarshan. And be sure to be as /loud/ as possible. The animals love that," says Sandy, solemnly, and sotto-voiced to Jibbom.
GAME: Sandy rolls bluff: (4)+28: 32
Munch glances to Sandy. He knows better... but she sounds sincere... that in and of itself is suspicious...
"AND SO I SHALL!" Jibbom declares enthusiastically without ceasing in his kicking.
"Devilss. Not animals. /Hell/. Ssso we shhould be. Quiet." Svarshan half-squints at the demonic sildanyari. And then reaches up and grasps...a chair, to haul himself ever so slowly, to his feet. Kick. Kick kick kick! "Ow," he says, after a moment. Then, "Ow."
Pendleton eyes the lively crowd (cough) as he and the dwarf make their way in to help restock. Pendleton himself finds a chair and lowers himself in, puffing away at his pipe. Apparently HIS part of the job is done.
After a moment. "I will go and. Fetch you a drink so you may. Continue ssslaying. Me," to Jibbom. And then he limps off, you know, because above all, a paladin must honor a love story, a love tale. The tragic pairing of Sandy and Jibbom, its divine and tumultuous nature...for nothing worthwhile was ever given easily. And so this must be. By the gods themselves.
One does what one can, under direction of the most sacred.
And so he limps, tragically, after a nod to Munch. To get Jibbom more beer from the just-arrived cart, that the Lady Sandiel may be so rightfully and romantically woo'd.
Perhaps Munch might offer kind words of advice.
Svarshan has left.
"Oh, yes. I'm sure Steel Von Ironblood and his angelic wings of flight will fit in /great/." Sandy seems somewhat amused by this, then she watches him limp out and laughs. She finds this hilarious, apparently!
Munch peers for a long moment at the 'angelic' wings, then eyes Sandy. "...well, they -do- say opposites attract..."
Sandy immediately throws another mug at Munch.
"They shall quake in fear of my awesome holy majesty!" Jibbom says, spreading his wings wide. "But... it may be dangerous. I may be HEROICALLY SLAIN!" Jibbom feigns terror. "There is no choice. We must complete the marriage ceremony immediately, so that my beloved Sandy will inherit my vast fortune in the event of my heroic sacrifice for the good of us all. Are there are priests around?"
Munch just blinks as the mug bounces off his metal skin, and cracks open his face to let his long black tongue lap up a bit of the spilled booze left behind. "Think we might find a priest or two. wouldn't hurt to have more than one, just ot make it extra offical."
And then there's another mug thrown at Munch. What a waste of booze. Sandy then nods towards Jibbom. "Yes, of course. Yeroically. Your death will be a song for the ages. Just ask the priestess." She gestures at Verna.
Pendleton has left.
Verna has disconnected.
- TinyMUX Disconnected ***