Makar at the Ox
Tenebrae - Sunday, February 03, 2013, 6:32 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.
It is icy. Cold, dark, miserable. At least, it is outside; within the cruel walls of the Ox-Strength Tavern, it is somewhat different.
Well, somewhat.
Scales shimmer in a furiously burnning fire, and three serpentine voices rise in some impossible song. A mug for each scaly singer, three Makar roar to the rafters, a mighty chant that (possibly) decries the evil of cold weather, soft-skinned folk, and cold weather. And seems determined to create new words for "alocohol" in all its various forms....
Mikilos sits in quiet amusement a table away, his extra spicy chili slowly disloving it's way thru the elf's bowl. Pondering a moment, he offers a few synonym suggestions. He might not be a native speaker,
but he takes pride in an extensive vocabulary.
Myrana Tarris really hates it when there's 'makars in her bar.
She really really hates it.
Now, that's not to say that Myrana hates 'Makars; quite the opposite! They tend to be better customers than some of the humans she gets, and they happily eat the bizzarre stuff Svarshan is always hanging in her kitchen like grisly 'get better' cards. But there's still the problem of fire.
As in, fairly often they set something on fire in her bar, and tend to take a somewhat relaxed view on 'then putting it out right away'.
So she's behind the bar, glowering as she cleans a glass. GLOWERING.
AKA, her perfectly normal expression.
"...er virah'kt tiap T'wAAAAAYYY!"
Three voices roar together in final release, to a celebratory groan from the far end of the bar. The other 'benefit' of Makar presence-- terrible singing is usually enough to drive off everyone but the
- really* hard drinkers by the end of the night. Or start a truly savage bar brawl; either works for them!
"Another of... of...." The smaller of the trio, in scales of faintly green hue, makes a gesture with his mug. Wooden, but already scarred by clawed hands. "..the stuff. That.... is good. The golden stuff. That is good!"
Clad in scarlet and red, Zarr snorts with teakettle laughter, eyes glittering with mirth. "Ssssk. It is called 'mead'," the Makar rumbles, and absently tosses a cracked mug into the fire behind. Nothing
- else* in fire....
Yet.
"And the... the kwil'ip... the...!"
"Chilli. Sacred meaty goodness brought by Matronssss to prevent cold."
"...chilli-kwil'ip...!"
Svarshan has arrived.
Mikilos snorts softly and grins, turning back t his 'meal'. "!!! Oy. Hey, Myrana, could I get another spoon over here? This one's melted." The wizard sighs, and shrugs, muttering over the warped utinsel. "You gotta stop handing out the cheap spoons with the Fireball Chili."
Food? FOOD. Svarshan trundles into the Ox with a bevy of small and large sith-makar behind him. Small ones, from knee height, to larger ones with gangly legs and 'teenager' written all over them. The tallest in question wears a shoestring around his neck, with a giant disc of the Platinum Dragon emblazoned upon it.
It bounces as he talks.
And he TALKS. The tallest youth points to this that and the other, adding his tail into the mix, too, for effect. He talks, jabbers, moves like a nonstop jabberwocky. And of course, in front of him, Svarshan TRUDGES. And then his spirits seem to lift when he spots Myrana at the bar, because the shoulders lift, the head comes up... "Ssssa. One hass. Promised them. Sssome of the..." his face scrunches up. Words. They're so hard. "Meat-in-a-bowl." He looks to Mikilos then. "...chili! That. That isss the word."
At the word 'chili'? ALL the scale-lings start talking.
SO HAPPY TO SEE YOU, MYRANA!
The glass is set down with a slightly louder-than-intended thunk as /someone hurls crockery into the fireplace/. "Wh-- will you tell them to quit throwing things?!" She hollers across the bar at Zarr, who she recognizes, and then at Mikilos, who she assumes to be complicit: "If you didn't dawdle like that your spoon wouldn't be melting." Oh yes. Yes if you were wondering, Mikilos, she's still a little peeved.
But still, she pulls the tap of the mead and fills up a couple of glasses before reaching down to bring out a couple of the tough wooden bowls kept around specifically for 'Makar and other 'hard-wear' customers. She's just filled them all up from the pot and come out from behind the bar to set bowls and glasses down in front of people when... when... when it happens.
She looks in mute, big-eyed horror as Svarshan leads a horde into her bar.
"S...Svarshan," she squeaks. And then there's a GABBLE. A Gabbleblabble! She is surrounded by the youngest ones, who tug at her skirts and her aprons with claw fingers and blabble up with sharp teeth, and she nearly drops the last bowl, just barely catching it in time to juggle it safely down to the table in front of one of the adult Makars who are sitting with Zarr.
Mikilos' spoon goes flying, unnoticed by the barmaid.
"I... I..." Myra's head spins a little. "How many bowls of chili?"
The spoon sails through the air, a lost star as the green-scale simply dives into his bowl of Fireball Special Chili, muzzle and all; the one opposite does much the same, though with the rich amber liquid in his mug, hissing with soft bliss.
And then there is Zarr, gazing on Svarshan and his band with a quiet, glittering amusement. "S'varshan," comes the Scarlet's rumble, leaning back in his chair. Mostly-- bright eyes glitter as he studies with care, gaze chasing over the young. He grins, toothily; with a measured care, he takes his own bowl in hand, swallowing the food inside in bite-sized chunks.
Mikilos blinks at Myrana. She's annoyed at -him-? What? He's a nice guy! He... he... oh, right, that last time... never did appoligize.... "...whoops. Right, yeah, I'd forgotten about that... sorry." The wizard coughs, and murmurs something under his breath, the 'lost' spoon floating out of the shadows to his hand. At least magic isn't mad at him.
Words. Gods. Svarshan runs a hand over his head, looks over the bunch and seems to be adding them in his head. He gets to four, then shakes his head, and starts again...
And ends up holding up seven fingers to the barmaid, for six scale-lings and himself...the latter of whom continue to swarm around Myrana and poke at her apronstrings.
"The...chili." So many words. He lets go a breath and then stills as he spies the other male. His tail hits the flooring with something of an unnecessary force. If he shifts between the red and the scale-lings. Coincidence.
Zarr keeps one eye on the Makar, swallowing a largish chunk before licking his lips. A snort before he turns away; the Scarlet rumbles in chuckling laughter before he continues his simple meal. "Do not destroy the bowls, hatchlings," he remarks absently, glancing at the fire behind. "The Matron disapproves. And remember---"
Now he *really* grins, leaning forward towards Svarshan and the gathered scaleings. "One must be courteous in return. Durian-fruits, yessss?!"
It seems like more than that, it does. But Myrana takes Svar's word for it, and nods uncertainly. "Seven bowls of super hot chili, yes," she agrees, and then straightens up. Or tries to. It's a little hard when your legs are being pushed this way and that by yammering hatchlings trying to figure out how non-digitigrade legs work in function.
"That's all you had to say," she sniffs, archly.
"Now, you have to let me through," she says to the hatchlings. "Because otherwise I will step on you with my terrible bone-crushing strides. Move. Get!"
Mikilos tsks absently, peers a moment, and desides to help. 'Help.' Gotta make sure to do this in the right order.... first, reinforce the floor. Seeting the place on fire ends poorly, if memory serves. Second, make the distraction, and third add the heat to keep the whippersnappers quiet... a bit of muttering, a few gestures, and a large, brightly colored ball appears between the tables, pictures of the Great Dragon skimming across it's surface, and waves of heat shimmering above. And a few small runes underneath to protect the floor. Fireplace and TV all in one.
GAME: Mikilos casts Mage Armor. GAME: Mikilos casts Silent Image. GAME: Mikilos casts Flaming Sphere.
"Chili?" the garbled word comes out from a mixture of draconic. And when the barmaid makes the 'git!' noise there's a pause...and then an enthusiastic SWARM.
"Chilichilichilichilichili--"
Wait.
Fire.
Svarshan watches a while and then drops down onto a stool at the bar, himself. The stool creaks.
Mikilos knows his lizards. And kids. And fancy wines, but that doesn't really apply at the moment.
Every Makar eye stares at the gleaming globe as the two greens pause in their scarfing, and Zarr stares with a slickening of earfins. A hiss..... And then a hot sniff, as bright eyes narrow. "Magethings," he growls darkly, exhaling with a rumble. He puts every effort into swallowing down the amber liquid in his mug, tail lashing in idly irritation.
Not staring at fiery orb. Pretty orb. Shiny, sparkly, fiiiiiiiirrrrrreee..............
Fire? Oh, yes. The firey, skittery dragon has the eyes of all the kids, frmo youngest to oldest. The oldest points to it, and asks Myrana some things in draconic--quick, busy words, asking where it came from, when did she convert to the Great Faith...
Ahem.
For his own part, Svarshan looks over towards Mikilos and then pointedly towards the fireball, as though to say: that. Was a good idea.
Sighing with relief, Myra shoots Mikilos a remarkably undirty look (it is, in fact, the rare Grateful Look!) as she hurriedly excuses herself in extremely poor Draconian, saying that she has to go get the bowls of children, before scurrying away behind the bar.
Mikilos smiles, glad his distraction worked. "No no! Don't touch! Touch bad! Very bad!" The wizard sighs, idly pondering ways to put a safety cage around the fireball. "....seriously-really-really-loose-a-finger-bad...."
Svarshan rests against the bar as Myrana vanishes, and then shoots Mikilos a thoughtful look. And... "Ssssome are fire-bloodss. ...The rest..." ...he shrugs after that, a slow one. Not apathetic, more: they'll learn.
The scale-lings surround the ball of fire, and the skittering dragon. One of them's going to try to poke it. /One of them/. But for now they seem to be listening to Mikilos.
Sort of.
Svarshan has left.
Zarr gazes at the burning orb; his two compatriots slowly return to their bowls, eyese from each chasing along the gleaming flames. "Greatfang snappage bad," he rumbles darkly, thumping the heavy mug back to the table. "If they have... ssk. Heard of such." He snorts again, more darkly as he breathes a long, heavy breath; exhaling with a sigh.
Myrana returns in a little bit with bowls for Svarshan and the other newly arrived 'Makars. It should be noted that the bowls for the younglings have pools of chili oil drizzled on top. Special!
"Nice, Mikilos," she says, hitching up her skirts to climb up onto the fireplace bricks with a clunk-clak of heels, and reaches in carefully toward the broken crockery tossed there earlier. "Have you ever considered doing parties?"
Mikilos keeps his focus upon the spells, maintaining the warmth and the illusion... and the warnings. It takes up most of his concentration. "Hrmm? Oh. Yeah, have a few times. Rates are high, and raw illusionists are better." The elf mutters absently, turning a bit more focus to maintaining spells past their normal experation dates.
Myrana pulls out the bits of cup, her sleeves smoking slighty from the fire, and turns back around to climb down again. Juggling the ceramic in her hands, she hurries over to drop it carefully on the table, coughing an apology to Zarr and his friends.
- TinyMUX Disconnected ***