Wanted Posters
Chardev Summary: A light and fun scene. Sandy is a fearsome thing, and Abrahil spends his time trying to convince the rest that there are wanted posters out for her arrest. ...and continually scooting down the table every time she scowls at him. This was almost too Pratchett, but enjoyed just the same.
-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--<* Ox-Strength Ale 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. 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. Note: Local beer, drink, and food names can be found in the lexicon: http://www.tenebraemush.net/index.php/Player-Made_Lexicon. -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-- Contents --=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=- Abrahil A valiant, gnomish slayer of paper demons. 0s 1h Sandy The HIPpest elf ever. Practically a HIPpy. 1m 4d Quint A dark-haired, bearded young man with old eyes. 6m 1h -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--= Exits -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=- Out <O> -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-
"Oh, it's just come so far, you know," the small voice is saying as Abrahil makes his way into the Ox. He walks beside an older gentleman, who is much thinner than he is, and who wears a pinstripe suit to Abrahil's pinks and oranges. The older gentleman nods understandingly as the two of them putter into the establishment.
"Why, Myrana has some curta--" and just as he says this, an oruch goes flying through one of the windows. The round little gnome adjusts his lenses. "I've been trying to hard to figure out how to make that part of the decor, you know."
"So what's this I hear about Finneous declaring Myrana his LOVER?" says Sandy as she arrives at the Ox-Strength just behind Abrahil and his gentle-friend. He's looking around the door way and then seems disappointed. "She's not HERE? Must be hiding. For shame, Myrana!"
It's Variday, Callem 13 21:12:20 1014. The full moon isn't up. The tide is low and slack.
The night is warm and sultry, and dark clouds hide the stars in patches. Elsewhere they shine brightly. Dew forms on the ground.
"Well, it just seems practical, I suppose. A passed out oruch there," and Abrahil gestures towards one of the cracked tables. Where there is a passed out oruch. "A pissed-off sildanyari... ... ...oh, my." He lowers his hand, and reaches for his pocket. Which pocket is difficult to tell--every ounce of his neat little suit is stretched taunt with the gravity of its load. "...oh, dear. Well, that goes with nothing at all, doesn't it?" he says faintly.
The other, thinner old gentleman smiles somewhat, and then lifts his hand to tip his had to the elf. The Ox is filled today, as much as it ever is on a weekday. Which is to say, most patrons are sleeping, or half-passed out. Recovering from a Variday.
Myrana has arrived.
<Meet> Myrana joins Sandy.
"Oh, it's just come so far, you know," the small voice is saying as Abrahil makes his way into the Ox. He walks beside an older gentleman, who is much thinner than he is, and who wears a pinstripe suit to Abrahil's pinks and oranges. The older gentleman nods understandingly as the two of them putter into the establishment.
"Why, Myrana has some curta--" and just as he says this, an oruch goes flying through one of the windows. The round little gnome adjusts his lenses. "I've been trying to hard to figure out how to make that part of the decor, you know."
"So what's this I hear about Finneous declaring Myrana his LOVER?" says Sandy as she arrives at the Ox-Strength just behind Abrahil and his gentle-friend. He's looking around the door way and then seems disappointed. "She's not HERE? Must be hiding. For shame, Myrana!"
It's Variday, Callem 13 21:12:20 1014. The full moon isn't up. The tide is low and slack.
The night is warm and sultry, and dark clouds hide the stars in patches. Elsewhere they shine brightly. Dew forms on the ground.
"Well, it just seems practical, I suppose. A passed out oruch there," and Abrahil gestures towards one of the cracked tables. Where there is a passed out oruch. "A pissed-off sildanyari... ... ...oh, my." He lowers his hand, and reaches for his pocket. Which pocket is difficult to tell--every ounce of his neat little suit is stretched taunt with the gravity of its load. "...oh, dear. Well, that goes with nothing at all, doesn't it?" he says faintly.
The other, thinner old gentleman smiles somewhat, and then lifts his hand to tip his had to the elf. The Ox is filled today, as much as it ever is on a weekday. Which is to say, most patrons are sleeping, or half-passed out. Recovering from a Variday.
"A fat gnome," says Sandy in counter to Abrahil about the 'pissed off Sildanyari'. She pauses for a moment, then says even more loudly, "Oh, MYRANA! Where ARE you?"
Sandy says, "Hrm. Sounds like my dad is under contract."
"I'm not HERE." Comes a voice from behind the bar. And upon another look, the young half-elf is revealed sulking on the 'tender's stool, her back turned to the door, working in some sort of journal with a bit of pencil.
Myrana proceeds to itch at her palms upon saying this and then goes back to scribbling intently.
"Oh!" Abrahil practically jumps! when Sandy snarks his way. The round little gnome jiggles with the movement, his belly wobbling, his chins woobling. "Oh!" he says again, and clasps his small hands in front of him. And takes a breath before turning to Sandy and, "Oh, I just mean you don't go with anything at all!" he says crossly, and then immediately looks aghast at himself.
Voices in the head should stay in the head!
Inside voice, dear boy!
"Not here, huh?" says Sandy to Myrana, "You do realize that would work better if you weren't actually here?" she then eyes Abrahil for a moment, then says, "I supose that's a good thing, actually. This place is awful. *Awful*. Especially Myrana." She casts a look ehr way.
Myrana says, "A good many things would be better if I weren't here," with this agreeing, she casts a brief, withering glare over her shoulder at Sandy. "But since the help has dissapeared, I'd just settle for you not being here, in any case."
Myrana returns her grumpy attentions to the journal in her lap. It may be said that most of her patrons are passed out. Which is... rather convenient, don't you think? As she seems intent on writing? Oh no! CERTAINLY NOT. In any case, Quint had better not drink anything, or he might relapse.
The small round fellow's face purples! It reddens! His hands ball into ham-fists, and his stomach quavers as the surface of a massive earthquake. If that earthquake were made of jell-o. "You...you!" is all he manages to get out. And then he takes a Grand Breath, "Why, I don't think I've ever..." and here he pauses, lets it out. "Well, it does need a few improvements," he admits. "But you're not helping!" he adds, to Sandy.
Oh dear. Myra's right ear turns a bit red when she hears Abrahil's furious chirping. She did not see him over the bar.
"In fact, that, that...dress! certainly is not," he adds with a sniff. And adjusts his lenses as he regards That Dress. "It belongs on the cover of a Wanted Po--oh. Oh...oh dear, uhm..." and he gulps, swallowing like a fish.
"You look like a vagabond!" Myrana supplies.
MyranaSCRIBBLES.
"Myraaaaannaaaa..." Abrahil calls out of the side of his mouth as he suddenly, nervously, smiles up at Sandy. "Well, now. Why don't you GO GET I mean, COME SIT down and WE'll have a nice SPOT of tea..." he swallows, and then looks over at Myrana, and makes a hurry over! sign with his hand. That Sandy is not supposed to notice.
Myrana glowers into her notes. She fumes silently. But she turns the stool around with a WHEEEEEK-K noise of the rusty spinny-turny-hinge, the lips of her skirts flying about the ankles of her smart boots, and fixes her eyes on her friends at the door. With images of hurling them out with her legions of winged devil monkeys dancing in her head, she slaps the journal closed, then kicks her leg up and off the other knee, then slides to the floor with a CLACK! of heels.
"I'd be happy to serve you all tea," she says, and takes a large pot down from the mysterious cabinet that hangs behind the much cracked and repaired mirror-above-the-bar. It clatters down with cups and a sugar bowl and a creamer, which she fills (it must be said, with Myrrish Creme). Hot water splashes with a hiss and a gurgle into the big earthenware teapot from one of two gleaming samovars, and she soon sets this all on the counter.
"What sort of tea do we want?"
Myrana says, "I've flashbang green and bergamont."
"Oh, my. Well, we can't have you ROBB--I mean, it would be impolite of us to not find you a place to sit. A nice, comfortable spot near the uhm...oh! Oh, my. There's Constable Bently! Yoo-hoo! Bently!" Abrahil gives a tiny wave, and then turns towards Sandy again, beaming. There's sweat on the poor gnome's brow. "Perhaps the two of you might talk! I mean, not that you haven't met before, I mean, I was going to introduce--that is...erm. Tea would be nice!" He swallows. Keeps smiling. So. Many. Wanted posters! He edges towards Myrana and her tea.
Myrana. Has brass knuckles.
In respect to her gnomish patrons, a few of the barstools seem to have very sturdy, gnome-leg sized step-ups, just perfect for the gnome that wants to climb up onto one and sit at the bar, where when Myrana is tending, it's slightly less likely for one to be bashed over the head with a bottle or thrown into the bars of the nice breezy windows. But as the place is so slow today, Myra comes out from behind the bar and sets the service on one of the tables.
Myrana drops a few spoonfulls of the bergamont-scented ceylon tea into the pot and swirls it around before replacing the lid. "It's nice to see you again," she says with a smile to Abrahil's fine thin gentleman friend. "I'm sorry we haven't any biscuits today, but the larder has been too damp for them."
Abrahil beams up at Sandy. It's that deer in the headlights look, really. And he keeps gesturing to Myrana. Sort of like: I'll distract her, you get the watch! ...that sort of thing. When Sandy isn't looking, of course.
The older gentleman smiles at Myrana, and then taps his way over towards the table. "Do let me lend a hand with that," he says, and at least--he attempts to see to one thing or the other, though with the occasional glance over his shoulder. "I'm afraid the good Constable is quite soused," he says confidentially to Myrana. "Oh! Master Brindlegear is convinced he'll right up, soon enough...but between you and me," and here he leans in, "That's his seventh!"
We may be on our own in handling this terror, says the wise nod of the old gentleman.
Battered saddlebags resting over his shoulder, Quint pushes his way through the front door. His baggy sleeves are damp with sea spray and sweat, his skin is a tone or two darker, and his boots and breeches are still caked with the exotic golden sands of Veyshanti deserts in places. He pauses just beyond the threshold a moment to become accustomed to the tavern lighting -- somehow dark and of deeper shadow than the night streets outside.
Myrana's lashes lower conspiratorally as she nods in agreement. "He really ought to drink more water, that one." We are properly in it.
Myrana sniffs.
Myrana looks up, having smelled Quint before he came in. But she's such a nice person that she doesn't mention it. Anyway, he fits in better.
Abrahil gives a little wave towards the golden Quint as he heads in the door, though he seems afraid to take his gaze away from the robb--er, from Sandy.
"Blah blah blah," is what Sandy says. She's ordered herself a mug of ale (and by ordered, we mean tapped the keg herslf and nonchalantly drank from it) and it doesn't seem to be having any real impact on her whatsoever. Quint's arrival earns him an eyeing frm the elf.
Abrahil scuttles to the side, and nudges the dear, soused Constable with his toe. That his toe can be seen at all, even for a moment, is a testament to the effort of the elderly gnome. And he continues to smile, continues to sweat a bit. "Cooooonstaaaable Beeeeennnttlllyy...!" And he gives another little wave to Quint. And then seeing some opportunity or the other, frantically points to Sandy as soon as Sandy's back is turned. You know, when she finds something else to glare at.
"Oh it's quite alright my dear," says Myrana to Abrahil. "Leave the poor Constable to his rest. See, we've a lawful man among us." By which she means Quint. And then she -beams- at Quint. "Goodness you look tan! How was your trip?"
Flowers actually burst in the air around her. Illusory half-seen ones, like the ghosts of bunny-farts. She BEAMS.
This is the picture of cheerful innocent questioning.
Sandy, for her part, is blissfully unware of illusory flowers of Alexandrian beauty. She has another drink, eyeing Quint nd then Myrana. Her back is still to Abnrahil. Flowers! Her ears twitch.
Quint offers a tip of his head in return to the looks -- familiar, suspicious, or otherwise. "Informative," he answers Myrana evenly after... a moment's pause. He walks across the room and produces two small parcels, both wrapped in simple brown paper and twine. "Local spices. The shopkeep said they were common in authentic foods. I thought you might use them in your kitchen." He holds them out, "Your direction was near flawless. Though there was some confusion when I asked for 'a desert rose to place behind mine ear.'"
Myrana gasps. "Spices!" She exclaims, plucking one of them up and bringing it to her face greedily to sniff-- and partially disguise the expression of pure evil behind it. Dohoho.
Myrana says, "I thought it would be helpful."
Myrana says, "The desert makes people /very smelly/."
Abrahil nearly jumps! And then turns and beams at Quint as well, as the man makes his entrance. And then an expression...an expression grows at Myrana's mention of 'a lawman among us' to perhaps one of greatest...
Relief.
And he clears his throat, and bip-bip-bips over that way. Or more likely, waddles, his face sweating, and attempting that look of grandfatherly concern.
"The cases are curio boxes carved by the nomadic tribes
"I will be sure to bathe in short order, then." Quint nods once at Myrana's comment, taking a subtle step back. "The cases are curio boxes carved by the nomadic tribes. There was a story... but I do not recall the specifics. I am sure the libraries would contain some mention." He turns to look at the bar, noting it empty, "Would you mind if I helped myself to some water? The voyage by ship was long."
Whereupon the round little gnome. Reaches up. And mouths, 'Wanted Posters!' before pointing 'covertly' towards Sandy. Just assume she's glaring at something again.
"They're beautiful, Quint, really." Myrana says, earnestly. Now that she's had her joke (and in her opinion she did a marvelous job of holding it in when she gave him the translation, and later in not letting on untill he was back lest it be spoilt!), her green eyes are dancing with amusement. "But no, you should sit down. See, there's a viper over there," she jabs a thumb back at Sandy, and says in an airy tone: "And you have to know how to approach them. Sit down, for goodness sakes!" And with that she turns with a swish of skirts and goes to get a glass down from above the bar, going past Sandy (and quite within kicking distance) as she does so.
She is, incidentally. Glaring at everything again. With flowers floating nearby thanks to Abrahil. She still hasn't noticed them. Then she eyes Abrahil, Quint, and Myrana. Especially Myrana. Everything is her fault. "So, Myrana. When WERE you going to tell us all about your new beau?"
Myrana drops the glass.
It crashes on the countertop. Myrana turns to glare daggers down at Sandy from her perch atop the footstool.
Wanted Posters! Abrahil mimes again, worriedly. And he looks over his shoulder (really, this involves a bit of turning) towards the viper, and then hurries to the table--where he then plops himself down on one of the seats near Quint. "I saw them across town this morning," he whispers, while Myrana is Glaring Daggers!
"The Lady Sandiel and I have had occasion to speak many times." The accusation is not even entertained for a moment by Quint, his expression does not change. "My Lady Serene shares residence with her in the Noble's Quarter and she is often in the Temple Districts." He looks between Abrahil and Myrana, then takes a seat as instructed. "Why would there be wanted posters of her?"
Myrana grumbles, and reaches up for another glass.
"I am just asking questions here, Myrana. The entire city's abuzz with the rumors. Did he *really* declare his love for you in front of crowded Jailhouse bar? Right there? Really? I couldn't have planned it better myself. Not that I pllaned it. I didn't. In case you were worried. If I'd planned it, well, it would've probably been funnier." She eyes Abrahil again. Eyes him and says, "Stop that," with a glare.
Abrahil's ears turn bright red, and he glances over towards Sandy. And perhaps his hands tighten on the table a moment before he says, "Oh, I'm never sure...but the reward keeps going uuu---aaaah!" and then Sandy's glaring at him. He nearly tumbles from the stool. "I'm quite sure she has a knife somewhere in there!" to Quint!
"She looks it!"
Myrana takes down one of the knobbly, hefty glasses belonging to the Ox. It looks like it wieghs half a pound. These are part of the reason that the bars in the windows are rounded, rather than squared, for the heavy glasses just bounce off of them (unless of course it's thrown by one of the larger sort of customer). "Shame on you Sandy," she says. "Spreading that awful garbage." She hops down and fills the glass with water from a frosted barrel kept safely under the bar. "Scaring Abrahil!" She does not, of course, address the matter of THE ACCUSED.
....But then she does. "I'm not sure I recall."
"The reward keeps going up," insists the gnome, in a hushed voice. He watches Sandy's hands. Surely a knife will appear at any moment, and she will RAMPAGE, destroying them all! He scooches closer to Quint. His Hero.
Myrana goes out and offers the cold glass to Quint, pursing her lips still in annoyyance.
"I am certain she does, sir." Quint tells Abrahil, his hands resting now in his lap. "But she is a good soul and would not use it without proper cause. Sit with me if you like -- and no harm will come to you." Though your nose might find offense if Myrana is to be believed. He takes the glass with a nod, "My thanks."
Scooch. Scoochscoochscoo-- And the long, proud nose of Abrahil /does/ bunch a bit. Sometimes, Myrana is not totally a liar. He continues to eye Sandy.
Ever the considerate host, Myrana remembers the tea brewing. Leaning over the table, she sets out indelicate cups and saucers for her guests, and using a straining spoon of truly atrocious pink-and-green china (a present from Abrahil it must be said), pours the hot, strong tea. The citrus smell of bergamont rises up in fragrant wafts, momentarily displacing earthier ones common to the Ox.
"Oh! It goes just with the set," Abrahil comments as the tea is strained. He beams a bit, an expression that fades as he glances towards Sandy. Scooch. Scooch. Scooch. If he hasn't vanished completely!