* Any medieval character may join *
* DnDish characters welcome (elves, drows, dwarves, fey...) (palladins, merchants, rangers, rogues, bards, mages...)*
* Celtic gods, Norse warlords welcome *
* Pirates, lords, knights, lords, beggars all welcome *
* 3rd person past tense narrative*
* No furries or too OP characters *
* Magic permitted in RP but use it discreetly*
* Occasional 1d10 dice use to balance fights or find fates/outcomes*
The warm glow of flickering candles danced on the walls of Loki's Tavern, a cozy establishment nestled in the heart of the bustling city of Camelot. The scent of roasted meats and fresh bread wafted through the air, mingling with the faint notes of ale and laughter that echoed within its sturdy wooden walls.
Behind the polished oak bar stood Gwen, the taverner, known for her quick wit and welcoming smile. With adept hands, she expertly poured drinks and served hearty meals to a diverse crowd of patrons—travelers, adventurers, and locals alike. But there was always a sense of anticipation in the air, as whispers of mischief followed one particular guest.
Loki, the trickster god, graced the tavern with his charm and unpredictability. His arrival, usually marked by a flourish and a sparkle of mischief in his eye, stirred a mix of excitement and uncertainty among the regulars. Gwen understood Loki like few others; she deftly navigated his whims, balancing the needs of her customers with the unpredictable antics of the god himself.
As the evening sun set, casting a golden hue over the tavern, the wooden door creaked open, heralding the arrival of characters and stories waiting to unfold. It was another lively night at Loki's Tavern, where laughter, intrigue, and perhaps a hint of chaos awaited.
Gwen looked up from the counter, putting down the tankard of silver that she was polishing for the more distinguished guests, the wooden ones already laid out, dried and ready to be used.
She looked up curious about the the next patrons that might cross the door and what they would want, what they would look like or ask about, after all, if she had one reputation, it was the abundant gossip and rare sightings and fresh news not often heard anywhere else that made her tavern popular with travellers and regular patrons alike
* DnDish characters welcome (elves, drows, dwarves, fey...) (palladins, merchants, rangers, rogues, bards, mages...)*
* Celtic gods, Norse warlords welcome *
* Pirates, lords, knights, lords, beggars all welcome *
* 3rd person past tense narrative*
* No furries or too OP characters *
* Magic permitted in RP but use it discreetly*
* Occasional 1d10 dice use to balance fights or find fates/outcomes*
The warm glow of flickering candles danced on the walls of Loki's Tavern, a cozy establishment nestled in the heart of the bustling city of Camelot. The scent of roasted meats and fresh bread wafted through the air, mingling with the faint notes of ale and laughter that echoed within its sturdy wooden walls.
Behind the polished oak bar stood Gwen, the taverner, known for her quick wit and welcoming smile. With adept hands, she expertly poured drinks and served hearty meals to a diverse crowd of patrons—travelers, adventurers, and locals alike. But there was always a sense of anticipation in the air, as whispers of mischief followed one particular guest.
Loki, the trickster god, graced the tavern with his charm and unpredictability. His arrival, usually marked by a flourish and a sparkle of mischief in his eye, stirred a mix of excitement and uncertainty among the regulars. Gwen understood Loki like few others; she deftly navigated his whims, balancing the needs of her customers with the unpredictable antics of the god himself.
As the evening sun set, casting a golden hue over the tavern, the wooden door creaked open, heralding the arrival of characters and stories waiting to unfold. It was another lively night at Loki's Tavern, where laughter, intrigue, and perhaps a hint of chaos awaited.
Gwen looked up from the counter, putting down the tankard of silver that she was polishing for the more distinguished guests, the wooden ones already laid out, dried and ready to be used.
She looked up curious about the the next patrons that might cross the door and what they would want, what they would look like or ask about, after all, if she had one reputation, it was the abundant gossip and rare sightings and fresh news not often heard anywhere else that made her tavern popular with travellers and regular patrons alike
The heavy wooden door swung open with such energy that, for an instant, one might mistake it as hollow. As it creaked and started to stall, a large man trod inside the tavern. His demeanor stood in stark contrast with the tavern's typical reveling patronage; he made his way to the oaken counter and took a seat. Though his expression was unreadable, his intentions were clear, as even before he sat down completely he pressed the exact coin count for his drink of choice. A large, froth-capped mug of dark ale.
Jalsinter was not new to Camelot's bar scene. As a matter of fact, he had developed a certain notoriety among the regulars for his peculiar behavior when he arrived in one. Gwen may have heard of this man, rumored to be more of a machine than a man, for his actions were precisely reenacted every time he stepped foot in an establishment. First, he made a straight path toward the bar; he preferred the rightmost seat from his perspective in the doorway. If someone was occupying this seat, he would wordlessly stare them down until they either moved, or he moved them, pushing their stool to the left whilst pulling an unoccupied seat over to accommodate him. Perhaps there were some that could outlast his blank stare, or whose reputation or power would deter him from doing this, but so far he hadn't encountered them.
If fate did not change this, he would sit on his stool and produce a modest count of coins, quietly awaiting someone who worked there to approach so that he might ask the same question he always did: "Dark ale, please." Until this time came, he would keep his eyes downward, studying the woodgrain patterns in the counter as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world.
((The third paragraph, of course, is optional based on whether or not something unusual happens. If someone would like to be in said seat, I can cross it out and we can go from there.))
Jalsinter was not new to Camelot's bar scene. As a matter of fact, he had developed a certain notoriety among the regulars for his peculiar behavior when he arrived in one. Gwen may have heard of this man, rumored to be more of a machine than a man, for his actions were precisely reenacted every time he stepped foot in an establishment. First, he made a straight path toward the bar; he preferred the rightmost seat from his perspective in the doorway. If someone was occupying this seat, he would wordlessly stare them down until they either moved, or he moved them, pushing their stool to the left whilst pulling an unoccupied seat over to accommodate him. Perhaps there were some that could outlast his blank stare, or whose reputation or power would deter him from doing this, but so far he hadn't encountered them.
If fate did not change this, he would sit on his stool and produce a modest count of coins, quietly awaiting someone who worked there to approach so that he might ask the same question he always did: "Dark ale, please." Until this time came, he would keep his eyes downward, studying the woodgrain patterns in the counter as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world.
((The third paragraph, of course, is optional based on whether or not something unusual happens. If someone would like to be in said seat, I can cross it out and we can go from there.))
In the tides of the evening hearth, in the afterglow of tavern candles, the front doors creaked to life once again. Albeit with a gentler tug, as two gloved palms pressed upon the wooden door until it swayed far enough inward to permit space for entry. The wind wailed a bitter howl, tugging at a crimson veil as if to sweep it and it's keeper back outside. But it's cries were swiftly silenced when the door shut heavily behind the latest patron to Loki's Tavern. Those same palms rubbed against each other in an attempt to knead warmth back into slender fingers. In one swift motion, they rose to lift the veil from above a maiden's brow and embrace the sights in full view.
Abdessi's reds robes bled into the golden hue of the tavern's roaring fireplace. Dark hair ran in rivulet down her back, coming to settle in the pit of her veil's hood, as equally dark eyes surveyed the scene before her. She heard the rustling of heavy armor settling on a wooden stool. Coins clattered and spun in small circles across an oak counter. Distant footsteps across the floorboards, the start to an evening of revelry. The priestess would be the first to admit such scenes were out of her depth. Having traded stone temple steps for wooden tables, the hymnals of the high priests for the lull of minstrel lutes. But she wouldn't be so opposed to become more accustomed. Whether it was agreeable or not, she would have to learn quickly.
She trailed her fingers along her palms as she looked around, moving in slow stride from the entryway to the oak counter from where another patron sat with hunched shoulders and tense arms spread across the counter. She and him were of equal contrast, not only of the tavern but between themselves -- juxtaposed in many first glances, from their stature to their occupation to their present manner. No doubt for their reasons of visiting.
Patience is a virtue and Abdessi held it in measure, waiting for taverner to finish business with the knight-errant first and foremost.
Abdessi's reds robes bled into the golden hue of the tavern's roaring fireplace. Dark hair ran in rivulet down her back, coming to settle in the pit of her veil's hood, as equally dark eyes surveyed the scene before her. She heard the rustling of heavy armor settling on a wooden stool. Coins clattered and spun in small circles across an oak counter. Distant footsteps across the floorboards, the start to an evening of revelry. The priestess would be the first to admit such scenes were out of her depth. Having traded stone temple steps for wooden tables, the hymnals of the high priests for the lull of minstrel lutes. But she wouldn't be so opposed to become more accustomed. Whether it was agreeable or not, she would have to learn quickly.
She trailed her fingers along her palms as she looked around, moving in slow stride from the entryway to the oak counter from where another patron sat with hunched shoulders and tense arms spread across the counter. She and him were of equal contrast, not only of the tavern but between themselves -- juxtaposed in many first glances, from their stature to their occupation to their present manner. No doubt for their reasons of visiting.
Patience is a virtue and Abdessi held it in measure, waiting for taverner to finish business with the knight-errant first and foremost.
Taff crossed the city and descended to the furthest tavern in the rundown suburbs, the one closest to the docks, where lowest classes, dubious merchants and known pirates where the only regular customers there. Cheap food, cheaper ales and lawlessness making it highly attractive. No man with reputation or wealth would venture there, not even the honest and brave city guards dared roam that area, never mind enter the notorious pirate's den.
Taff stood hesitantly at the entrance of the tavern, a little reluctant to enter such a house of disrepute but the fact that it was very late, he was tired and hungry, all other establishments were already full and the taverner was a known friend made him take the first steps into the tavern.
This was a place well-known for its disreputable atmosphere. Located at the furthest edge of the city, in a rundown suburb closest to the docks, it drew in the lowest classes, dubious merchants, and even notorious pirates. On this late evening, after a long journey, he felt the weight of fatigue and hunger pressing down on him, exacerbated by the knowledge that other establishments had turned him away due to their full occupancy. With no choice left, he would have to enter.
As he took a step inside, he was immediately struck by the chaotic ambiance that enveloped the room. The air bore a heavy presence of light smoke emanating from the large glowing hearth at the far end, providing both warmth and a peculiar kind of comfort amidst the tavern's otherwise grim interior. This blend of heat and smoke made the atmosphere thick, yet not entirely unpleasant, wrapping around him like an old, worn cloak.
Taff's gaze traveled across the tavern's interior, where mismatched furniture adorned the dimly lit space. Unlike the select pieces he'd grown accustomed to at the royal palace, the furnishings here were numerous but assorted—clearly dated, battered, and displaying unmistakable signs of misuse. Some pieces had been patched and mended, yet there was no intention to restore them to their former glory; they existed merely to remain functional. Each chair, table, and sofa seemed to have a story, and none were alike, creating a haphazard tapestry of styles that filled the room with an unsettling eclecticism.
The couch, in particular, had stains so ingrained that its original color was almost impossible to discern, serving as a stark reminder of the tavern's neglect. It was a far cry from the immaculate and carefully chosen furnishings he was used to, and it made him shudder slightly.
Despite the warmth from the hearth, the overall lack of adequate windows or decent ventilation cast a dark, somewhat sinister pall over the room. Oil lamps and flickering candles were sparsely scattered across the tables, offering little illumination and further contributing to the uneasy ambiance. Shadows danced along the walls, occasionally revealing blurry figures engaged in raucous conversation or argument.
As Taff navigated deeper into the heart of the tavern, he noticed the cacophony of voices, laughter, and the unmistakable sounds of drunkenness. Gamblers crowded the tables, their shouts and accusations often escalating into scuffles, a testament to the lawlessness of the place. Taff felt a tension settle in his stomach; this was a haven for the unruly, a chilling contrast to the structured life he had known.
The tavern was filled with an unkempt clientele, where hard-drinking men were engaged in rowdy debates, their laughter mingling with the clinking of mugs. Occasionally, a scuffle would erupt, drawing the attention of the patrons only until the next round of rum settled them into forgetful cheer once more. Taff's discomfort deepened as he spotted a handful of women dressed in immodest, vibrant attire that left little to the imagination. Their bold gestures and suggestive movements were meant to entice the rough clientele, leaving Taff feeling exposed and desperately wishing to shrink away from their attention.
He leaned against a wall, attempting to remain inconspicuous, a well-mannered gentleman among a sea of chaos. His discomfort was palpable, so much so that he focused intently on the floor rather than the spectacle around him, feeling the blush creep up his cheeks.
As he inched further into the tavern, the scents of roasted meats, baked breads, and steaming pots wafted through the air. Despite the surrounding turmoil, these aromatic promises of hearty fare awakened his hunger, reminding him that sustenance lay within reach. Yet, that hunger was tempered by the unappealing sight before him—the floor was littered with spilled drinks and remnants of half-eaten meals, its uneven tiles a testament to neglect and wear. Flies buzzed lazily in the corners, and a few daring mice darted between tables, making the idea of eating something served here unsettling at best.
Now and then, a stronger whiff of tobacco smoke would invade his senses, swirling around him as patrons puffed on their pipes. Those familiar with fresh air found this fragrance suffocating; it mingled uncomfortably with the kitchen’s offerings and the overall disarray of the establishment.
In this watering hole where danger mingled tantalizingly with warmth, Taff felt caught between two worlds: the rough camaraderie of the lowly patrons and the lingering memories of his privileged upbringing. The murkiness of this haven, filled with secrets and sins, tugged at him, demanding he either embrace or reject it.
Just as he reconciled the chaos that surrounded him, the heavy wooden door swung open with a force that echoed through the tavern, creaking as it halted. A large man stepped inside, his demeanor standing in stark contrast to the revelry of the other patrons. Taff couldn't help but be intrigued as he watched Jalsinter navigate his way toward the oak counter with an efficiency that spoke to years of habit. There was a peculiar respect that hung in the air as Jalsinter pressed the exact coin count for his drink of choice—a froth-capped mug of dark ale.
This man was known for his rigid routine, and Taff observed the way he wordlessly demanded his chosen seat—his piercing stare brooking no argument from anyone who might occupy it. The patrons seemed used to his presence, some quickly stepping aside, while others adopted a bemused expression at his unwavering normalcy.
The mood shifted in the tavern once again as the door creaked open softly, allowing entry to a radiant figure. Abdessi entered with a gentler grace, her crimson robe blending beautifully with the golden hue cast by the roaring fireplace. Dark hair framed her face, cascading down to the hood of her veil. Taff felt an unexpected sense of calm wash over him as he observed her scrutinizing the chaos around her. She rubbed her hands together, seeking warmth, and then shifted her focus to the scene unfolding before her.
Abdessi's serene presence contrasted sharply with the raucous atmosphere. As she made her way towards the bar, Taff noted the juxtaposition between her and Jalsinter—one exuding a quiet authority and the other embodying an unnerving intensity. Their appearances and intentions felt worlds apart, yet here they were sharing the same space, caught in the thrall of the tavern's disarray.
Taff could sense the priestess’s patience as she allowed the taverner to finish his business with the knight-errant first, a practiced decorum indicative of her background in the temples. Her calm demeanor served as an anchor amidst the tavern's tumult, and Taff marveled at how life unfolded in such contrasting personalities.
Seeing the two—Jalsinter, ready to reckon with the world in his calculated manner, and Abdessi, stepping cautiously into this chaotic new realm—instilled a flicker of curiosity within Taff. It made him wonder about the stories that could be exchanged over mugs of dark ale by such disparate souls.
Yet, his intrigue was overshadowed by the cavalcade of drunken revelry surging around him, the swirling tobacco smoke, and the unsightly debris that stained the floor. In that moment of contemplation, he understood that this place was alive with tales of grief, laughter, and redemption, reminding him that despite his hesitations, he stood on the precipice of adventure. Whether he would partake in this unpredictable journey remained uncertain, but Taff felt the tug of destiny urging him forward, but he bide his time... letting the other two patrons be served first. After all, he was rather comfortably seated by a quiet and dark corner, looking for no trouble from anyone while waiting for prince Merthyr as he had been instructed to do.
Taff watched intently from a slight distance, his thoughts swirling not only about the interactions at the bar but also the complexities of his own situation, being the prince's manservant was no easy task, now made harder by the chosen location. He noted the ease with which Gwen navigated her role as the tavern’s lifeline. Her ability to connect with patrons—regardless of their backgrounds—added a layer of hospitality to the otherwise chaotic setting. However, amid the warmth of the tavern, Taff’s heart fluttered with concern.
Prince Merthyr had insisted on joining him in this unruly establishment and Taff couldn’t shake the unease tightening in his chest. “What could the prince be thinking, coming to such a place?” he murmured to himself, anxiety creeping in. The tavern, with its reputation for lawlessness and unpredictable patrons, was no sanctuary for someone of royal standing.
Taff was worried sick about the potential dangers that lurked within the shadows of the establishment—thieves, brawlers, and dishonest men who might see the prince as nothing more than prey. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, his mind racing through possible scenarios, each more dreadful than the last.
Gwen’s presence offered a fleeting comfort. He couldn’t help but admire the way Gwen maintained a sense of community, even in a place often marked by isolation and hardship. The stark contrast between her welcoming spirit and the chaotic energy of the tavern only served to amplify his worries for the prince’s safety. He contemplated his own position and the heavy responsibility he carried as the prince’s manservant. Would he be able to ensure the prince’s well-being in this den of debauchery?
The thought weighed heavily on him, stirring trepidation, made worse by the fact he had no weapons on his persona should things turn ugly because only nobles and knights had the right to bear arms, other law-abiding citizens like himself abstained from breaking the law altogether. At the other end of the scale were these outlaws and brigands, armed to the teeth and with little care for authority. The prince in attendance could only end up in a pickle, but he kept quiet and remained patient, letting the priestess place her order before considering his own choice.
Taff stood hesitantly at the entrance of the tavern, a little reluctant to enter such a house of disrepute but the fact that it was very late, he was tired and hungry, all other establishments were already full and the taverner was a known friend made him take the first steps into the tavern.
This was a place well-known for its disreputable atmosphere. Located at the furthest edge of the city, in a rundown suburb closest to the docks, it drew in the lowest classes, dubious merchants, and even notorious pirates. On this late evening, after a long journey, he felt the weight of fatigue and hunger pressing down on him, exacerbated by the knowledge that other establishments had turned him away due to their full occupancy. With no choice left, he would have to enter.
As he took a step inside, he was immediately struck by the chaotic ambiance that enveloped the room. The air bore a heavy presence of light smoke emanating from the large glowing hearth at the far end, providing both warmth and a peculiar kind of comfort amidst the tavern's otherwise grim interior. This blend of heat and smoke made the atmosphere thick, yet not entirely unpleasant, wrapping around him like an old, worn cloak.
Taff's gaze traveled across the tavern's interior, where mismatched furniture adorned the dimly lit space. Unlike the select pieces he'd grown accustomed to at the royal palace, the furnishings here were numerous but assorted—clearly dated, battered, and displaying unmistakable signs of misuse. Some pieces had been patched and mended, yet there was no intention to restore them to their former glory; they existed merely to remain functional. Each chair, table, and sofa seemed to have a story, and none were alike, creating a haphazard tapestry of styles that filled the room with an unsettling eclecticism.
The couch, in particular, had stains so ingrained that its original color was almost impossible to discern, serving as a stark reminder of the tavern's neglect. It was a far cry from the immaculate and carefully chosen furnishings he was used to, and it made him shudder slightly.
Despite the warmth from the hearth, the overall lack of adequate windows or decent ventilation cast a dark, somewhat sinister pall over the room. Oil lamps and flickering candles were sparsely scattered across the tables, offering little illumination and further contributing to the uneasy ambiance. Shadows danced along the walls, occasionally revealing blurry figures engaged in raucous conversation or argument.
As Taff navigated deeper into the heart of the tavern, he noticed the cacophony of voices, laughter, and the unmistakable sounds of drunkenness. Gamblers crowded the tables, their shouts and accusations often escalating into scuffles, a testament to the lawlessness of the place. Taff felt a tension settle in his stomach; this was a haven for the unruly, a chilling contrast to the structured life he had known.
The tavern was filled with an unkempt clientele, where hard-drinking men were engaged in rowdy debates, their laughter mingling with the clinking of mugs. Occasionally, a scuffle would erupt, drawing the attention of the patrons only until the next round of rum settled them into forgetful cheer once more. Taff's discomfort deepened as he spotted a handful of women dressed in immodest, vibrant attire that left little to the imagination. Their bold gestures and suggestive movements were meant to entice the rough clientele, leaving Taff feeling exposed and desperately wishing to shrink away from their attention.
He leaned against a wall, attempting to remain inconspicuous, a well-mannered gentleman among a sea of chaos. His discomfort was palpable, so much so that he focused intently on the floor rather than the spectacle around him, feeling the blush creep up his cheeks.
As he inched further into the tavern, the scents of roasted meats, baked breads, and steaming pots wafted through the air. Despite the surrounding turmoil, these aromatic promises of hearty fare awakened his hunger, reminding him that sustenance lay within reach. Yet, that hunger was tempered by the unappealing sight before him—the floor was littered with spilled drinks and remnants of half-eaten meals, its uneven tiles a testament to neglect and wear. Flies buzzed lazily in the corners, and a few daring mice darted between tables, making the idea of eating something served here unsettling at best.
Now and then, a stronger whiff of tobacco smoke would invade his senses, swirling around him as patrons puffed on their pipes. Those familiar with fresh air found this fragrance suffocating; it mingled uncomfortably with the kitchen’s offerings and the overall disarray of the establishment.
In this watering hole where danger mingled tantalizingly with warmth, Taff felt caught between two worlds: the rough camaraderie of the lowly patrons and the lingering memories of his privileged upbringing. The murkiness of this haven, filled with secrets and sins, tugged at him, demanding he either embrace or reject it.
Just as he reconciled the chaos that surrounded him, the heavy wooden door swung open with a force that echoed through the tavern, creaking as it halted. A large man stepped inside, his demeanor standing in stark contrast to the revelry of the other patrons. Taff couldn't help but be intrigued as he watched Jalsinter navigate his way toward the oak counter with an efficiency that spoke to years of habit. There was a peculiar respect that hung in the air as Jalsinter pressed the exact coin count for his drink of choice—a froth-capped mug of dark ale.
This man was known for his rigid routine, and Taff observed the way he wordlessly demanded his chosen seat—his piercing stare brooking no argument from anyone who might occupy it. The patrons seemed used to his presence, some quickly stepping aside, while others adopted a bemused expression at his unwavering normalcy.
The mood shifted in the tavern once again as the door creaked open softly, allowing entry to a radiant figure. Abdessi entered with a gentler grace, her crimson robe blending beautifully with the golden hue cast by the roaring fireplace. Dark hair framed her face, cascading down to the hood of her veil. Taff felt an unexpected sense of calm wash over him as he observed her scrutinizing the chaos around her. She rubbed her hands together, seeking warmth, and then shifted her focus to the scene unfolding before her.
Abdessi's serene presence contrasted sharply with the raucous atmosphere. As she made her way towards the bar, Taff noted the juxtaposition between her and Jalsinter—one exuding a quiet authority and the other embodying an unnerving intensity. Their appearances and intentions felt worlds apart, yet here they were sharing the same space, caught in the thrall of the tavern's disarray.
Taff could sense the priestess’s patience as she allowed the taverner to finish his business with the knight-errant first, a practiced decorum indicative of her background in the temples. Her calm demeanor served as an anchor amidst the tavern's tumult, and Taff marveled at how life unfolded in such contrasting personalities.
Seeing the two—Jalsinter, ready to reckon with the world in his calculated manner, and Abdessi, stepping cautiously into this chaotic new realm—instilled a flicker of curiosity within Taff. It made him wonder about the stories that could be exchanged over mugs of dark ale by such disparate souls.
Yet, his intrigue was overshadowed by the cavalcade of drunken revelry surging around him, the swirling tobacco smoke, and the unsightly debris that stained the floor. In that moment of contemplation, he understood that this place was alive with tales of grief, laughter, and redemption, reminding him that despite his hesitations, he stood on the precipice of adventure. Whether he would partake in this unpredictable journey remained uncertain, but Taff felt the tug of destiny urging him forward, but he bide his time... letting the other two patrons be served first. After all, he was rather comfortably seated by a quiet and dark corner, looking for no trouble from anyone while waiting for prince Merthyr as he had been instructed to do.
Taff watched intently from a slight distance, his thoughts swirling not only about the interactions at the bar but also the complexities of his own situation, being the prince's manservant was no easy task, now made harder by the chosen location. He noted the ease with which Gwen navigated her role as the tavern’s lifeline. Her ability to connect with patrons—regardless of their backgrounds—added a layer of hospitality to the otherwise chaotic setting. However, amid the warmth of the tavern, Taff’s heart fluttered with concern.
Prince Merthyr had insisted on joining him in this unruly establishment and Taff couldn’t shake the unease tightening in his chest. “What could the prince be thinking, coming to such a place?” he murmured to himself, anxiety creeping in. The tavern, with its reputation for lawlessness and unpredictable patrons, was no sanctuary for someone of royal standing.
Taff was worried sick about the potential dangers that lurked within the shadows of the establishment—thieves, brawlers, and dishonest men who might see the prince as nothing more than prey. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, his mind racing through possible scenarios, each more dreadful than the last.
Gwen’s presence offered a fleeting comfort. He couldn’t help but admire the way Gwen maintained a sense of community, even in a place often marked by isolation and hardship. The stark contrast between her welcoming spirit and the chaotic energy of the tavern only served to amplify his worries for the prince’s safety. He contemplated his own position and the heavy responsibility he carried as the prince’s manservant. Would he be able to ensure the prince’s well-being in this den of debauchery?
The thought weighed heavily on him, stirring trepidation, made worse by the fact he had no weapons on his persona should things turn ugly because only nobles and knights had the right to bear arms, other law-abiding citizens like himself abstained from breaking the law altogether. At the other end of the scale were these outlaws and brigands, armed to the teeth and with little care for authority. The prince in attendance could only end up in a pickle, but he kept quiet and remained patient, letting the priestess place her order before considering his own choice.
As Jalsinter sat in solemn silence, Gwen approached the bar with purpose, her demeanor brightening the otherwise grim environment. She placed the frothy mug of dark ale before Jalsinter with a satisfying thud, the rich aroma wafting upwards. Judging by the amount and value of the coins the knight had deposited upon the counter, which could only match the cheapest drink sold at the place, it was easy to assume that the dark ale was what the man had wanted. Nonetheless, she asked what else the knight might like to have to break the ice a little. “Here you go,” she said, her voice warm and inviting, a contrast to the rough edges of the tavern’s ambiance. “Do you need anything else tonight, sir?” Her tone carried a lighthearted challenge, as if genuinely hoping to coax something more from the renowned knight.
While waiting for Jalsinter's answer, she turned briefly to acknowledge Abdessi, the priestess who had just entered. With a slight nod of her head, she signaled understanding, her expression implying that she would be with her shortly. “Be there in a moment,” she assured Abdessi, her focus returning to Jalsinter with a hint of playful curiosity.
While waiting for Jalsinter's answer, she turned briefly to acknowledge Abdessi, the priestess who had just entered. With a slight nod of her head, she signaled understanding, her expression implying that she would be with her shortly. “Be there in a moment,” she assured Abdessi, her focus returning to Jalsinter with a hint of playful curiosity.
Despite Gwen's casual attempt to arouse more attention from the robotic tavern-goer, Jalsinter was not yet stirred from his routine. He took the dark ale placed before him and raised his eyes only briefly to the maid's. "No, thank you." The statement would be normal enough coming from anyone else; for Jalsinter, it was all he usually had to say after a full mug was delivered to him. Whether or not he noticed that the woman before him was implying anything with her tone or statements was not clear; if one were to judge simply from his own behavior, she might as well seem just as dull as he was.
A couple of tavern regulars chuckled nearby, perhaps at his expense, or perhaps Gwen's for not being able to get anything new out of him. One of them even tossed a torn bit of bread his way, and it bounced harmlessly off of the back of his tunic. If he was able to tell it happened, it was not clear, for the knight-errant simply tucked his mug close to his chest and continued examining the wooden boards comprising the counter.
Jalsinter kept his head bowed regardless, with the exception of times where he took a swig of his ale. Even with Gwen's later statement, it was as though none of the other new patrons had arrived at all. In truth, there were only a few people the man was thinking of, and all of them were far away from Loki's tavern. His calloused knuckles went pale as he clutched the grip of his drink, yielding only to the most attentive why someone like him had bothered to go there in the first place.
A couple of tavern regulars chuckled nearby, perhaps at his expense, or perhaps Gwen's for not being able to get anything new out of him. One of them even tossed a torn bit of bread his way, and it bounced harmlessly off of the back of his tunic. If he was able to tell it happened, it was not clear, for the knight-errant simply tucked his mug close to his chest and continued examining the wooden boards comprising the counter.
Jalsinter kept his head bowed regardless, with the exception of times where he took a swig of his ale. Even with Gwen's later statement, it was as though none of the other new patrons had arrived at all. In truth, there were only a few people the man was thinking of, and all of them were far away from Loki's tavern. His calloused knuckles went pale as he clutched the grip of his drink, yielding only to the most attentive why someone like him had bothered to go there in the first place.
Janella was in the area, and it would be nice to get out of the accursed cold. She opened the door just enough to get through, her slim build gliding through the space before letting it snap shut behind her. The mixed elf did not make any noise, but her arrival was noted by many. This was a place where rogues such as herself made their home, where drunks boasted and people schemed, gambled and traded gossip. There were pockets to pick, juicy tidbits to overhear, arms to twist. It was her kind of place.
Not much of her dark gray skin was visible beneath the hood, mask and cloak. But it was enough to mark her as a drow, even if it wasn't her only heritage. Stark white hair streaked with silver had a severe middle part and was tied back in a single braid.
She had no visible weapons, though there were some pouches on her belt. Dark cloth and brown leather wrapped around her, as well as an air of mystery. Her soft boots fell over the ground, leaving not a whisper of noise. She walked past the fire, grateful for it's warmth despite how it hurt her eyes. People subtly parted for her, and as she passed fires and torches, their light was dimmed before she moved away and the flames recovered. Brushing by Taff, she stared with her black gaze, he was familiar to her. Not only that, but he looked very out of place.
Passing Abdessi, black eyes enjoying the beauty and intrigue that the young woman offered, she said, "Good evening, I hope you find yourself well." Her voice was almost lyrical, like many elves, though hers had the traces of a harsh accent she could not entirely banish from her speech.
The half-drow sat at the bar near Abdessi and Jalsinter, aware of the glares from other patrons due to the reputation of her kind, but uncaring.
"Madam," she said to Gwen, strands of her pale hair that had escaped the braid brushed along her face as she inclined her head somewhat. She removed her hood and mask, her features were angular and fair. "Some stew and rum, please." Long, pointed fingers pushed gleaming coins across the counter. The man with the ponytail reminded her of some automatons she had seen before. "How much for one of your rooms?" she asked of Gwen.
Not much of her dark gray skin was visible beneath the hood, mask and cloak. But it was enough to mark her as a drow, even if it wasn't her only heritage. Stark white hair streaked with silver had a severe middle part and was tied back in a single braid.
She had no visible weapons, though there were some pouches on her belt. Dark cloth and brown leather wrapped around her, as well as an air of mystery. Her soft boots fell over the ground, leaving not a whisper of noise. She walked past the fire, grateful for it's warmth despite how it hurt her eyes. People subtly parted for her, and as she passed fires and torches, their light was dimmed before she moved away and the flames recovered. Brushing by Taff, she stared with her black gaze, he was familiar to her. Not only that, but he looked very out of place.
Passing Abdessi, black eyes enjoying the beauty and intrigue that the young woman offered, she said, "Good evening, I hope you find yourself well." Her voice was almost lyrical, like many elves, though hers had the traces of a harsh accent she could not entirely banish from her speech.
The half-drow sat at the bar near Abdessi and Jalsinter, aware of the glares from other patrons due to the reputation of her kind, but uncaring.
"Madam," she said to Gwen, strands of her pale hair that had escaped the braid brushed along her face as she inclined her head somewhat. She removed her hood and mask, her features were angular and fair. "Some stew and rum, please." Long, pointed fingers pushed gleaming coins across the counter. The man with the ponytail reminded her of some automatons she had seen before. "How much for one of your rooms?" she asked of Gwen.
The iron hinges of the heavy oak doors groaned, a sound that was felt as much as he heard it. He leaned into the wooden frame, his shoulder meeting the resistance with the practiced weight of a man accustomed to breaching impassable bulwarks. As the seal broke, the warm, thick atmosphere of Loki’s Tavern rushed out to greet him, a welcome contrast to the biting evening air of Camelot. Alaric didn't move immediately. He stood in the frame, his silhouette casting a long, jagged shadow across the floor. He breathed in. The air was a heavy soup of roasted venison, ale, and the sharp, metallic tang of his own armor. He let his auburn eyes adjust to the amber flicker of dancing candles. To a common traveler, it was cozy; to Alaric, it was a familiar and still treacherous landscape. He mapped the exits, the low-hanging beams that would snag a raised blade, and the darkened corners where a dagger might be drawn.
He stepped forward. The floorboards offered a low, rhythmic creak under the weight of his boots and the heavy steel plate protecting his shins. He felt the eyes of the room slide toward him. He didn't look at them. He kept his gaze level, his pace measured. He moved with a deliberate, grounded power not the light-footed prance of a nobleman, but the solid, crushing momentum of a warhorse. Every joint in his armor sang a quiet, grinding song of iron on iron. His harness was a map of his life’s struggles; the steel was dulled by oil and woodsmoke, notched at the collar where a drake's tooth had once glanced off, and darkened by the deep, indelible stains of where spellbolts impacted. He felt the pull of his heavy cloak, the thick fabric still damp at the hem from crossing the marshlands at dawn.
As he approached the taberna proper, the heat from the great stone hearth began to seep through his layers. He felt the incandescent embers cast a prickle heat against his stature. Under the armor, his body was a pillar of function and wear, lacking the vanity of the court knights there was no gracile definition, only the thick, protective bulk of a man who needed to withstand the kick of a mace and the strain of a ten-hour march. He reached the polished oak counter and stopped. He didn't speak. Silence was a tool he used as often as his sword. He unbuckled his sword belt with a rhythmic, mechanical click. The longsword, a straight-edged, utilitarian piece of tempered steel, felt alive in his hand for the brief moment he gripped the leather-wrapped hilt to lean it against the bar. It was longer than the standard infantry blades, built for reach and the terrifying leverage of his broad shoulders.
He looked at the woman behind the bar the one they called Gwen, for the briefest moments he offered a subtle smile, acknowledging the years she had put into the place and her kindness to the patrons. She was preoccupied with her dues no doubt, her movements fluid and eyes sharp with the kind of intelligence that usually meant trouble or profit. Alaric felt the burden of the long road in the creases of his palms as he rested his hands on the wood. He could feel the vibration of the room through the oak, the thrum of voices, the clatter of dice, the muffled laughter of men who hadn't seen a battlefield in years.
"Some of your ale and a bowl of stew, good dame "
He said. His voice was gravelled and rich, bearing a storied, somewhat somber depth, unused for the last twenty miles of the journey. He took a seat on a stool that groaned in protest of his weight. He allowed his shoulders to drop an inch, a rare concession to the fatigue that lived in his marrow. Sliding a payment of coin, a glint of silver before him. From this vantage point, he watched the room in the reflection of the polished silver tankards Gwen was tending. He saw the flicker of firelight on the walls and the way the shadows danced, reminding him of the way the sun had filtered through the trees in the forested hills just outside the city walls.
The horses in the fields earlier had been skittish. He remembered the way his own mount had flattened its ears as they passed the fence line. Something was shifting in the air of Camelot. It wasn't just the smell of rain; it was the smell of change. He watched Gwen’s hands. He watched the way the light caught the amber liquid as she poured. He wasn't just here to drink. He was here to listen to the gaps between the words of the patrons, to find the truth hidden in the gossip she was famous for. He felt the heavy, quiet gravitas of his own presence settle over the immediate area like a shroud. He was a man of war in a room of peace, and the friction of that reality was something he wore as comfortably as his scarred breastplate. He reached out, his thick fingers closing around the handle of the mug that eventually found him. The metal was cool, a relief against his heat-flushed skin. He took a long, slow draught, the bitter liquid washing away the taste of the road. He was Alaric, and he was home or as close to home as a man of his trade was ever allowed to get.
Alaric felt her before he saw her. It wasn't the sound of her approach for she moved with the unnatural, silent fluidity of a shadow without master but a sudden, localized chill that seemed to suck the warmth from the hearth as she glided past. He didn't turn his head; he had learned long ago that staring was a novice’s mistake. Instead, he watched her reflection in the convex surface of his silver tankard. He saw a slip of dark gray skin, the startling flash of silver-streaked white hair, and the way the very torchlight seemed to bow in her presence. A half-drow. A creature of the deep places, carrying the scent of cold stone and ancient magic into a room that smelled of ale and smoke.
He adjusted his weight on the stool, the binds of his armor creaking like a warning. His hand remained wrapped around his drink, but his thumb traced the edge of the rim, a restless habit of a man weighing friend or foe. He watched her interact with the others, noting the lyrical lilt of her voice and the way she discarded her mask with an indifference that spoke of immense, quiet confidence. She was a rogue, a whisper in the dark, and in a city like Camelot, her kind usually meant a knife in the ribs or a secret sold to the highest bidder. Alaric didn't care for her reputation, but he respected her silence; it was a professional courtesy. As she negotiated for a room, Alaric let his gaze shift from the silver reflection to the woman herself, his brown eyes heavy and unblinking. He caught the glint of the coins she pushed across the wood and the way her long, pointed fingers moved with a surgeon’s precision. Alaric’s gaze lingered for a moment on the sharp, elegant sweep of her ears as they emerged from her silver-streaked hair a feature so starkly different from the battered, rounded ears of the men he had fought alongside. There was a delicate, predatory beauty to those points that fascinated him, forever tuned to frequencies a man in heavy plate could never hope to hear.
She had but blinked when, in a matter of moments, the tavern’s revelry was immediately evident. Perhaps Abdessi had allowed her thoughts of the future wander too far ahead of the present. Alas, by the time the noise brought her back to where she stood at the bar, the healer was practically in the middle of mayhem. Well, mayhem to her was variable — a maiden whose life until the past few years had been little more than hollow convent halls and the wide open chapel held by stone pillars older than the elves. In her brief travels, she had crossed the threshold of inns who stood along forgotten dirt roads or taverns in murky underbellies where the walls held eyes that followed her wherever she went. But Abdessi had yet to be fully accustomed to them.
The priestess drew her hands to clasp in front of herself, a palm running along her wrist’s sleeve. She was sure that she felt eyes on her now, but kept her own gaze forward. When Gwen’s voice was drawn to her, Abdessi returned the gesture with a faint smile. “Take your time.”
Abdessi would be the first to admit that she felt out of place. Her homeland of Karth was no exception to such places, for they were a common respite for rice farmers and fishermen after they hauled their wares to market and left their mules to graze along tied pillory posts. A place to come and unload their burdens even if it was for a night — Some find that place in religion as they’re kneeling face down at a chapel steps. Some find it in the open road far from home. And some find it when they see their reflection at the bottom of a bottle.
Her eyes passed over Jalsinter in quiet, yet careful study. His eyes were as focused on his ale, as she was focused on the stiffness that held his shoulders aloft. A thought passed, as it did with many knights she came across in her journey thus far — If perhaps he was to be her journey’s end. That thought stayed a thought, yet its intention slipped across her brow and caused it to crease ever so slightly.
As she stood pondering if she should break the knight’s peace with a question of her own, Abdessi’s attention was drawn to an address to her. Her eyes widened, as Janella passed and a glimpse of white hair passed with her — silver skin, the voice that sang words instead of spoke them. There were no elves in Karth. Not anymore. Nomads came and went, typically on their way to other cities who they would hope would welcome them instead. Until she fled that very city and traveled further than she ever thought she could be capable of traveling, Abdessi had only seen them in passing and never a Drow.
“Good evening.” Abdessi returned Janella’s gesture with a soft nod, “Thank you. You as well.” The Drow took a seat between her and Jalsinter, though Abdessi wandered if the sniff would be enough case stir the knight away from his drink. Whatever was on his mind had his fullest attention.
Abdessi didn’t mind the wait. She wasn’t here for a drink, thus patrons should be served first. Albeit, she wasn’t sure if Gwen would have what she needed.
The priestess drew her hands to clasp in front of herself, a palm running along her wrist’s sleeve. She was sure that she felt eyes on her now, but kept her own gaze forward. When Gwen’s voice was drawn to her, Abdessi returned the gesture with a faint smile. “Take your time.”
Abdessi would be the first to admit that she felt out of place. Her homeland of Karth was no exception to such places, for they were a common respite for rice farmers and fishermen after they hauled their wares to market and left their mules to graze along tied pillory posts. A place to come and unload their burdens even if it was for a night — Some find that place in religion as they’re kneeling face down at a chapel steps. Some find it in the open road far from home. And some find it when they see their reflection at the bottom of a bottle.
Her eyes passed over Jalsinter in quiet, yet careful study. His eyes were as focused on his ale, as she was focused on the stiffness that held his shoulders aloft. A thought passed, as it did with many knights she came across in her journey thus far — If perhaps he was to be her journey’s end. That thought stayed a thought, yet its intention slipped across her brow and caused it to crease ever so slightly.
As she stood pondering if she should break the knight’s peace with a question of her own, Abdessi’s attention was drawn to an address to her. Her eyes widened, as Janella passed and a glimpse of white hair passed with her — silver skin, the voice that sang words instead of spoke them. There were no elves in Karth. Not anymore. Nomads came and went, typically on their way to other cities who they would hope would welcome them instead. Until she fled that very city and traveled further than she ever thought she could be capable of traveling, Abdessi had only seen them in passing and never a Drow.
“Good evening.” Abdessi returned Janella’s gesture with a soft nod, “Thank you. You as well.” The Drow took a seat between her and Jalsinter, though Abdessi wandered if the sniff would be enough case stir the knight away from his drink. Whatever was on his mind had his fullest attention.
Abdessi didn’t mind the wait. She wasn’t here for a drink, thus patrons should be served first. Albeit, she wasn’t sure if Gwen would have what she needed.
Gwen looked up from her busy bar, her keen eyes taking in the patrons gathered close to her counter.
She didn't know them well, but patrons were like threads in the fabric of her life at Loki’s Tavern—each one adding a unique hue to the unfolding tapestry of stories.
She flashed a welcoming smile, eager to serve despite not knowing their specific narratives.
She nodded in acceptance at Jalsinter's dismissive comment, letting the man tuck into the drink quietly and consume himself into deeper thoughts, not about to break his concentration or make him uncomfortable with further unwanted questioning.
---
With a warm smile, Gwen leaned towards Abdessi, her voice kind and inviting.
“Ah, dear priestess, it’s always a pleasure to see your kind among my patrons.” greeted Gwen.
She noted Abdessi’s serene demeanor amidst the chaos of the tavern.
"What can I get you?. Would you fancy a light warm broth or perhaps something a bit heartier? Our venison stew may be just what you need after braving the cold outside. Have a think and let me know how may I be of service” offered Gwen, never one to rush patrons orders. The longer they stayed, the more they drank and ate after all.
----
As she finished speaking to Abdessi, her attention shifted to Janella, who had recently made an entrance as captivating as her presence.
Gwen recognized the blend of confidence and enigma that draped around the half-drow.
While giving Abdessi time to decide, Gwen turned her attention to Janella who seemed in a rush and decided on what she wanted.
Perhaps she was here for murky business... and who was Gwen to judge or censor anyone seeking work under her roof? So long they paid, one could go about their business and dealings to their hearts content.
She noticed the half-drow’s distinctive features and knew she was someone who commanded attention, after all, danger surrounded her like it did all assassins.
She had listened to her voice attentively, her eyes glinted with understanding, treating the woman’s request with the delicacy it deserved.
“Our stew is our house specialty, freshly hunted venison, a selection of homegrown roots and vegetables from the allotment outside and just the right amount of spice, perfect for the chill.
“Here is your rum and a large portion of stew, my shadow-dancer" Presented Gwen, placing the large filled bowl of stew down, gently nudging it forward towards her for Janella's easy reach
Gwen talked as she poured the rum into a polished silver tankard. The liquid glimmered in the candlelight, capturing the ambiance of the tavern.
“Rooms are ten silver a night, madam, five rooms still free upstairs” replied briefly placing a basket of bread on the house .
“Eat, drink, and let the warmth fill you. Here, within these walls, we’re all kindred spirits, even if the night is still young,” she said, a genuine smile illuminating her face. She knew that stories were best shared over good food and drink, and she welcomed the opportunity to listen, for every tale enhanced the atmosphere of her beloved tavern.
"Enjoy your meal" Wished Gwen glancing over her and towards Alaric
----
Finally, Gwen turned to the imposing figure of Alaric, a knight bearing the weight of battles fought and burdens shouldered.
She noted the scars etched on his armor, the silent stories they told, her attention to his words quickly picking up on the order and serving it right away.
“Here, for our gallant knight,” she remarked, her voice warm yet straightforward.
“It seems the road has treated you well enough.” commented casually asked she placed the tankard filled with ale before him, the frothy head settling as she leaned closer.
“You’ve traveled far, I can tell. The venison stew is something our regulars swear by. It’ll put the fire back after a long journey.” assured the woman leaving the plated stew and brimming ale before the imposing figure and returning to Abdessi to see what she would have, her ears peeled for every conversation and detail.
She didn't know them well, but patrons were like threads in the fabric of her life at Loki’s Tavern—each one adding a unique hue to the unfolding tapestry of stories.
She flashed a welcoming smile, eager to serve despite not knowing their specific narratives.
She nodded in acceptance at Jalsinter's dismissive comment, letting the man tuck into the drink quietly and consume himself into deeper thoughts, not about to break his concentration or make him uncomfortable with further unwanted questioning.
---
With a warm smile, Gwen leaned towards Abdessi, her voice kind and inviting.
“Ah, dear priestess, it’s always a pleasure to see your kind among my patrons.” greeted Gwen.
She noted Abdessi’s serene demeanor amidst the chaos of the tavern.
"What can I get you?. Would you fancy a light warm broth or perhaps something a bit heartier? Our venison stew may be just what you need after braving the cold outside. Have a think and let me know how may I be of service” offered Gwen, never one to rush patrons orders. The longer they stayed, the more they drank and ate after all.
----
As she finished speaking to Abdessi, her attention shifted to Janella, who had recently made an entrance as captivating as her presence.
Gwen recognized the blend of confidence and enigma that draped around the half-drow.
While giving Abdessi time to decide, Gwen turned her attention to Janella who seemed in a rush and decided on what she wanted.
Perhaps she was here for murky business... and who was Gwen to judge or censor anyone seeking work under her roof? So long they paid, one could go about their business and dealings to their hearts content.
She noticed the half-drow’s distinctive features and knew she was someone who commanded attention, after all, danger surrounded her like it did all assassins.
She had listened to her voice attentively, her eyes glinted with understanding, treating the woman’s request with the delicacy it deserved.
“Our stew is our house specialty, freshly hunted venison, a selection of homegrown roots and vegetables from the allotment outside and just the right amount of spice, perfect for the chill.
“Here is your rum and a large portion of stew, my shadow-dancer" Presented Gwen, placing the large filled bowl of stew down, gently nudging it forward towards her for Janella's easy reach
Gwen talked as she poured the rum into a polished silver tankard. The liquid glimmered in the candlelight, capturing the ambiance of the tavern.
“Rooms are ten silver a night, madam, five rooms still free upstairs” replied briefly placing a basket of bread on the house .
“Eat, drink, and let the warmth fill you. Here, within these walls, we’re all kindred spirits, even if the night is still young,” she said, a genuine smile illuminating her face. She knew that stories were best shared over good food and drink, and she welcomed the opportunity to listen, for every tale enhanced the atmosphere of her beloved tavern.
"Enjoy your meal" Wished Gwen glancing over her and towards Alaric
----
Finally, Gwen turned to the imposing figure of Alaric, a knight bearing the weight of battles fought and burdens shouldered.
She noted the scars etched on his armor, the silent stories they told, her attention to his words quickly picking up on the order and serving it right away.
“Here, for our gallant knight,” she remarked, her voice warm yet straightforward.
“It seems the road has treated you well enough.” commented casually asked she placed the tankard filled with ale before him, the frothy head settling as she leaned closer.
“You’ve traveled far, I can tell. The venison stew is something our regulars swear by. It’ll put the fire back after a long journey.” assured the woman leaving the plated stew and brimming ale before the imposing figure and returning to Abdessi to see what she would have, her ears peeled for every conversation and detail.
Taff sat at a small table in Loki’s Tavern, his thoughts swirling like the steam rising from the tankards around him. The moment Janella entered, he felt a profound shift in the atmosphere. She was beautiful—there was no denying that—but the aura she exuded was anything but comforting.
Taff grew stiff, still and silent, the colour drained from his face when Janella came in and it returned to his cheeks with renewed fury, leaving him red as a beetroot when she brushed passed him and made actual physical contact. He had never been close to women before, never mind one touching him. As she brushed past him, even that fleeting contact sent a jolt through him, an unsettling mix of embarrassment and unease.
In that moment, all he could think was that she was a menace, albeit an alluring one, and made the tavern feel far less like a refuge and more like a trap. If her kind was a menace, she was clearly the worst of it. Her presence made this establishment entirely unsuitable for the crown prince to attend.
He gripped the table tightly, knuckles white as he forced himself not to stare back at her when she purposely gazed at him, after all, staring back would be rude. Unable to meet her gaze, he kept his sight down at the table, willing himself to become invisible. He was the prince's manservant, a mere courtier, barely familiar with the complexities of the world outside his orderred law-abiding sheltered upbringing. The very idea of attracting her attention filled him with terror.
Taff’s thoughts raced, he knew she was dangerous, he had seen her many a times, at a distance, the woman in chains, surrounded by guards during her trials, at the dungeons and at the stocks. She was known for her kills, skill and stealth in the shadows. Now, here, on the loose and closer to him than ever, it made this place fell all the more threatening and shameful, but, he held his breath and remained quiet, head ducked, hoping to pass unnoticed.
What was she doing here, in a place so filled with life and noise? Was she here to murder the prince?. Panic curled in his gut at the thought. The mere possibility that she could turn her gaze upon him sent a shiver of terror down his spine. He reminded himself that he was in a crowded tavern filled with witnesses, yet a small part of him questioned his safety.
With every ounce of will, he clung to the table, each pounding heartbeat echoing in his ears as he remained silent. Perhaps, if he stayed quiet and still, he could escape the night unscathed.
As the tavern continued its revelry, Taff continued to breathe, counting the moments until he could fade back into the shadows, just as Janella seemed to do with each measured step, finally walking away from him and leaving only her presence lingering in the air—a reminder of the dangers that lurked just beyond the dance of candlelight.
Taff grew stiff, still and silent, the colour drained from his face when Janella came in and it returned to his cheeks with renewed fury, leaving him red as a beetroot when she brushed passed him and made actual physical contact. He had never been close to women before, never mind one touching him. As she brushed past him, even that fleeting contact sent a jolt through him, an unsettling mix of embarrassment and unease.
In that moment, all he could think was that she was a menace, albeit an alluring one, and made the tavern feel far less like a refuge and more like a trap. If her kind was a menace, she was clearly the worst of it. Her presence made this establishment entirely unsuitable for the crown prince to attend.
He gripped the table tightly, knuckles white as he forced himself not to stare back at her when she purposely gazed at him, after all, staring back would be rude. Unable to meet her gaze, he kept his sight down at the table, willing himself to become invisible. He was the prince's manservant, a mere courtier, barely familiar with the complexities of the world outside his orderred law-abiding sheltered upbringing. The very idea of attracting her attention filled him with terror.
Taff’s thoughts raced, he knew she was dangerous, he had seen her many a times, at a distance, the woman in chains, surrounded by guards during her trials, at the dungeons and at the stocks. She was known for her kills, skill and stealth in the shadows. Now, here, on the loose and closer to him than ever, it made this place fell all the more threatening and shameful, but, he held his breath and remained quiet, head ducked, hoping to pass unnoticed.
What was she doing here, in a place so filled with life and noise? Was she here to murder the prince?. Panic curled in his gut at the thought. The mere possibility that she could turn her gaze upon him sent a shiver of terror down his spine. He reminded himself that he was in a crowded tavern filled with witnesses, yet a small part of him questioned his safety.
With every ounce of will, he clung to the table, each pounding heartbeat echoing in his ears as he remained silent. Perhaps, if he stayed quiet and still, he could escape the night unscathed.
As the tavern continued its revelry, Taff continued to breathe, counting the moments until he could fade back into the shadows, just as Janella seemed to do with each measured step, finally walking away from him and leaving only her presence lingering in the air—a reminder of the dangers that lurked just beyond the dance of candlelight.
Janella had noticed the effect she had on Taff, a slow grin curling along her sharp jaw to create a malicious look for a few moments before it faded. He looked like he was waiting for someone, sitting at a small table by himself, but who? She muddled through her memories, flashes of seeing him in court while she was led in chains flashed through her mind. She'd subtly glance to the manservant once in a while, keeping tabs on him much like a predator did when it was making sure prey didn't flee. A casual observer might just think she was scanning the room. Taff had been sitting close to the Prince, which is why she remembered him. She made a mental note to brush by him again and try pick pocketing him next time, her grin reemerged and turned into a chuckle.
"It's not deep rothe or mushrooms, but it'll do, madam. I'd like to stay for three nights, and when I go up, have some of your serving girls ready a hot bath for me." The five coins she pushed across the table were gold, and surely ill-gotten but they glittered and traded all the same. It was more than required for what she was asking for, but she wanted to get on Gwen's good side, and to buy some luxury for herself. She could rough it, sure, but she thought herself deserving of the finer things in life. She settled down where she could, but her lifestyle often demanded she act as a nomad among the cities. The smile Janella had now was more demure. She also intended to try and seek Gwen out later, in private, to discuss what gossip and rumors she knew in secret. Information was a useful tool, for those who knew how to wield it. Coin helped to loosen lips. "I deeply appreciate your hospitality, especially toward one such as myself," she said, one of her spidery hands resting over her chest for a moment to emphasize her gratitude.
The mixed elf was keen on hearing about what Abdessi would need from Gwen. Something about Abdessi had clued Janella to the fact that she was here for more than what Gwen had at first offered. Abdessi needed something far more important than food or drinks or even shelter. Finding herself extremely curious about what it was, the half-drow was seriously considering offering her own services if the request was something she could fulfill. Multiple times before, she had performed dirty work for nobles, sages or royalty that lacked the political power of their opponents. The rogue performed an almost imperceptible spell to detect any poison within the drink or stew, she'd hadn't lived this long without being paranoid. She took a long drink of the rum with barely a grimace, the warmth spreading throughout her core. Indulging in the stew, she ate at a measured pace.
Her bony elbow nudged sharply against Jalsinter, seeing the way he was staring down at the wood unless he was lifting his head for a drink. He'd just been staring down at the bar and drinking all this time, completely ignoring his surroundings. It was more because she wanted to know how he would react than anything. She had never observed this behavior in a person before, sooner or later people looked up. A couple of patrons that were sitting nearby and watching made a bet with each other over whether or not the elf would get a rise out of Jalsinter or not.
Out of the corner of her eye, she had seen Alaric looking at her, and then her ears, while she questioned Gwen about a room. She had adventured and fought with men that reminded her of him before. They had their uses. Memories of fighting with them as allies against monsters, the mix of finesse and strength unstoppable, flowed through her mind. Recollections of fights she'd had against such foes swirled through her consciousness as well, they had sometimes gotten too close for comfort. There were often bounties out for her and mercenaries with varying degrees of talent and power had hunted her down and tried to kill her. Their armor and weapons almost as big as she was presented a challenge. Escape was preferable to a direct confrontation for her, rogues attacked with stealth and exploited enemies weaknesses.
Was he someone who had been hired to hunt her down? It wouldn't be the first time. She didn't think she had any bounties out on her in this area. Or did he think that she was exotic? Some males thought her off-putting, others coveted her, many were somewhere in between. She cared little for the opinions of males, having grown up in a matriarchal society. However, some males were easier to exploit or manipulate due to their thoughts on her looks. Even if she had dealings with this one, she doubted she would try such tactics. Something about him was especially stalwart. "You like my knife ears?" she asked of him, her tone a playful taunt, testing his reaction.
"It's not deep rothe or mushrooms, but it'll do, madam. I'd like to stay for three nights, and when I go up, have some of your serving girls ready a hot bath for me." The five coins she pushed across the table were gold, and surely ill-gotten but they glittered and traded all the same. It was more than required for what she was asking for, but she wanted to get on Gwen's good side, and to buy some luxury for herself. She could rough it, sure, but she thought herself deserving of the finer things in life. She settled down where she could, but her lifestyle often demanded she act as a nomad among the cities. The smile Janella had now was more demure. She also intended to try and seek Gwen out later, in private, to discuss what gossip and rumors she knew in secret. Information was a useful tool, for those who knew how to wield it. Coin helped to loosen lips. "I deeply appreciate your hospitality, especially toward one such as myself," she said, one of her spidery hands resting over her chest for a moment to emphasize her gratitude.
The mixed elf was keen on hearing about what Abdessi would need from Gwen. Something about Abdessi had clued Janella to the fact that she was here for more than what Gwen had at first offered. Abdessi needed something far more important than food or drinks or even shelter. Finding herself extremely curious about what it was, the half-drow was seriously considering offering her own services if the request was something she could fulfill. Multiple times before, she had performed dirty work for nobles, sages or royalty that lacked the political power of their opponents. The rogue performed an almost imperceptible spell to detect any poison within the drink or stew, she'd hadn't lived this long without being paranoid. She took a long drink of the rum with barely a grimace, the warmth spreading throughout her core. Indulging in the stew, she ate at a measured pace.
Her bony elbow nudged sharply against Jalsinter, seeing the way he was staring down at the wood unless he was lifting his head for a drink. He'd just been staring down at the bar and drinking all this time, completely ignoring his surroundings. It was more because she wanted to know how he would react than anything. She had never observed this behavior in a person before, sooner or later people looked up. A couple of patrons that were sitting nearby and watching made a bet with each other over whether or not the elf would get a rise out of Jalsinter or not.
Out of the corner of her eye, she had seen Alaric looking at her, and then her ears, while she questioned Gwen about a room. She had adventured and fought with men that reminded her of him before. They had their uses. Memories of fighting with them as allies against monsters, the mix of finesse and strength unstoppable, flowed through her mind. Recollections of fights she'd had against such foes swirled through her consciousness as well, they had sometimes gotten too close for comfort. There were often bounties out for her and mercenaries with varying degrees of talent and power had hunted her down and tried to kill her. Their armor and weapons almost as big as she was presented a challenge. Escape was preferable to a direct confrontation for her, rogues attacked with stealth and exploited enemies weaknesses.
Was he someone who had been hired to hunt her down? It wouldn't be the first time. She didn't think she had any bounties out on her in this area. Or did he think that she was exotic? Some males thought her off-putting, others coveted her, many were somewhere in between. She cared little for the opinions of males, having grown up in a matriarchal society. However, some males were easier to exploit or manipulate due to their thoughts on her looks. Even if she had dealings with this one, she doubted she would try such tactics. Something about him was especially stalwart. "You like my knife ears?" she asked of him, her tone a playful taunt, testing his reaction.
Alaric watched the steam rise from the venison stew with a patient, heavy focus, his eyes tracking the swirling vapors as if they were a riddle of smoke. The ale beside it, dark as the loam of a forest floor and crowned with a thick, settling froth, seemed to possess its own gravity. As the warmth of the hearth soothed him, Alaric allowed himself a moment of respite. He was a man accustomed to the lean, airless hunger of the northern peaks, where the only comfort was the heat of one's own breath. Here, in the heart of Loki’s Tavern, the abundance felt almost decadent. He didn't move with the frantic haste; instead, he acknowledged the service with a slow, rhythmic inclination of his head. His voice, when it finally broke the silence of his corner, was deep and resonant with a gravitas that seemed to vibrate through the very oak of the table.
"You have a keen eye for the weary, I’ve been called many things on my way down from the peaks, but ‘gallant’ usually requires a much cleaner mantle and a horse that hasn't forgotten what a stable feels like. But for your famed venison stew, I am content playing the part for the evening."
He reached out with a hand that was a landscape of callouses and tales, taking the tankard with a disciplined restraint that belied his size. He didn't gulp the ale like a drunkard, savoring the moment as it were, offering a slow, appreciative nod to the host, Gwen.
"The road and I have reached a mutual understanding, a bond of wind and stone akin to the lands from which I hail, it attempts to erosion of the spirit through ceaseless attrition, and I embrace that bittersweet caress with fortitude yet too stubborn to yield. I fear I may journey just a while longer, the fates permitting though certainly such hospitalities make a man yearn for the settled life, my thanks unto you"
He offered a subtle, charming grin that softened the formidable weary semblance. His demeanors reflected the mountain metaphor, a warrior's wisdom as it were, he projected an amicable, almost courtly peace that seemed to betray the rugged, battleworn stature and concealed the brutality endured and dealt from battles past and no shortage of savage deeds on his own part.
Janella's words were a welcome interruption to Alaric's own train of thought, doubtless, each of the patrons concerned with their own motives. Hers was a captivating, almost feline, menace her words seemingly unperturbed by caution, the come-hither temptations not unlike a spider's web and though Alaric was wisened to such, he made his admirations known abudnantly and without the usual caution he would have presented elsewhere, an ardent gaze turned to meet her, the expression growing enthused, playing the game so to speak, there was the dependable surity in the man, there was a sort of humble transparency to him that spared her much unravelling, he was as he seemed, a battle-worn hound of the mountains, a soldier not a nobleman, somewhat humble but dutiful and true to the bloody last.
" The poets would exhaust of words and prose were they to embark upon notions of unravelling my thoughts of you this hour, you may think this notion pedantic and uncustomary of a seasoned warrior whom should know better than be willing to yield to such things, but this life would not rouse Alaric otherwise. When an eagle dives from the cliff he thinks not of the treacherous fall but of the glory of the soar, graceful as your points are, they are not to me, your most admirable feature, I instead see ambition, wit, and one who has reasoned to seize their destiny from the indifference of fortuna, and those are things I not only come to respect but admittedly am infatuated with "
Alaric paused gesticulating some,
"It is a rare thing to find a woman who leads with a challenge before she’s even seen the color of a man’s eyes," he continued, his tone ponderous and thoughtful. "Most would see my armor and think of a wall to be climbed or a purse to be cut. You, however, seem to be looking for the spirit behind the iron. I am Alaric, and I can assure you that I haven't descended from the peaks to hunt for petty bounties. I’m a man who has made a career out of breaking down walls, sieging forts, slaying beasts and opening doors to forbidden reaches. Of those doors, the most interesting ones are often the ones most people are too afraid to open."
He took another draw of his ale, retaining a disciplined composure, it became evident he was a warrior who had discarded the vanities of the old nobility to embrace a more visceral, functional reality. He looked at her not as a subordinate or a prize, but as a potential synergy. The drow was not only acknowledged, she was admired.
"You speak of my interest as if it were the same as the sort you are accustomed to" Alaric said, his voice dropping to a private, resonant frequency that felt like a secret shared between the blade and the hammer. "But I have no use for the pageantry of the joust or exploiting facades. I care for the strength in your grip and the fortitude to stand in the path of a storm. I am a captain without a company, searching for a trial that doesn't involve the petty ambitions of lords, a vision of power that doesn't rely on the permission of the weak. I don't care if you find me off-putting or if you seek to manipulate me, I care if you are ready to put a weight to your shadow. You will find me wanting to lend an ear and to squander trinket and treasure for someone who speaks with such... captivating compulsion "
He gestured to the empty seat at his table, a slow, inviting motion that carried the weight of an edict, testing her now, just as she had tested him, not with a taunt, but with the gravitas of a destiny yet unwritten. A calm, still surity held in his demeanor as he continued.
"The world is full of men who will tell you what you want to hear for a smile. I’d rather hear what you have to say when you’re not trying to find a gap in my armor. I’ve lived through enough breaches to know that the most dangerous weapon in any room isn't the sword, it’s the person who knows exactly why they’re holding it. Tell me, do you have a reason for your steel, or are we just two ghosts in passing upon insignificant threads of fate?"
He watched her, his senses still expanded, his presence a constant, grounding force. He was Alaric, the man who had traded the thin air of the peaks for the potential of a new age, and he was waiting to see if this knife had place for a hammer.
"Do not worry about my intentions," he concluded, with a dry, mountain-humor. "I am far too ponderous to be a subtle hunter, and I suspect your ears would catch the sound of my heartbeat before I even made a move. Let us speak as adventurers, and see if the realms beyond Camelot are ready for the kind of entry I am accustomed to making."
The tavern could have been full of all the intrigues, plots and related skullduggery in the world, Jalsinter would hardly have budged. Even after Janella and Adbessi shared greetings, all the knight-errant did was sip sluggishly on his ale. For a small moment, the world around him seemed to return to normal, with others focusing on themselves or each other rather than him. This was something he preferred, especially during days like these. All he needed was a place to drink, after all; unlike the others, this man was not in hot pursuit of anything in particular.
His demeanor changed, albeit subtly, when he felt the drow's teasing jab against his ribs. While it was clearly not a motion meant to seriously harm, it was sharp enough to deserve some attention. So, when the drow was done with her motion he did manage to lift his head from its usual position. Jalsinter's eyes fell on her as she made herself comfortable, and he took a long quaff of his beverage. It was just enough of a break in his reverie, in fact, that he started to actually process what the others were saying. He listened at least somewhat to Janella's challenge, followed by Alaric's prosaic response.
As his attention waned, he briefly eyed the line of patrons beside him. The warrior, speaking like a knight and wearing dark armor; the priestess, who possessed a preoccupied expression he could not quite interpret; the drow, who might have thought this all a game, given her behavior. He did not seem to notice Taff, sitting at his table further away, however.
If the courtier looked at the right time to see his face, however, he might find Jalsinter familiar.
His demeanor changed, albeit subtly, when he felt the drow's teasing jab against his ribs. While it was clearly not a motion meant to seriously harm, it was sharp enough to deserve some attention. So, when the drow was done with her motion he did manage to lift his head from its usual position. Jalsinter's eyes fell on her as she made herself comfortable, and he took a long quaff of his beverage. It was just enough of a break in his reverie, in fact, that he started to actually process what the others were saying. He listened at least somewhat to Janella's challenge, followed by Alaric's prosaic response.
As his attention waned, he briefly eyed the line of patrons beside him. The warrior, speaking like a knight and wearing dark armor; the priestess, who possessed a preoccupied expression he could not quite interpret; the drow, who might have thought this all a game, given her behavior. He did not seem to notice Taff, sitting at his table further away, however.
If the courtier looked at the right time to see his face, however, he might find Jalsinter familiar.
Taff took a moment to collect himself as he caught sight of Jalsinter. Relief washed over him like cool water, dispelling the tension in his shoulders. The knight's familiar, imposing presence inspired a sense of safety that had been sorely lacking in the tavern.
With a steadying breath, Taff pushed himself away from the table and made his way toward Jalsinter, his heart racing with a mix of weariness and anticipation. Nonetheless, when on duty, his composure changed entirely to one of formal deference and respectful demeanor, and this was one of these occasions where duty compelled personal fears to be pushed away and concealed out of sight.
Each step now felt deliberate, confident, bolstered by the newfound assurance that this knight was a force for good. He had seen Jalsinter in court and recognized the honor that adorned him; now, he hoped to call upon that righteousness for help.
As he approached, Taff's pulse quickened, and a slight unease flickered in the pit of his stomach at the prospect of getting closer to Janella, who had captured his attention with her dangerous charm, a brief glance at the dark woman before returning it to the still knight. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand.
With a gentle tap on the table to gain Jalsinter's attention, Taff allowed a sense of purpose to emerge. "I hope you don’t mind my intrusion, sir knight" he said, his voice steady but filled with awe, for he did admire the chivalrous knights that followed the Old Code and lived by such honourable yet ardous life of service to the crown, kingdom, justice and righteousness.
He carefully produced the royal seal from his satchel, a large embossed insignia the size of his palm, exteding his arm forward and showing the golden engraving which gleamed under the light of the tavern's candles, displaying an unmistakable coat of arms, prince Merthyr's own. It was a symbol of authority, a proof of legitimacy in his request for aid.
"I am in need of your... services," he continued, the words almost a barely audible whisper. "There are pressing matters at hand that require someone of your honor and strength. A loyal sword to venture into a quest that may not fare well, with death or perhaps worse to encounter"
Taff felt a swell of confidence; this was a man who had fought for the crown, perhaps one who could lend a hand or even help turn the tide of impending troubles. The warmth of Jalsinter's potential support was like a beacon in the haze of uncertainty clouding his thoughts.
His heart raced slightly, with a budding hope. He tried to ignore Janella’s presence lingering nearby, focusing instead on Jalsinter and the promise of safety he represented.
“What do you say, Sir Jalsinter of the noble household of Forheri? Are you willing to lend your sword and experience in service of the crown?” he asked, his voice imbued with sincerity, as if he believed in the power of their potential alliance.
With a steadying breath, Taff pushed himself away from the table and made his way toward Jalsinter, his heart racing with a mix of weariness and anticipation. Nonetheless, when on duty, his composure changed entirely to one of formal deference and respectful demeanor, and this was one of these occasions where duty compelled personal fears to be pushed away and concealed out of sight.
Each step now felt deliberate, confident, bolstered by the newfound assurance that this knight was a force for good. He had seen Jalsinter in court and recognized the honor that adorned him; now, he hoped to call upon that righteousness for help.
As he approached, Taff's pulse quickened, and a slight unease flickered in the pit of his stomach at the prospect of getting closer to Janella, who had captured his attention with her dangerous charm, a brief glance at the dark woman before returning it to the still knight. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand.
With a gentle tap on the table to gain Jalsinter's attention, Taff allowed a sense of purpose to emerge. "I hope you don’t mind my intrusion, sir knight" he said, his voice steady but filled with awe, for he did admire the chivalrous knights that followed the Old Code and lived by such honourable yet ardous life of service to the crown, kingdom, justice and righteousness.
He carefully produced the royal seal from his satchel, a large embossed insignia the size of his palm, exteding his arm forward and showing the golden engraving which gleamed under the light of the tavern's candles, displaying an unmistakable coat of arms, prince Merthyr's own. It was a symbol of authority, a proof of legitimacy in his request for aid.
"I am in need of your... services," he continued, the words almost a barely audible whisper. "There are pressing matters at hand that require someone of your honor and strength. A loyal sword to venture into a quest that may not fare well, with death or perhaps worse to encounter"
Taff felt a swell of confidence; this was a man who had fought for the crown, perhaps one who could lend a hand or even help turn the tide of impending troubles. The warmth of Jalsinter's potential support was like a beacon in the haze of uncertainty clouding his thoughts.
His heart raced slightly, with a budding hope. He tried to ignore Janella’s presence lingering nearby, focusing instead on Jalsinter and the promise of safety he represented.
“What do you say, Sir Jalsinter of the noble household of Forheri? Are you willing to lend your sword and experience in service of the crown?” he asked, his voice imbued with sincerity, as if he believed in the power of their potential alliance.
Janella just shrugged whenever the knight-errant turned to stare at her. "Just curious how you'd react, since you seemed committed to ignoring your surroundings," she said, behind them a chuckling patron was accepting some coin from another that was grumbling curses over the bet that had been placed. She didn't seem interested in bothering him beyond that, he didn't seem like a conversationalist and there were a few other things going on. Her perspective was indeed that life was a game, and she played it cautious or took risks as she saw fit. Having some more of her stew and drink, she would accept the key for her room from Gwen, if she had been allowed to get a room, of course.
She placed one hand on the counter, pointing at Gwen while the hand was obscured by the wide sleeve of her cloak. "I'd like to speak with you in private, at your convenience of course, about what you know about the goings-on and the people here. It could be a lucrative transaction for both of us." Her tone was business-like, almost formal. Gwen would hear the words clearly, like Janella whispered in her ear, even if Janella's lips moved inaudibly. The tavernkeep would also get the feeling that if she whispered, she could respond to the drow if she so chose. The elf knew that staff at taverns heard a lot, and information could be a tool for those who knew how to use it.
Watching with interest as Taff approached, she could not help but hear what he was saying to Jalsinter. She actually found herself feeling a bit awkward, something about the sinceity in Taff's voice perhaps as he beseeched the knight. By this time, Alaric had caught her attention. She hopped off the stool, saying, "On that note," in a tone that showed she was near something she had no interest in. She took her food and drink with her so it seemed like her hands were full but she still brushed a little bit too close to Taff. It seemed like Janella just wanted to nettle him, but it was a cover for her ruse. The rogue summoned an invisible mage hand that would try to discreetly go through his pockets. Over the years, she had learned to make the spectral, disembodied hand invisible, as well as a few other tricks.
She resolved to keep an ear toward Abdessi, still curious as to why the priestess would be in a place like this. However, Alaric had grabbed most of her attention. She sat down in the chair he had gestured to, setting down her stew and drink. Her cloak, made of a dark material that was oddly smooth, pooled around her. Her eyes nearly glittered as she appraised him while he spoke. "I would not be alive, if I did not worry about everyone's intentions. My kind are either despised, or sought after by elf-lovers who think we're 'exotic.' I'd probably hear your armor before you made a move, but that is where our talents can compensate for what the other lacks." She continued, "I am determined to seize what I can for myself from a world that detests me, and that is the reason that I hold my blade," she said, even if none of her weapons were on display at the moment. "I did not crawl out of the underdark so that I could live a meager existence, just scraping by like I did in the wilds down there. Even if I cannot win against the world, we might at least come to a draw. But just as you have made your living with seiges, breaking walls and killing beasts, I have made my own by undoing entities from within, spreading lies and unrest and being a distraction for beasts of different sorts. Warriors outside can get into the fort faster if some kind of trickster goes in first to start unraveling defenses, or reveals a hidden entrance. We could certainly get up to a lot of profitable and memorable trouble together. I don't know what specifics you know of or have in mind for adventures, but I'm always looking to add to my stories, and to my coin pouch."
She placed one hand on the counter, pointing at Gwen while the hand was obscured by the wide sleeve of her cloak. "I'd like to speak with you in private, at your convenience of course, about what you know about the goings-on and the people here. It could be a lucrative transaction for both of us." Her tone was business-like, almost formal. Gwen would hear the words clearly, like Janella whispered in her ear, even if Janella's lips moved inaudibly. The tavernkeep would also get the feeling that if she whispered, she could respond to the drow if she so chose. The elf knew that staff at taverns heard a lot, and information could be a tool for those who knew how to use it.
Watching with interest as Taff approached, she could not help but hear what he was saying to Jalsinter. She actually found herself feeling a bit awkward, something about the sinceity in Taff's voice perhaps as he beseeched the knight. By this time, Alaric had caught her attention. She hopped off the stool, saying, "On that note," in a tone that showed she was near something she had no interest in. She took her food and drink with her so it seemed like her hands were full but she still brushed a little bit too close to Taff. It seemed like Janella just wanted to nettle him, but it was a cover for her ruse. The rogue summoned an invisible mage hand that would try to discreetly go through his pockets. Over the years, she had learned to make the spectral, disembodied hand invisible, as well as a few other tricks.
She resolved to keep an ear toward Abdessi, still curious as to why the priestess would be in a place like this. However, Alaric had grabbed most of her attention. She sat down in the chair he had gestured to, setting down her stew and drink. Her cloak, made of a dark material that was oddly smooth, pooled around her. Her eyes nearly glittered as she appraised him while he spoke. "I would not be alive, if I did not worry about everyone's intentions. My kind are either despised, or sought after by elf-lovers who think we're 'exotic.' I'd probably hear your armor before you made a move, but that is where our talents can compensate for what the other lacks." She continued, "I am determined to seize what I can for myself from a world that detests me, and that is the reason that I hold my blade," she said, even if none of her weapons were on display at the moment. "I did not crawl out of the underdark so that I could live a meager existence, just scraping by like I did in the wilds down there. Even if I cannot win against the world, we might at least come to a draw. But just as you have made your living with seiges, breaking walls and killing beasts, I have made my own by undoing entities from within, spreading lies and unrest and being a distraction for beasts of different sorts. Warriors outside can get into the fort faster if some kind of trickster goes in first to start unraveling defenses, or reveals a hidden entrance. We could certainly get up to a lot of profitable and memorable trouble together. I don't know what specifics you know of or have in mind for adventures, but I'm always looking to add to my stories, and to my coin pouch."
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