Private Tales Tavern Troubles.

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

Ahh, the Tavern. Truly, a place i love. From the drunken, rough-necked brawlers on the left, to the Dwarf tending the bar; stout and heavy, looking drunker than the majority of the patrons he was 'attending to'. Gods, i just love this place.

Sparhawk, of course, was lying through his teeth.

Sparhawk had once loved the Pub in Elbion. As a young man, he was surrounded by friends who'd share stories with him. Tales of intrioge and danger would cross the table, adventures told though loud expletives and coarse language. One would play a drinking game with the table, whilst another bested his adversary in a test of strength; which boiled down to wrestling their arms across the table. Sparhawk remembers drinking his fill of Ale, talking of new magic he had attempted to use, new glyphs he'd crafted into his staff, or new words he'd learnt from his Language studies. Times when he felt like he belonged somewhere. A time when he had people he could count on.

These memories turned to ashes in his mouth however, as now, all the Pub reminded him of was loneliness, sadness and crippling depression. Times had changed since he went to Elbion. Everything felt so much sadder, with even the drunk carrying a drooped, sad weight over their heavy shoulders. Looking around, he didn't see a single man below the age of 18, or at least didn't seem so, instead filled with older men, moping over their Mugs like a child would mourn a parent.

Even the bard, sitting in the corner with his lute, seemed to play the most grey and joyless music possible. Opting for tunes of woe and failure, of heroes long gone from journeys concluded in vain.

"Hey, Hawk, want another?" The Bartender gestured towards Sparhawk's empty glass, the fifth he'd had.

Sparhawk gave the slightest nod, hoping it would be recognised as an acceptance of yet more drink. The Dwarf poured deep into Sparhawk's glass, the glimmering yellow Alcohol dripping down the sides of the glass, the froth rising to the top, brimming the edge.

He took hold of it's handle, not drinking, but just caressing the glass.

I wish i still liked alcohol. It'd make this easier.

Fieravene

 

[Fieravene]

"Well if this isn't one of the saddest excuses for a pub I've ever been to," a remark sounded from the entrance as a dark-skinned elf pulled the hood from her head and let the door close behind her to block out the sound of the evening's storm, "and I've been to Cerak At'Thul where they really know how to put a damper on your day, so that's saying something."

She swept in like the storm outside, slow and dark and dripping rainwater everywhere, depositing her saturated cloak on a nearby hook and taking up residence at the bar.

"Bee in your bonnet, Fi?" the barkeep looked over, lofting a hairy brow and cutting a jagged grin.

"I daresay that would be the highlight of anyone's evening in here. What did you do, run out of shepard's pie?"

"Pema's still sick," he replied with a faint frown.

"Well poor poppet," she pulled a scarf from her kneck, sopping wet, and began folding it and wringing it out next to her stool, "no luck with the doctor?"

"Aye, he's been and went. Says she'll get better but," his shoulders rolled into a shrug.

The elf appeared to look like she wanted to be sympathetic, but mostly she just looked impatient and hungry, "So how about that shepard's pie?"

"Fresh out, Fi."

"Well damn, I was really looking forward to it."

"Got some stew."

"I suppose that will do. Get a bowl for mopey over there," she made gesture at Maho as she took her seat, "he's scaring away the cheer with his long, sullen face."

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

He had little time to notice the Bartender's idle conversation, as the woman sat next to him. He didn't know what he was more surprised by; the fact that a woman was sitting in such a ropey, ill-suited bar, or how hard the woman had struck with her beauty. Not typical beauty mind you, but an understated, sophisticated beauty. The Dark Elf has a beauty of a higher-class, a taught grace that few are born with, and most are taught.

Her clothes seemed soaked through, especially her cloak, it's fine material and carefully weaved seams drowned in what seemed to be the monsoon that raged outside. Funny, hadn't started raining when Sparhawk arrived at the bar.
I was pretty sure it was early in the day when i got here too...

He didn't feel in the mood for a chat, but opportunities were few and far between to talk to a Lady of this calibre. It may have seemed cringe-worthy to many to think Sparhawk would cease this opportunity with all the delicacy of a Fourteen year-old College 'Prentice, but it'd be simply rude if he didn't reply.

And getting him Stew? How could he not speak up, at least a little. To think a presence like this might pull Sparhawk out of his deep-sat sorrow made him feel even more sorry for himself.

He lifted his head from his cup, positioning his hood off his head.

"If-" He burped under his breath, perhaps being a little to into-his-cups than he might've liked.

"If you've come to this sad, Dilapidated Tavern to eat, your probably going to be so sick, that the crows will be Pissing on your grave come morning." He laughed slightly, not finding his own joke very funny.

...


Christ Maho, you could've handled that better. What am i doing! How could i say that!? I didn't even introduce myself or anything...

"Wait- I didn't mean-" He was already stumbling over his words. Just as being part of Belgrath shook him of his nerves, it's aftermath made him rife with them once-more.


Fieravene

 

[Fieravene]

A brow twitched at the belch, fingers gloved and delicate lifting to wipe away the proverbial disgust from her front.

"Indeed?" replied the elf to the man, noting that while he did stink terribly of the local slurry, his eyes weren't quite yet crossed. Not drunk, just hideously depressed. Fiera gave an indignant sniff.

"Some cultures consider crow piss to be an aphrodisiac," the woman took her seat, bearing enough amiability to not place a second stool between herself and the man, "codswallop, if you ask me. Crow piss is about as difficult to collect as the ballsack of a rank bull dragon, and just as effective at its prescription as you'd think."

"What's that saying," chimed in the barkeep as he delivered her a tankard of mead, "why is a crow like a cook's counter?"

"That would be a raven and a writing desk, friend," Fiera smirked and lifted the mug, adding before she took a drink: "but A for effort." She fixed him with a lazy finger-gun and shifted on her stool.

"What did you mean?" and her sanguine gaze was upon the man and his mug full of belch.

Maho Sparhawk

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

Crow piss? What the fuck is she talking about? Who would drink Crow Piss? I wouldn't drink Crow Piss. Although, i have drunk weirder. I think whatever i'm drinking right now tastes a little like Crow Piss, Oh god...

He turned his nose away from his drink, and rested it on the table. Perhaps that was enough drinking for right now.

However, Sparhawk found the whole exchange he was witnessing quite amusing. Whether it was his sense of humour, the drink - or both - he did not know. The clumsy efforts of the Bar-keep to make conversation, and the Elf's measured and witty response, made for good entertainment.

The Elf turned to ask Sparhawk a question now, pertaining to what he meant by the point he'd made.

Isn't it obvious.

"What did i mean? Look around you;" He turned from the front table, his arm flung out in the air, pointing at all the sad, pitiful patrons that covered the bar in their sorrow.

"All these people aren't here because they want to! I mean-" He belched.

"Look at me; I'm here because i can't sleep. I literally can't!" He began to laugh. A hint of sadness lying underneath the jest.

"When- When you've seen- When... when..." He paused, and became exactly like the rest of the patrons in the bar. He suddenly realised he didn't want to have this conversation anymore. He also suddenly realised that this drink in his hand was starting to smell a lot less like Crow Piss, and a lot more like a delicious beverage. He returned to leaning on the table, and drunk deeply from his mug.

 

[Fieravene]

"Well of course they don't, darling," Fiera replied as if Maho had just told her that fire was hot and crow piss was disgusting, "the only person that wants to be here is me."

Clearly.

"Surrounding oneself with the piteous wretches of the world really gives one scope and vision," a statement made boldly with a drink from her tankard. Maho's comment about sleeping caused a pointed brow to loft, "You don't need sleep. You can sleep when you're dead. What you need is a good, solid awakening and I think I have just the spark to ignite it."

The stew arrived, two steaming bowls of venison, heavy broth, cooked vegetables, and day-stale bread on the side.

Fiera eyed it like a cat might eye a fresh quarry in the weeds and promptly stuck both proffered wooden spoons into each bowl, "Forget what you've seen. This realm is already full enough of troubles without bringing the ones of the past around with you. You would have the time to pay it any heed if you want to survive where we're going."

Apparently he'd been volunteered for a quest.

Maho Sparhawk

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

The drink made him brave. But he was pretty sure the anger he felt wasn't just the drink. To come in here, sit down next to Sparhawk, and talk to him as if she knew what he'd seen, what he'd done. Who was she to start telling him to put things in the past? What right had she'd been given. Sparhawk felt furious. He didn't seem to care that she was right that he should put it in the past; but there are many things we should put forget, ignore. But Sparhawk wasn't one of those people. At least, he didn't think he was.

And Sparhawk would give anything in the world to have a good night's sleep. To have any night's sleep.

"A good, solid awakening? If i wanted to be lectured, i would've stayed at Elbion and holed myself up there like a... Like a-Like..." Letting out a great sigh, he gave up trying to make his words form together. He felt his tiresome mind struggle, like legs after a marathon.

"If you or any other shit in this Bar knew who i was or what i'd done, they'd be at home kissing their wives and pissing their beds. Piss on your grave, and piss on 'where we're goin'. ...Some things don't wash off, Dark Elf." He spat those words at her. He had nothing against Dark Elves, but he made sure to sound as such.

He hated sounding so cruel, so crass. But he'd gotten to the point where he didn't care anymore. There was no incentive to get him out of that chair, and she sure wasn't offering one.

Maybe i'll just keep drinking...

Fieravene