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 Posted: Fri Aug 21, 2009 12:20 pm
The tavern was in it's usual state. It had two people fighting in the corner, lots of people at tables enjoying the atmosphere, a group of shady looking people discussing who knows what, and people at the bar getting hammered. Rhayne walked into said establishment singing...
"Harken to me and sing I shall,
For this is a tavern home to many,
Many tales I have in my mem'ry,
But I sha'nt be forced to tell any."
Everyone laughed and cheered at the final verse of his personal song. There was not a person in town that hadn't heard his song at least once. And a great deal of them would hear it once a week. Rhayne liked to sing and dance to entertain the people of the Salty Sea-Serpent, and he wouldn't give it up for the world. He sat down at his usual spot at the bar and ordered, "The usual Benny!" More cheers could be heard. The usual consisted of a round for everyone. He twirled around in his chair and leaned against the bar, soaking in the adoration.
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Posted: Sat Aug 29, 2009 9:36 am
Coulton was sitting nearby, telling a group of travelers of his tales of he sea. It was always the same old story, mixed in with a few elements of fiction to give it spice, but the general outline and sequence of events was unchanged. He took a sip of his ale and went on.
"Now then, did I get to the part where that old dock hag steered me the wrong way that one time? Turns out she wasn't telling me directions to the Cove of Concealment after all. It was more like a hellhole of forgotten monsters. Yes, I did see the Kraken there. That's where he usually lurks. But I bested these brutes and sailed out of that maze of lost travelers. Oh, did I mention that part? Yeah, somehow when you try to leave the area, a maze pops out of nowhere and you have to maneuver your way around dead bodies and wrecked ships..."
His story went on and on, now more fabricated due to his drink.
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Posted: Tue Sep 01, 2009 6:08 pm
A man cloaked in the color of midnight entered the tavern, his face obscured by the shadow of his thick cowl. he limps over to the bar, his breathing hoarse and rasping. In the voice of a whisper he asks the bartender for a kettle of water to be put on, the man hastens to the fire and in moments, the cloaked man is nursing a small cup, in which he mixed the water with acrid smelling herbs. he sits by the fire, which instead of illluminating his features, deepens the shadow of his cowl. his shadow capers madly on the wall behind him as he drinks, caught in the light of the flickering flame.
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