Fox Ears for Azog
Chardev Summary (Abrahil): This one gets silly...even for me. A tipsy Abrahil teases Myrana at its opening. He's brought in a set of ale made by cooperation between the fae and a set of khazadi brewmakers. The ale is to celebrate her birthday, which, of course, it is not. I enjoy bringing in the fae in small ways, and Abrahil makes a nice vehicle for it. The small gnome then gives a nod to Coyote as he changes Azog's headgear in the midst of the chaos that fae-ale causes. The headgear goes through several itenerations until it settles on one Azog can 'stand,' which says something true about his character.
-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--<* Ox-Strength Ale Tavern *>--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=- The Ox-Strength Ale Tavern is known for being one of the most dangerous dives in the city. Frequented by the worst sailors, mercenaries, thugs and looters, the place is hardly the prettiest nor the tidiest of taverns, though--of late, that has been changing. Locals claim the once foul-tasting food "No longer burns the stomach--as much, anyways." Plates show signs of repair instead of cracks, though the still infamous odor of old beer and stale sweat insists on hanging about the place. What used to be bricked-up windows have been somewhat opened. Heavy bars let in a reluctant breeze and prevent the clanging of heads against glass (which seems nearly afraid to exist). Bloodstains adorn both the nearby walls and the bricks themselves from thrown patrons and fists. The lights are dim, a few oil lamps hung from hooks in the splintered ceiling beams. A smattering of tables, scratched and carved into by many a blade, dot the expanse of the floor. Most of the tables are arranged in a wide circle to give plenty of room in the center of the bar for hasty escapes or the routine bar-brawl or fight. A worn-out steam piped stove sometimes provides warmth to the tavern. Occasionally an aging dog of some mangy breed or another can be seen sleeping near the stove or by the bar itself. Note: Local beer, drink, and food names can be found in the lexicon: http://www.tenebraemush.net/index.php/Player-Made_Lexicon. -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-- Contents --=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=- Kalkorth A huge muscled man. 2m 1h Abrahil A valiant, gnomish slayer of paper demons. 0s 1d Boshter An arvek nar in robes. Oh no! 3m 1d Myrana Short young woman with coal-black braids. 2s 32m -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--= Exits -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=- Out <O> -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-
With a great thumping of feet and a flurry of flung pots, a trio of fat Dwarves go running out of the kitchen, their beards flying out to the sides and their arms clasping big jars of sloshing liquid. Screeching follows them, and black cursing that singes the nosehairs of the man at the end of the bar who happens to be just a little too close to the swinging, clacking doors.
"Oh! I think it would be just /wonderful/!" Abrahil says cheerfully as he bumbles his way out of the kitchen. The round little fellow waddles more than walks, and rolls more than he moves. His chins waggle as he talks, like some great speach-giver's gestures. To the left! To the right! Look here! Over there! They waggle and droop with each word, lending them a hefty sort of gravity. He guides a barrel, a large barrel, from the kitchen. The barrel rolls after him, like some sort of obedient dog. And he calls out, back from the room the screaming, fleeing had just occurred from, "Do keep it up, dear! A few more tries and you're sure to get it right!"
Kalkorth is sitting at one of the tables and he is has a giant sized mug of mead. Easily the size of five regular drinks the giant born easily drinks it down as he watches the commotion. He chuckles a little bit, "Need some help there?"
A chicken explodes through the swinging doors with a terrified cackle, and Myrana can be heard to state: "YOU LITTLE BASTARDS, I SAID //ONE//!!" But by this time the Dwarves are well on their way out, with their huge jars of... whatever that -was-.
"Oh!" Abrahil starts at the loud boom. The elderly gentleman stumbles back away, though it really can't be said if he moved at all. Did he roll? Did he simply...shift? His feet are not visible to tell, not at all. "Oh, oh my. You frightened me there!" he says, and then he catches his breath a moment, and beams up at Kalkorth, "Why, we're testing the fairy ale!" He pauses, and glances worriedly over at the chicken. "The Khazad just brought it in, you see," he says happily. "And Myrana is /ever/ so excited, you know. Just a-twitter! They...oh, oh my. They wanted some of her special recipe in return for it, I'm afraid. But you know! I'm /sure/ this will be worth it!" Dwarven. Faeries. Dwarven. Faerie. Ale.
Azog has arrived.
About a zillion little multicoloured sparks come bursting out through the kitchen doors. They spit and spatter across the floor like angry fireworks with a sound like water hitting a hot skillet, then go out.
Kalkorth arches an eye brow, "Fairy ale? What in the name of the seven sons of the She-wolf is that?" He asks before he takes a drink of his mead and he looks at the chicken as it explodes out the swinging door and then sparks, "Why are you messing around with making a new ale, the best drink is mead."
"Oh! Oh, my. That was just delightful! A twist of the wrist, dear...And justamoment," he says to Kalkoroth. "I'll be back in just a jiffy!" And Abrahil sets the ale, the dwarven, fairy, ale, down on the floor in front of Kalk and a room full of hungry tavern-goers, and bipbipbips back towards the kitchen.
"What!" Comes the response from the kitchen as the doors swing shut behind cheerful little Abrahil. "What are you--- No! Don't come in here! Don't look!"
"But you need help!" bipbipbip. And off he goes.
In the tavern room, one of the larger sailors eyes Kalk, and then the barrel. And then eyes Kalk again. Evidently, he's trying to decide if the man's going to try and, you know, defend said barrel. The sailor is wearing Kor's colors, so this is not too surprising.
Azog comes into the Ox-Strength, pauses, looks around, then facepalms, with gauntlet. It makes a sort of dull clank sound. "Garganos," he sighs, "save me from the counsels of the small and the silly."
The barrel shiiiiines.
GOSH does it look appetizing!
It smells /wonderful/.
Kalkorth eyes the sailor eying him and he spots Azog. "Hail! Fellow worshiper of Gargano!" He puts his foot on the barrel, "Come have a mug of mead while the little ones drink fairy juice."
The Korite eyes Kalk again, and deciding the other is bigger, for the moment, goes back to his seat.
Wait, what?
Rather than Boshter coming in through the front door, he nonchalantly comes DOWN THE STAIRS FROM ABOVE. Isn't that where Myrana lives? Could it be?!
OH MY GOD MYRANA TURNED INTO A HOBGOBLIN.
Azog scowls at Kalkorth and at the barrel, and takes a seat of his own, looking up and back for the barman. "I don't think I'd take a drink here if you were to pay me, but I'd heard something was amiss over here, and I see I was told correctly. I don't know why I thought otherwise, and now I'm here, I don't know what I can do about it. Apparently part of city life is to act like fools with others to form some sort of bond." He looks up as Myrana comes downstairs disguised so well as Boshter. Azog is fooled. "Hello, Boshter."
"Oh! And why don't you ask that fellow Boshter over?" Abrahil is saying as he hustles some biscuits out of the kitchen. "He seems to take a fancy for you, you know...oh! Oh, my, the ale!" and he nearly drops the biscuits right there as he hustles towards the barrel. In the midst of it, he tries to wave to the Ox's new arrivals, too.
Conrad has arrived.
Kalkorth laughs, "Well it's your loss the mead here is very good and cheap and it comes in my sized mugs." He looks over at Abrial, "This is your ale? Is it that fairy juice?" He asks as he looks towards whoever is coming down the stairs, "Hello there."
Conrad drifts in. Quietly. He does most things quietly. Practically a ghost around the Adventurer's Guild, he has that same, neutral, guarded look he always has. His clothes are patched, again, in entirely new ways. One might wonder if anything of the original garmets are left, at this point, or if it has simply been replaced, one piece at a time, until nothing of those bygone clothes remain. He's carrying a long, wrapped parcel on his back, covered entirely in inverted sheepskin. He walks with a light limp, and he's got a medicinal poultice strapped to one of his eyes.
Boshter stops dead at the bottom of the stairs and looks a little caught off guard to see so many familiar faces here. "Oh," he says, "I, er. Oh dear." Did Boshteer really just say 'oh dear'? Because he just did. Sounds like he did, anyways, and he seems a little alarmed by *something*.
"Oh! It's from the khazad...a 'special' brew, don't you know," and here, the gnome puts a finger alongside his nose, as though he's sharing the Secrets of the Universe with Kalk, here. "There are faeries, and sprites, you know? Oh! My mother used to tell me tales..." and here he taps his wand alongside his buckled shoes, and floats up (slowly, and in a bobbing fashion) towards the top of the barrel. "...why, there's a faerie and sprite for everything! Well! One day, I found out there were ale faeries." He pauses, and then beams at Kalk, before giving the barrel a fond pat. "This, m'dears, is distilled ale faerie spit, made from the finest khazad distilleries. Oh. It's well. Goodness. It's /quite/ rare!"
Azog snorts to Kalkorth about the mead. "Mead, ale, rum, beer, everyone in this city seems to want to drink until they become stupid, like it's some sort of goal. Mind you some of them drink quite a lot to become that way, and some people sip very lightly to achieve that effect." He shakes his head. "Sure, we drink it if there's no fresh water to be had. But drinking it as if that were an end-goal? To become stupid? To ... I don't even know why you all do it."
Azog misses Conrad entirely, he's about as unobservant as anyone in the world, but he looks to Boshter, unaware of any state of alarm, instead continuing on his tirade, asking him, "And now why are you not climbing on the walls? I don't see you here training?" Looking over at the fairy beer, he scowls. "And now you've got good ale from fairies, and you're going to squander it? What do you do if the water is fouled and you need to rely on distilled spirits until you can dig new wells? Or find new water?" He huffs, winding down.
A closer inspection of Boshter's robes might cause one to notice that there are flecks of paint on it. Droplets. Here or there. He clears his throat, then asays, "Ah... faerie.. what?" Conrad is noticed and waved at enthusiastically. "HELLO," he says loudly. Distraction!
"Oh, but a party is never a squander!" says the little round gnome. And he beams up at Azog so cheerfully, his cheeks peach-red, and his smile a bow, and he puts his finger to the side of his nose. "I propose we might have one. Oh, my. Why! It seems that Boshter and Myrana have something to celebrate!" He says, and then pauses. "Why, their friendship, of course!" And then gives a cheerful, conspiratorial wink.
Kalkorth hmms as he listens to the gnome as he leans down to listen. "I see. Well they say that honey is made from the throw up of bees and you make mead from honey so I suppose I can't knock the spit of fairies if that's what you want to drink." He ahs a little bit, "Well good for them and might they have all the happiness in the world."
Conrad winces at the near-shout, hunching just a bit and slowly turning his eye sidelong toward Boshter. With a forced grimace, he nods in greeting before continuing his slow trek toward the...counter? Conrad stops short. No counter. He looks around in some confusion before turning toward one of the tables, and taking a seat awkwardly. This clearly violates some kind of tavern protocol Conrad is used to. He looks a bit pensive, waiting for someone to...take his order? He rubs the back of his neck self-consciously.
Being a rifleman, Conrad isn't used to having his field of vision cut into thirds. The counter is there, he just didn't turn far enough to see it. Now that he cranes his neck to look around for a server, he blinks at the bar, sitting right there, and rolls his eye.
A pair of blue eyes peek out over the tops of the swinging doors, the top of the head they belong to being covered by a rather fiercely crammed on headscarf and cap.
Myrana says, "Boshter!"
Myrana says, "Take a damn shower before you come in my filthy bar you tangerine!"
Azog hrmphs at lack of seriousness and general fun. Apparently these are anathema to him. "To use a thing you do not need is to squander," he offers, though by now, it seems no one is paying him much mind. "But I think that my opinions are unpopular, and no one ever gets sick or into fights or does foolish things they'll regret. As far as fun, I see no need for liqour to enjoy things in life, but I am alone in this feeling, as well." He rises up, and turns to head out. "Whatever poison you have gotten for yourselves, you are welcome to it."
Abrahil beams at the large man, and continues to float by the barrel. And with a tap, why, a tap appears near the bottom of it. A great, heft of a tap, to be sure, of copper and bronze colors and sparkling and shine! And well, of course he begins to hand the ale out. In the midst of it, he waves towards the kitchen, cheerful, before proceeding to hand out more of the drink. And then towards Azog...who, with a wriggle of the fingers, now has a pair of fox-ears wriggling from his cap. Ahem.
"Ah...yes. I will do that, Myrana. Also, what exactly is a tangerine? Because I am not a tangerine man, whatever that is. Perhaps someone should play a song for me to lighten up the evening!" He then sits down at the bar, eyeing Abrahil, his accompanyment, and everything else. He gets a little orange paint on the stool.
This means he farts.
Myrana creeps out through the doors, her hair totally hidden under cap and bandanna.
Kalkorth finishes off his mug of meadand he hmms, "Well I'll try any drink once." He thrusts out his giantborn sized mug, "Fill'er up little ma." He looks at the fox ears, "Why do you have fox ears little man?"
Conrad finally seems to have enough of the socially awkward waiting and wanders over to the bar, raising a hand to signal Myrana's attention. Whether he gets it or not, he asks quietly, "Mead. Warm." Descriptive. Social. That's Conrad.
"I will try it too!" Boshter says, loudly, ignoring Myrana completely as she creeps out. Then he sticks his tongue out after her and makes a rude gesture, though there is a glimmer of fondness there. More than a glimmer, really.
Azog stalks off, unaware of his fox-ears. He scowls at people coming in disdainfully, then catches sight of himself in a reflection. He sighs wearily, turning back to the bar. "I ..." And then he doesn't even know how to properly express his frustration. "If I were to tear the ears off a fox and sew them onto someone's head, there would be repurcussions. But no, this is just fun and games. Well, it's all fun and games until someone gets their head cut off."
This, Myra can do. She reaches under the bar and pulls up a tall stoneware mug, and immediately pours a honey-scented mead out from one of the tilted barrels to the side of the ales. She sets it in front of Conrad, watching the handful of customers getting served out portions of the faerie stuff.
"I love you too, Boshter," she says in the same dire tone as one announces the patient to have a cyst on their butt.
The fox-ears promptly change into a shimmering, golden crown.
Conrad bows his head in thanks, taking the mug, "Thank you... And congratulations on your relationship." He gestures between Myrana and Boshter, "May you both live long lives under the sun, and in the embrace of the Green Song." And then he's drinking his mead. Mmm, oblivious oblivion.
Abrahil gasps, and claps his hands together. "Oh...oh, my! This calls for a celebration! I knew it, I knew it! Oh..." and the small gentleman looks close to tears as he regards the two 'lovebirds.' "Why...drinks! The faerie ale...and oh! Oh! Yes! The stew! Both, for you all! Food and drink for everyone! Oh...oh, my! Congratulations, my dearest friends! This makes me SO happy!"
Myrana scowls absently. "W...Wait what?" She looks from Conrad, then to Abrahil.
Myrana says, "What was that?"
Myrana seems to grow an inch. A WHOLE INCH. She senses shenanigans, and does not look happy about it.
Kalkorth gets a giantborn mug full of the fairy spit and he looks at it and shrugs as he goes to drink it down. He guzzles half right away, "Mmm some stew would be great. Love is great though. Gotta find me a gaintborn woman to love. I'd try with Sonja, but I think she sleeps in her armor."
Azog eyerolls at having a crown now. "And your chieftain, or prince, or whatever you call him, me might have issues with me wearing his crown. If I'm to wear a helmet, it'll be one I've earned with my own blood and sinew and skill." He pulls his helmet from his pack, settles it on his head. Which most of the illusory crown is still visible around. He grumbles further and takes off his helmet and stuffs it back into his pack.
Myrana peers at Abrahil.
The helmet changes to the majestic face of a stag-helmet, the eyes staring blankly though set over the brow, and with two grand antlers to either side.
Myrana sets down the glass she was beginning to clean.
Abrahil waddles over to Myrana, and hugs her around the knees.
Conrad lifts a hand, "I'll have a side of beef, a loaf of bread, some stew, and three carrots, if that man is buying. And whatever sort of dessert you have. Pies are lovely." He nods, pleased at the celebratory atmosphere...and the free food. He takes another hapless drink from his mug-o-mead.
Oh god, more LOVE. What the fuck. Myrana looks distraught, wobbling once her knees are put together by enthusiastic fat little arms. A quick slap to the top of the bar is enough to keep her from toppling over, though. A dirty look is shot up at the cieling... and then a more contained, frustrated one is pointed back down.
"Abrahil," she begins, as some of the Oxleys go to fill out the sudden swell of orders, whispering to one another in their evil little voices. "Abrahil my dear, let me see your cup."
Azog is by this time watchng the mirror to see what he's wearing moment by moment. He feels around the top of his head to make sure he's not actually wearing anything.
Abrahil beams, and hands it up. He pats her on the knee.
"Thank you," Myrana says politely, then raises the cup to her nose.
In the meantime, the stag-head changes to a simple, workman's hat. A practical sort, of cloth and sturdy material, with a slight patch along one side.
Kalkorth moves to get a bowl of stew and he laughs, "I think the drink is working all ready Azog's helmet is changing before my eyes."
Conrad turns and watches the ever-shifting Kaleido-hat that supposedly rests upon Azog's head. He occasionally nods thoughtfully, or tilts his head, or just shakes it in shared embarrassment, depending on what comes up. At the workman's hat, he just shrugs, "Lacks excitement. Give him a Wargolem's visage. Would suit him better."
Azog supposes the workman's hat isn't so bad, but grumbles about being a wargolem. "The neverborn. I am told they are people as much as any halfling or gnome, but .... yes, perhaps this is so. Some are all right, but others squander the gift of life on foolishness and waste what they have."
The hat abruptly vanishes.
Boshter is eyeing Myrana. Of course he's eyeing Myrana. And he's trying not to laugh, of course. It's not just easy for him. Finally, he gives in, drops an arm on Conrad, and bursts out laughing. Because Conrad is near him. "S-sorry. This is very funny. Also, Myrana, your room is now orange. So you know." Some jokes, you just have to share.
Conrad stares... And thinks. And considers. "...Does... Does this mean I still get free food?" The most important questions are often the simplest ones.
Conrad has disconnected.
Azog has gotten rid of the hat, stalks off.
<Meet> Azog is summoned by Garrin.
Azog has left.
Kalkorth gets his stew and he starts to eat and drink. He hmms as he hears the Myrana's room is orange now. "So does that mean if your naked in her room you'd be invisible?"
HARRUMPH. Myrana sniffs the fairy whiskey. What has got everyone so goofy? She swallows, then glowers at Boshter, raising the cup to her lips....
...only to spray it everywhere.
Myrana says, "MISTER KALKORTH!"
Abrahil reaches up, and pats dear Myrana's hand. Pat pat. Pat pat. And then he looks about. ...and hurries over towards one of the tables. Well. 'Hurries' is a relative term.
Myrana sets the cup down with a thump, endeavoring to look chastising with a gnome beachball wrapped around her knees. "D-Don't go giving anyone any ideas!" When Abrahil totters off, she clutches at her heart and turns to make sure none of the Oxleys heard this.
Abrahil goes OOC.