With heavy footfalls and clanking of steel, he steps into the tavern. His grizzled head is downcast, but he lifts it just enough to allow his eyes to meet those of each patron. As his glance meets yours, he gives a barely perceptible nod that serves as his silent ‘hello’. His facial features, although certainly human, possess a certain brutishness that suggests there is orc blood somewhere in the lines of his recent ancestry. His clothes are worn, faded, and patched. The misshapen buckler he carries on his back is evidence he has faced many foes, and the cruel-looking axe he wields indicates that he has probably done a decent job of dispatching all of them. He strides forward to a solitary spot where he sits with his elbows on the table and his chin on folded hands. After giving the impression that he might sit there, statue-like and silent, for the rest of his days, he turns toward Grigor and begins to talk:
Speaking in rhyme? Reminds me of a sentient ooze bard I once met. He had a song, and it went like this:
I AM THE GLOBGLOGABGOLAB THE SOMETHING SOMEthing something. I forgot how it went, actually, considering the fact I wasn't an Arch-Lich when I heard it...
(for those who get the meme reference, I salute you)
From her seat on the table Grinner’s eyes widen by degrees with each rhyme laid forth. Her claws tighten on her cup, squeaking shrilly against the clay.
“Oh dear. Poetry. What hell have I been cast into?”
The sound of claws on clay reaches the ears of the half-orc. Subtly, he turns his eyes toward the source, trying to decipher not only who has made the noise, but why. He senses the kobold's dissatisfaction. Therefore, under his breath, scarcely audible, he speaks:
The curious kobold, with horns so ornate, like so many others my poems doth hate.
Yet again the ineffable awkwardness of being a half-orc (and a warrior, no less!) who must convey every thought by way of a poem washes over Jorrick. A few pints of ale will do more than merely quench his thirst. He makes his request known:
A drink, kind soul, my balm will be. Your finest ale please bring to me.
It's a true shame that uncivilized creatures hate the art of poetry, as well as anything that isn't pillaging, plundering, or hiding in the shadows of more important, powerful creatures.
Morgan, while she had been moderately fascinated by the half-orc's rhyming, immediately sours at Grigor's statement. She turns away from watching the pair and looks at Grinner.
*Stuck up, self-important oaf,* she mentally grumbles to the kobold before trying to give her an encouraging smile. *Don't listen to him.*
Not quite sure how to react to being referred to in the Half-Orc’s rhymes, Grinner nevertheless flags down a member of the staff and sends a drink to him.
Jorrick sets his buckler and axe aside, leaning them against the wall nearby. Raising his mug in a salute-like manner toward Grinner, Jorrick offers his tacit thanks. Jorrick halves the contents of the mug in a matter of seconds. After which, he vows to himself that he will not allow his drinking to loosen his tongue today.
Pensive and quiet, Jorrick sits for a short while, but Grigor's bit of biographical background has created an itch that Jorrick must scratch...
In all you have seen and all you have learned, was there ever a case such as mine?
You've traveled the planes, been far and wide, on my cure is there light you can shine?
The expression on Jorrick's face is part quizzical, part suspicion. Slowly, methodically, he mulls over Grigor's words. He sips his ale. He waits. He sips his ale again. He then looks into the faces of the other tavern visitors, as if in their expressions he might find the answer to the question that has now taken shape in his mind: could the lich be right? Could the mere uttering of one of three colors be the key that opens the door to freedom, glorious freedom?
He gulps down the remainder of his ale to bolster his courage and resolve. Hesitantly, Jorrick begins to speak:
Have I journeyed so far and bore this great shame
Just to be told a color to name?
Potions I've drunk and quests I've completed;
Worthless they've been! My hope is depleted!
So simple a thing! Merely one word to say?
One word to say and my bonds go away?
And so I now utter the common word 'purple'
I tremble and wait to see what will...
(silence)
...what will...
(confusion)
...what...will...
(teary-eyed grin)
Jorrick, embarrassed by the fact that so many eyes are upon him, places a piece of gold on the table, picks up his buckler and axe, and walks toward the tavern door. Before making his exit, he turns and focuses his attention on Grigor. Jorrick nods, smiles broadly, and for the first time in many years fails to wax poetic. "Thank you, old one." The sound of heavy footfalls and clanking steel slowly recedes into the distance as Jorrick departs the tavern.
I didn't get lichified by the gods for being stupid. I can solve any problem, for a small fee. So far, I've solved 634 murders, 1037 assaults, 30689 robberies, and about 206 curses.
About 50 feet from the tavern, a hole appears in the air about ten feet off the ground. A woman in work clothes falls through the hole and lands on the ground with an "OOF". She gets up, rubs her head and shouts, "SCREW YOU, ALSTON!" and a long metal tube is tossed through before the hole seals up. She looks around while slinging the tube onto her back and through the trees sees a tavern. With nothing else in the immediate vicinity, she decides to investigate. When she opens the door, she sees an armored man leaving and a skeleton speaking to a kobold. Before she can stop herself, a load of questions rushes out of her mouth. "What is this place? Why was he so happy? What keeps you going? What's in that bag? Why is that bird passed out? Why is this in a tree? What's on the menu? Where can I sit?" She stops for a moment, breathes, and speaks again. "Hello there, I'm Alethra, and what's your name, Mister Zombie?"
Not super dead...I've just spent three weeks trying to figure out what to say. I'll respond and see if this revitalizes the thread.
Cloud glances up from her newest slice of cake. Hi, I'm Cloud. The bag has a little camp in it. This is in a tree because that's where Michtim live. There's a lot on the menu, including some delicious cake, and you can sit wherever you want. Who's Alston?
With heavy footfalls and clanking of steel, he steps into the tavern. His grizzled head is downcast, but he lifts it just enough to allow his eyes to meet those of each patron. As his glance meets yours, he gives a barely perceptible nod that serves as his silent ‘hello’. His facial features, although certainly human, possess a certain brutishness that suggests there is orc blood somewhere in the lines of his recent ancestry. His clothes are worn, faded, and patched. The misshapen buckler he carries on his back is evidence he has faced many foes, and the cruel-looking axe he wields indicates that he has probably done a decent job of dispatching all of them. He strides forward to a solitary spot where he sits with his elbows on the table and his chin on folded hands. After giving the impression that he might sit there, statue-like and silent, for the rest of his days, he turns toward Grigor and begins to talk:
If a tale of adventures past you seek,
Then here I have come, my story to speak.
But tell it I must with rhythm and rhyme,
For such is my fate. A most terrible crime!
Speaking in rhyme? Reminds me of a sentient ooze bard I once met. He had a song, and it went like this:
I AM THE GLOBGLOGABGOLAB THE SOMETHING SOMEthing something. I forgot how it went, actually, considering the fact I wasn't an Arch-Lich when I heard it...
(for those who get the meme reference, I salute you)
Walton Gibson - Human Cleric, Level 1
An ooze that could speak? And, furthermore, rhyme?
Where on this plane could one find such a slime?
Mock me you do, strange withering one!
Alas! Wherever I go under the sun
I encounter the like: of my speech is made fun.
To mock your speech, I made no intention;
The ooze was just an honorable mention;
As for the planes, I've had many a travel;
The wind of change moves me like gravel;
I come from a plane, long since forgotten;
And all the clothes there were made of cotton;
I've traveled the planes, near and far;
And I've made my way to this bar
Walton Gibson - Human Cleric, Level 1
My apology then to you I must offer.
I'll take your good word that you are not a scoffer.
Jaded I am and suspicious of all;
Will the day ever come for me to stand tall?
Scorned and belittled for the words that I utter
Would that I could, I'd much rather stutter!
A curse placed upon me by some sinister foe
Has forced me to rhyme wherever I go.
Speech that is simple and straight and so plain
Now doth elude me. Oh, how great is this pain!
And, so, just like you, to this bar I have come;
I pray for a cure though I lack all aplomb.
From her seat on the table Grinner’s eyes widen by degrees with each rhyme laid forth. Her claws tighten on her cup, squeaking shrilly against the clay.
“Oh dear. Poetry. What hell have I been cast into?”
The sound of claws on clay reaches the ears of the half-orc. Subtly, he turns his eyes toward the source, trying to decipher not only who has made the noise, but why. He senses the kobold's dissatisfaction. Therefore, under his breath, scarcely audible, he speaks:
The curious kobold, with horns so ornate, like so many others my poems doth hate.
Yet again the ineffable awkwardness of being a half-orc (and a warrior, no less!) who must convey every thought by way of a poem washes over Jorrick. A few pints of ale will do more than merely quench his thirst. He makes his request known:
A drink, kind soul, my balm will be. Your finest ale please bring to me.
It's a true shame that uncivilized creatures hate the art of poetry, as well as anything that isn't pillaging, plundering, or hiding in the shadows of more important, powerful creatures.
Walton Gibson - Human Cleric, Level 1
Morgan, while she had been moderately fascinated by the half-orc's rhyming, immediately sours at Grigor's statement. She turns away from watching the pair and looks at Grinner.
*Stuck up, self-important oaf,* she mentally grumbles to the kobold before trying to give her an encouraging smile. *Don't listen to him.*
A smile to Morgan in return, and a pat on her hand.
”Dont worry about me , dearie. The fellow is quite correct on many points. I do dislike poetry. I even find the hymns of my own god disagreeable!
And I have been known to pillage in my day, though my Abbot frowns on plunder.”
Her eyes narrow and the strange sword seems to hum upon the table as tension again quivers through her frame.
“As for hiding in shadows, I’m not nearly quiet enough. Too busy making a habit of cutting down important and powerful creatures.”
Not quite sure how to react to being referred to in the Half-Orc’s rhymes, Grinner nevertheless flags down a member of the staff and sends a drink to him.
Jorrick sets his buckler and axe aside, leaning them against the wall nearby. Raising his mug in a salute-like manner toward Grinner, Jorrick offers his tacit thanks. Jorrick halves the contents of the mug in a matter of seconds. After which, he vows to himself that he will not allow his drinking to loosen his tongue today.
Pensive and quiet, Jorrick sits for a short while, but Grigor's bit of biographical background has created an itch that Jorrick must scratch...
In all you have seen and all you have learned, was there ever a case such as mine?
You've traveled the planes, been far and wide, on my cure is there light you can shine?
In my travels, I've never seen an affliction;
That forces one to have rhyming diction;
Though in my time, I've seen much worse;
But I think I can solve this rhyming curse;
To fix this issue that has troubled you for so long
Just say orange, silver, or purple
Walton Gibson - Human Cleric, Level 1
The expression on Jorrick's face is part quizzical, part suspicion. Slowly, methodically, he mulls over Grigor's words. He sips his ale. He waits. He sips his ale again. He then looks into the faces of the other tavern visitors, as if in their expressions he might find the answer to the question that has now taken shape in his mind: could the lich be right? Could the mere uttering of one of three colors be the key that opens the door to freedom, glorious freedom?
He gulps down the remainder of his ale to bolster his courage and resolve. Hesitantly, Jorrick begins to speak:
Have I journeyed so far and bore this great shame
Just to be told a color to name?
Potions I've drunk and quests I've completed;
Worthless they've been! My hope is depleted!
So simple a thing! Merely one word to say?
One word to say and my bonds go away?
And so I now utter the common word 'purple'
I tremble and wait to see what will...
(silence)
...what will...
(confusion)
...what...will...
(teary-eyed grin)
Jorrick, embarrassed by the fact that so many eyes are upon him, places a piece of gold on the table, picks up his buckler and axe, and walks toward the tavern door. Before making his exit, he turns and focuses his attention on Grigor. Jorrick nods, smiles broadly, and for the first time in many years fails to wax poetic. "Thank you, old one." The sound of heavy footfalls and clanking steel slowly recedes into the distance as Jorrick departs the tavern.
”Well that ended well. That guy didn’t just help the poet, I’d consider that a public service. “
Grinner salutes the half-orc as he leaves, and studies Grigor rather more closely after that exchange.
I didn't get lichified by the gods for being stupid. I can solve any problem, for a small fee. So far, I've solved 634 murders, 1037 assaults, 30689 robberies, and about 206 curses.
Walton Gibson - Human Cleric, Level 1
About 50 feet from the tavern, a hole appears in the air about ten feet off the ground. A woman in work clothes falls through the hole and lands on the ground with an "OOF". She gets up, rubs her head and shouts, "SCREW YOU, ALSTON!" and a long metal tube is tossed through before the hole seals up. She looks around while slinging the tube onto her back and through the trees sees a tavern. With nothing else in the immediate vicinity, she decides to investigate. When she opens the door, she sees an armored man leaving and a skeleton speaking to a kobold. Before she can stop herself, a load of questions rushes out of her mouth. "What is this place? Why was he so happy? What keeps you going? What's in that bag? Why is that bird passed out? Why is this in a tree? What's on the menu? Where can I sit?" She stops for a moment, breathes, and speaks again. "Hello there, I'm Alethra, and what's your name, Mister Zombie?"
"Sorry pal, this tavern is dead."
(This is a dead thread. Sorry)
Walton Gibson - Human Cleric, Level 1
Not super dead...I've just spent three weeks trying to figure out what to say. I'll respond and see if this revitalizes the thread.
Cloud glances up from her newest slice of cake. Hi, I'm Cloud. The bag has a little camp in it. This is in a tree because that's where Michtim live. There's a lot on the menu, including some delicious cake, and you can sit wherever you want. Who's Alston?
Stella Diamant, Human Rogue 17 (Swashbuckler), The Exploits of Misfit Company
Kat, Medtech, Cyberpunk: Red
Shi, Changeling Bard 4 (College of Spirits), Tyrant's Grasp
Dani, Human Artificer 9 (Armorer), Skulls and Starships
DM, Project Point (Teams Scimitar and Longsword)
Everything Else!
Grinner salutes the confused lady and chuckles at Cloud. “ I don’t think that took care of all her questions. “