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Post by Trailfoot on Apr 6, 2009 14:34:28 GMT -8
The Imperial City.
Much has its wonder been spoken of - the alabaster walls, the buildings of good stone quarried from the northern reaches of the Empire, the great bazaar where nearly anything can be bought if one knows where to look. The Palace, the Great Temple, and the Library, all of which were built under the supervision of the Sorceress herself.
If any place can be called Humanity's heart, the Imperial City is that place.
And thus it is that, as this autumn day dawns, travellers arrive at the City from all of its gates. Some come seeking shelter from the wilds outside, others come seeking opportunity to gain for themselves, still others seeking merely to find what they can do for others. Some seek knowledge at the Library, others seek to commune with the Sorceress, or to find places where Altrina or Roku or Vecna walked - places where small shrines have been set up by adherents to these deities.
Yet, this day, for these travellers, it is not the Library that draws them first, nor the Temple, nor the request boards nor the merchants' carts. It is rest, food, and drink, after a long journey. And as all know, the place to go for a warm bed and warmer meal when your budget isn't extravagant is the Empress's Pride.
The inn itself is three stories, with a large common room downstairs. Made of good stone, with wooden floors, the common room is well-furnished, the tables waited by pretty girls of a half-dozen races - most of them refugees taken in by the inn's manager, Serina Torakel.
Serina herself works behind the bar most times, though she also cooks. Slender and very deeply competent, with an exotic look to her features that indicates that she is not a pureblooded Celeisian - likely not a pureblooded human - Serina chats amiably with a big Annian and his round dwarvish comrade. Off toward a corner, a minstrel plays - the Azure Minstrel himself, in a deep blue cloak and feathered cap, playing a flute... well, not well at all, but passably, and those who have gathered around him seem to be waiting patiently for him to finish playing so that he can do something that he actually holds some talent at.
The other tables hold travellers and regular patrons, often in mixed groups, chatting and eating and otherwise making merry. From the scene within the Pride, one would think the world a much happier place than it truly is.
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Bladedancer
Fighter
Our only line of defense against the return of the thylacine
Posts: 141
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Post by Bladedancer on Apr 6, 2009 15:36:40 GMT -8
An almost delicate Tu'ron'o woman sits at the table nearest the bar, dressed in a comfortable silk dress of black and gold with a high, conservative collar that accents the flow of her red hair down to her hips. Intelligent, searching eyes of steel gray stare out through the pair of elegant spectacles perched on her nose as she works down the columns of a huge leather-bound account book with practiced care, sparing only a moment, now and then, to cast a smile toward the bar or take a sip of the wine glass at her elbow. For the most part, her attention is absorbed completely by her work.
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Post by Myridd on Apr 6, 2009 15:38:25 GMT -8
The doors to the Empress's Pride swing open, and for a moment the whole room is silent. A light mist rolls in as a figure is sihlouetted in the doorway. It is a woman, a strangely beautiful woman.
The first thing the patrons notice is her spectacular, and somewhat unnerving appearance...
Her skin is a pale alabaster, and seems to glow in the faint barlight. Her hair is long, and the color of the darkest raven and resembling the finest silk as it tumbles down her back almost touching the floor. Her lips are a deep crimson red, and her eyes are a matching shade of scarlet...
Than they notice her odd, yet exquisite appareal..
A corsetted victorian inspired gown made of the finest black and gold silks that exposed her pale shoulders and elegant neck. A pair of black silk gloves reached to her elbows, and bangles of gold and jewels decorated her wrists. Heavy black lace trimmed the hem of the skirt, and hid her feet from view. Almost giving the onlookers the impression that she was floating.
A moment passes, and the barroom resumes its normal activity.
She steps into the room, her movements graceful and her gaze is piercing as she looks around at all the patrons. Pausing for a moment just inside the door way, the woman flicks her gaze at the minstral. She smirks slightly, shaking her head a bit at the bad flute playing, and than she makes her way to the bar.
A few unattached males, and maybe a few attached ones, watch the movement of her hips as she glides across the room and takes a seat. She takes a long moment to arrange her skirt, flashing quite a bit of leg in the process, even if the end results in no leg showing at all. The woman places the matching bag she was carrying upon the bartop, and than signals the bartendress.
"A Merlot please...? Something smooth that pleases the tongue?" Her voice is intoxicating, and as smooth as her silken hair.
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Bladedancer
Fighter
Our only line of defense against the return of the thylacine
Posts: 141
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Post by Bladedancer on Apr 6, 2009 16:02:53 GMT -8
The woman at the ledger lifts her eyes and looks the new arrival over, a delicate smile curving her lips - wry amusement, perhaps, or a private jest - and she flicks a glance at Serina with familiar warmth. "A Lesser Moon vintage of fey wine perhaps? One of the Calesheri vintages, an '18 or a '20."
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Post by Nephallim on Apr 6, 2009 16:05:54 GMT -8
The Spellsword
A young man sits at a table near the inn's hearth, a hot bowl of soup clenched in his thick-gloved hands and a cigar burning red clenched in his teeth, giving off a heavy scent of cinnamon. He huddles in his faded blue greatcloak like a man freezing, despite his proximity to the warm fire. His fair blond hair lies in tangled mats down to his shoulder and the skin around his crystal-blue eyes is coated in soot. The only indication that the man has any source of income is his presence in the inn and the divided heart patch sown into the shoulder of his coat, the mark of at least passing association with the mercenaries of the Tower of the Heart.
"Whatcha poison, honey?" The young man glances up to a hobgoblin barwench, full bodied with long dark hair pulled back in a multitude of braids.
"Rum," The young man replies, "Spiced rum."
The young man is Quel of the Ashenshield, a mercenary from a fallen family. He pays the price for attempting to beat a fiend at its own game. Rather than sell his soul for power, he forfeited his physical comfort. He sits today in the Empress' Pride for the comfort of warm food, hard drink, and a place to listen to the idle talk of travellers. He has a place to sleep and a steady income, but he's an opportunist at heart, always eager for new work.
The Wanderer on the Secret Wind
Across the inn a man stands tall and confident, fine chiseled features on a face pale as cream, marked over with a thin black pattern. Delicate cream-colored wings extend from the back of his carefully crafted plate armor, and the sword and shield strapped across his back speak of competance at arms. He stands at the bar beside another like him, sailcloth cloak draped over one shoulder, cream-colored irises scanning over the Empress' Pride's wine selection.
He is Ornis Ornev Oarson, a wandering soul. He knows that in a past life he was a pirate, a scourge on the seas of Anthros flying the flag of Teras and its dark god. In this life he is a knight of the divine, a templar without a temple. The Empress' Pride is but one stop in the journey of his lives.
The Scalechanger
A rat scurries across the common room, yellow eyes burning with purpose, yellow cheese clenched in its yellowed teeth. It is a scavenger without shame. It knows its role in the world. Without scavengers, the streets would fill with worthless refuse. Without scavengers, all things would go to waste. Without scavengers, the world would fill with useless clutter. This rat served the Eldest Wyrm, the Serpent that Was Before the World. Blessed emptiness had been spoiled with light and matter, the least this humble rodent could do is help keep the blasphemous world from accumulating worthless refuse.
The rat was no rat at all, but Maluth the Scalechanger, troglodyte heretic. He had traveled far south to flee the wrath of his more orthodox kin. They were wrong, he knew. The Darkest Suffering would not return the universe to emptiness. His purpose was to subject the world to endless torments. Given the chance, Tereus would put an end to death itself, so that his cursed subjects might suffer endlessly. That was not the Void Serpent's plan. Maluth did not know what to do, how to turn his people back to the righteous path. Until he did, he would settle for aiding the enemies of the Darkest Suffering. How exactly to do that, however, he was not yet sure. For now, he would eat his cheese. . .
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Post by Nephallim on Apr 6, 2009 16:11:47 GMT -8
The Wanderer
The Deva smiles, his teeth perfectly straight and pearly white. "Elven merlot. . . just what I had in mind." He turns to the pale woman and extends a hand, "The name's Desmond Jericho," He lies. His name is one of many things his master has bidden him to conceal, "And you are. . .?"
The Spellsword
Quel watches the pale lady as she moves through the common room toward the bar. His heart's beat does not quicken. His stomach does not alight with butterflies. Something, however, tells him they should.
He shrugs and takes his rum, sipping slowly as he watches the bar.
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Post by Myridd on Apr 6, 2009 16:18:38 GMT -8
The pale woman, looks towards the one who calls himself Desmond, ignoring the girl who offered the vintage of wine she is sipping.
"..Carmella.. Carmella Snow." She purrs her name with a certain pride as her red eyes quickly take in the winged Deva.
She smiles, apparently pleased with what she sees, and she motions the barstool next to her. "Join me for a drink than, Desmond...? "
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Bladedancer
Fighter
Our only line of defense against the return of the thylacine
Posts: 141
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Post by Bladedancer on Apr 6, 2009 16:23:08 GMT -8
Eyes quietly alight with laughter, the woman the locals call simply Elia gives Serina a gently teasing smile and returns to her figures with a satisfied little smirk hovering on her face, her quill scratching the paper softly and regularly.
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Post by Nephallim on Apr 6, 2009 16:24:33 GMT -8
The Wanderer
"My pleasure, miss Snow," The Deva replies as he takes a seat, setting his sailcloth cloak down, "Two of the elven Merlot, the '18 I think," He tells the barkeep.
"So, what brings you to the Empress' Pride, miss Snow?" He asks as a rat scurries between his feet.
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Post by Shiningwolf on Apr 6, 2009 16:46:26 GMT -8
The Glove: In a quiet corner sits a man, completely robed in black, with a great sword leaning against the wall. His black mask obscures his face, with only his black eyes seen flitting from behind. He reads a small book, making notes every so often. A bar wench wonders over, wondering how she could have missed such a strange looking fellow entering. The man waves her away, taking a quick glance around the room, and resumes his reading. Unlucky: A hooded figure enters the room, coming from the bed rooms. His blue face wrinkled as if lost in deep thought. He glances across the room, and upon seeing the other deva, hurries over to him, a look of relief on his face.
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Post by Myridd on Apr 6, 2009 16:48:00 GMT -8
Carmella sighs, as she rests her chin on her hand. "Looking for a bit of peace." She looks at the crowded bar room and she chuckles delightfully. "This place is a bit crowded for my tastes, and the music is simply dreadful.. But my boss doesn't come to the Pride." She winks, and than takes a long drink from her wine glass and than licks her lips, savoring the flavor.
"And anywhere that I can escape my boss, is the place for me." She traces the top of her glass with her forefinger, as she looks at Desmond thoughtfully. "So, what brings you here.. Desmond?"
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Post by Trailfoot on Apr 6, 2009 16:49:52 GMT -8
(OOC note; don't have time to write a full post right now: Feywine's effect on people who don't have elvish blood tends to be... well, strong and sudden. ) *Edit: This is Neph. . . didn't know I could edit anyone's post. Mods should keep that in mind. Carry on.*
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Post by Nephallim on Apr 6, 2009 16:54:02 GMT -8
The Wanderer
"What brings me here?" The Deva muses as his wine is poured, "Waiting for a friend at the moment, I suppose." He grins slightly, "I'd hardly make a career of being idle, however."
He pauses briefly to nudgle the rat off his plated boot.
"So. . . your boss doesn't come to this inn? What is it tht you do, miss Snow?"
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Post by Myridd on Apr 6, 2009 16:58:26 GMT -8
"I work for the merchant prince, Benerick." She sighs again, and shakes her head. "The pay is good of course.. keeps me in my silks and gold. " She brushes out her black and gold skirt. "However... The man is such a flirt. I can only stand him in small doses."
Carmella glances at the other Deva that had run to Desmond's side. She returns her gaze to Desmond after a moment. "Is that the friend you are waiting for?"
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Post by Shiningwolf on Apr 6, 2009 16:58:44 GMT -8
Unlucky (Diplomat) "Desmond, is that you?" says the approaching deva. "Please tell me you are not heavily indulging in the wine. We have work to do tomorrow, bright and early." As he stops he takes a quick glance at the pale women who is sitting with the other deva as well as the Tu'ron'o seated nearby. His brow wrinkles again, before turning his attention back to the deva.
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