Pumpkin Spiced Beard

Olek is here at a table, with several empty steins of beer and a couple plates of food now empty. He has several pieces of paper before him, and a quill and pot of ink, and several wadded up pieces of paper off to one side. He is attempting to think, which is not his strong suit.

"...one drinks this, sser?" Chay is at a nearby table. There is a tankard in front of him--a frothy, tall pint with foam on top. It smells suspiciously of something the owner claims is both spicy and pumpkin--but is strangely not.
He stares at it, as though it might bite him. His hands are clenched either side of it--and steeling himself. Steeling himself, he looks over to Olek. "Sser, please forgive this one. This...one was given a...do you know what this is?" he asks.

The door opens with a bang, and a wee Gobbo struggles to close it again. But she manages. She huffs and looks around the Pub. Seeing Chay, she begins moving towards him... her new boots clumping along noisily. Which irritates her, by the expression on her face. "Chay!", she calls out, clumping faster towards the Sith. Acedia peers at the drink on his table, and leans in closer to sniff at it. She wrinkles her nose and recoils from it, hissing.

Olek looks up from attempting to write and looks over at Chay. "That looks like a pumpkin spice beer, it does. It's ... mainly just beer, that tastes a bit off, but it's not awful. You can drink it, if you like. Most people do. Mostly women, I expect, among humans and dwarves. I dunno how it is with Sith, though. You can like it or not, as you see fit." He nods to Acedia, "Hello to you, too," he says a bit flatly.

"...you are ssertain, sser?" Chay says and he looks at the tall, frothy glass as though...as though Olek had suggested frogs might fall from the sky.
Well, in Alexandria they might.
"One has merely not encountered the flavor, ssers. I..." he says, and then, "Pardon this one. This one thinks we have met, sser, though it was briefly. This one is Chay, of the Hunter-Caste," he says to Olek.

Acedia turns to glance at Olek. "Oh, hi.", she says to the Khazad. "It looks like you're trying to write something. Does your temple permit you to do that, even?", she wonders, sweetly. She turns back to Chay. "Chay! Don't drink it. It smells like poison." The Gobbo makes a face, wrinkling her nose up.

Olek nods to Chay, and agrees, "We've met, or at least I've seen you around. I'm Olek Stonesmasher, of the Temple of the Mithral Lady," he uses the dwarvish name for Althea. "I saw you around the Temple District the other day, but too many things going on to say hello to everyone you see, don'cha know." Acedia might notice his brand new and very mithrally armor and shield, which he wasn't wearing when she saw him last. "They do," he says to her. "And more. I'm in a bit of good favor for the moment, so I'm going to milk it for as long as it lasts," he explains.

Erendriel finally enters the place, having gotten lost on the way to going to the fire place, since she always remembers that name. She looks around, tugs on her backpack straps, and consdiers what to eat.

"Good favor, sser?" Chay asks. The sith-makar sits at a table near Olek. There is a tankard on the table in front of him, and his hands are to either side of it.
The tankard is untouched.
Nearby is Acedia, who is probably squinting at Olek! Olek is at the nearby table, some papers in front of him. Erendriel just arrived.

"Are they concerned that you might hurt yourself?", the Gobbo wonders of Olek. "All that blood rushing to your brain, it's probably not used to it." She snorts and grins toothily, and then waves to Erendriel. "Hello Erendriel!" She glances back to Chay, and moves to his side. "Chaaaay. Hello!", she says in a sing-song voice, waving at the Sith.

Olek gathers up most of his papers and quill and pot, and he quaffs the last of his beer, punctuating with a belch because he's all about classy. "Gonna get out of here, I think I'll be able to write home better at the Temple. See you all later," he says, and departs.
Olek spares a glower for Acedia before he heads out, though.

Erendriel goes wide-eyed, and realizes something. "Oh hi," she says with a cheery wave to people she recognizes, and Acedia in particular, before dashing out becuase she clearly forgot something.

There was the sound of some clattering and some awfully noble-sounding swear words that, on closer listen, weren't swear words at all but a combination of terms such as 'fruitcake', 'shin', and 'bugger'. The next unfortunate event was the entrance of the Honourable and Esteemed Professor Emeritus Basil Theodore Cunningsworth, dishevelled-ish, his coat/mantle combination slipping down his sleeve, and looking like he'd just tripped over a pot or something. "I don't mean to alarm you all," he declared loudly, presumably alarming everyone, "but I just tripped over a pot! Or something. Honestly, the littering in this street!" Was he just making this up as he went along? With a shrug the overcoat was back in its rightful place. "Wherein this foul and godawful city might I find some TEA?!"

"Peasse to you," Chay says, as the warrior leaves. The sith-makar settles in his chair again. Or begins to. He ''begins'' to lean back in his chair--because at that moment, the disheveled Professor is arriving, and he leans forward again.
He looks to his drink. And: "Forgive this one, sser. One was given this drink, sser--and one is ssure it is not beer. Perhaps it might be tea? I am afraid this one may not be ass well versed in the manners of the ssoftskins, sser," he says. A glance at Acedia, then the professor.

Acedia looks a bit sad at Erendriel just fleeing suddenly, and catches Olek's glower. The Gobbo turns and grabs Chay's drink, and makes as if to throw it. Her nose wrinkles as the smell returns, but then a loud, bumbling person stumbles into the Fernwood. She stares at him for several long moments after he finishes screaming about pots and tea. "You can get a large POT of tea here, sir. But you shall have to be careful not to trip over it, else you'll spill hot water everywhere."
She still holds the mug of pumpkin grossness in one hand, though the target has long since fled.

"Don't say 'ass', it's unseemly," cautioned Basil T. Cunningsworth to the great big scary looking chap whom would be a future occupant of his nightmares. Despite being wide-eyed and slightly-crazed from the Pot Incident, he was ever obsessed with formality. "And that, if that is tea, I should like it. Please," he instructed the goblin whom he had assumed was the proprietor of this establishment. Smoothing his hair back into its grey-white mop, he turned to look at seating and started passing judgment. Or trying to. Every time he opened his mouth to complain he closed it, because despite assumptions the place was, gasp, CLEAN.

Praise the Dragonfather. That...thing...is not in front of him any more. Chay can draw an easier breath. "This one is grateful, sser," he says to Acedia in lowest tones. "The ssmell..."
The SMELL!
Of course. One has a sensitive...snoot. A downfall of hunter-caste in this instance--and perhaps, this month as The SMELL will begin to permeate every street corner, every merchant's stall, and even Lady Sandiel's beehive-trending hairstyle.
"One is unssure, sser," he says then to Basil, "But perhaps sser, it may be. One is, as one ssuggested, unfamiliar." And then he looks to Acedia, back again.

The Gobbo turns to peer at Chay, and stomps her little foot. "Oh noooow you say something. Hmmph!" The drink is set back on Chay's table, closer still than before. Acedia turns to face Basil then, and stomps her foot again. "You can go and order it yourself, you lazy ass." She blinks. "Ass ass ass ass ass ass!"

Oh? Was this the case? Basil, nonplussed, looked at the goblin like she had insulted his beard. "Forgive me, I am not sure I heard correctly. Aside from repeating a crude and, dare I say, coarse word for 'posterior', AND calling me both lazy AND a posterior," his voice was getting just the littest bit shrill, now, "I must order a fine beverage myself? Are you not a maiden of this establishment?" Basil, in his age, really needed to pick his words better. "Do you not perform services for clients?" Uh oh. It was better than he made it sound, considering it was impossible to be worse. "I wish to have what she," he gestured at the Sith-Makar MALE, "is having. Please!"

"This one..." Chay starts to say and...he has to stop. And start again. "Peasse to your nesst, sser," he says to the professor. "This one is afraid one iss uncertain what one...received, sser. But perhaps sser--one may acquire a second?"
Bravery. SUCH bravery! when faced with such scent! Such SMELL! Yet--he looks to Acedia. One might well imagine smoke curling outwards. One might... "One is glad to fetch the drink, sser," he says, and stands. "The bartender is towards the back, ssers--do you see the gentleman with the towel upon his shoulders, ssers?" he asks, and a flick of the tail gestures that way. Gesturing. With a TAIL!

The Gobbo grins brightly, and nods to Basil. "Oh, alright, one seasonal pumpkin spice slowly aged premium brand locally brewed lager coming right up." Acedia turns, and takes the foul smelling drink, and walks slowly over to Thaepebtc. She gently places the glass upon his table, before him. "Here you go.", she says sweetly... before snagging up the glass and launching its contents at the man. "ASS!"

In the storied and once-vibrant life of the Honourable and Esteemed Professor Emeritus Basil Theodore Cunningsworth, there were moments when his stubborn pigheadedness, entitled attitude, and general venerable-ness got him into trouble. One would think, at sixty-something years of age, he would have learned what said moments were and possibly cultivated some tact. Not that gelatinous cubes and undead nasties packing level drain spells would appreciate polite discourse over tea and lovely little biscuits. No, politeness was extra steps towards an end goal, an attitude he'd learned at Rune and that rendered his family of the High Kingdom aghast, for they were well versed in politeness judo, politeness wushu, and politeness mixed martial-arts.
A drink hitting his face was not the worst thing that had hit his face before, that would be the stone fist of Stalwart, The Rock Golem, some years back. Thank goodness for clerics. But still, setting aside all the waffle, his initial reaction was a shocked cry of, "This isn't tea!" Then, upon consideration of the fact that 'thank goodness this woman hadn't wasted a good pot of tea', he added an anguished cry of "WHYYYYYYYY!" to his current wet, sticky, not at all pleasant state. "My beard! This is going to take MONTHS to clean out! And the smell! My goodness! Did someone ferment a pumpkin in a pickle jar?! Alas and alack!"

"...ssers?" Chay asks. The sith-makar stands to the side. He affects a confused look--one which one might expect of a Charneth or Myrrish servant. Gently confused, honestly flabbergasted. 
"Is everything alright, ssers?" he asks. Then, "This one apologises, ssers. This one was not sure what the drink was," and that part, at least. That part is true!

Her grin is all fang and tooth. "I am not a serving girl.", the Gobbo says quietly, while he is screaming his beard off. "Nor am I some ... maiden to be performing... acts of service." Acedia slams the palm of her hand upon the table. "In this pub, you ask the barkeep or one of the waitstaff for food or drink. Not the patrons of said pub." She leans in close, and the pumpkin spice hits her, causing her to retch momentarily, her nose wrinkling almost comically. "Oh gross... wet beard mixing with pumpkin spice... gaaah."
Acedia turns her head and breathes for dear life, slowly backing away from Basil. "And for the record, you're one pompous ASS!"

"Ack!" exclaimed Basil, the smell seeping into his soul, now. Pumpkin! Fermented pumpkin! Perish the thought. Perish the IDEA! Basil T. Cunningsworth, upset, harrumphed loudly! Then, there was a quick hand-movement and some words in a long-dead language and a couple of arcane sparks flicked from his hands. He opened that hand, pointing at his face, and a loud noise akin to wind flying very rapidly down a tunnel started up, his hair whipped back, and the smell slowly dissipated. From him, at least. Any unfortunate sod behind him was not so lucky. With the sound of the wind dying down, Basil was as fresh as a newborn... that had been aged sixty-something years. Much better. "Excuse me? I am not pompous!" exclaimed Basil with no small amount of pomp. "I am refined, and wise!" he complained to the person who was telling him off. Keep diggin', buddy. The thought of an apology, heinous as it were, didn't even cross his mind.

"And one... "Escuse this one, ssers. One remembers hearing mention of a turkey sstew this evening, on the menu?" Chay suggests. The barbaric scaled one, there in his Am'sheri-colored coat. With the hunter's wraps about his legs.
One just...has this drive, this sense to NOT die. Not today. Not at least, via the terror of pumpkin spice. He has had the plague. He has survived.
This somehow seems...so much worse! And, his friend is heading out the door. The professor seems to be vibrating with...do softskins explode? Do they...? He takes a step to the side.
"Perhaps one sshall fetch a bowl, or three, ssers," the sith-makar says. In the midst of the chaos. Not acknowledging it. Refusing to. Pretending it is not there. "One hears it is quite...good..." he says, and takes a step back. Preparing to vanish, at least to the bar.
A 'safe' distance.

"You are the very model of a pompous major ass!", the Gobbo says. She observes his spell and snorts. "Ah, I get it. An apprentice finally allowed out of his master's tower, going about town, throwing some coins at people, expecting to be waiting upon hand and foot like he served his master. Acedia shakes her head. "Not how the outside world works, mister pompadour. Hopefully a glassful of pompous-kin spice will have brought you down a smidge?"
She stomps one of her little feet again. "Maiden! Maiden?! Just how do you get off callin' me one o'them. I oughta kick your sorry... what was it you said? POSTERIOR!" The Gobbo crosses her arms and huffs, and looks away, peering at Chay for a moment. "And you've not even said hello yet!", she growls.

"ExCUSE me?!" boomed Basil, standing up from his seat to his full not-imperious-though-he-thought-so height of not-even-six-foot. "Apprentice? I fought the Great Golem of Stalwart, bested a gelatinous cube, survived Ergahil the Lich and his undead flunkies! NEVERMIND that I am old!" The act of prestidigitation added possibly-but-not-likely imposing sparks to each declaration, not an active effort, just his temper going off like an old man died, "I have slain foes the likes of which would make you cry in terror in your bed, begging for the end of the world! No power sapping spell nor the ravage of time can end my legacy!" And boy was his power sapped. Look at him. Parlour tricks. Basil shook his fist to the heavens, letting out another cry of anguish and pain! "Why, Navos, must you forsake me?! I inscribed forgotten knowledge in your name, recovered histories, memories, religions, and here I am, cast out and... and..." he spat on the floor, unintentionally inviting the wrath of the owner in the very near future, "OLD!"

"One ssuggests the turkey sstew is quite good, ssers," Chay suggests. He looks to Acedia, wide-eyed. "One meant to, sser--but the ssmell, sser. I..."
"Forgive this one, sser. It was overwhelming. I...perhaps ssome sstew, ssers?" he suggests, sounding somewhat desperate by now. "One hears good things of it, ssers. I..."
He takes a step back. Another, towards the bar.

Acedia's expression changes to bright and cheery as she nods to Chay. "That sounds delicious! May I have two please? I'll pay." She looks back to Basil. "No. I will not excuse you. You've not done anything that would allow me to reward you with that." She snorts and then cackles, widening her eyes to show off the sclera... pitch black. "I survived the plague. I survived the Arcanist's Dungeon! I killed a demon! You don't scare me at all!" She huffs at the man. "So old. Perhaps you should take him up on his offer of you're a turkey.. I mean, turkey stew." The Gobbo grins toothily once more. "Victory is mine!" She holds up two fingers in the V symbol. "Still undefeated!" She's now very interested in what Chay is about to be ordering, moving to the Sith's side.

"Huh, wha, pha, pht, bht, bha," Basil sputtered. Basil sputtered at length. Here he was, complaining about having lost the lofty heights of power he once had, and this goblin was turning it into a urinating contest! Not literally, of course, there were back alleys for that. Basil, being Basil, hadn't even considered there were other people in the room with him and he was interacting with them! And one of them was making a RUDE GESTURE in his direction! "WELL I NEVER!" exclaimed the old man, old as he is. He was irritable, see, because he hadn't yet had tea. "I shall not be partaking in the frequenting of this establishment further, should the staff," yes, he'd forgotten the goblin was not an employee, "be so RUDE!" With a loud harrumph, he said, "Good day!" And then followed that up with "I SAID GOOD DAY!" as he stalked out the door.