The old archer is, if nothing else, thorough in his treatment of the wood and bowstring. He has no proper tools, and thus makes use with what he can, tightening the spring, adjusting the sights, tuning the tension on his trigger mechanism, etc. He goes for another sip of his tea before... oh, right. He'd finished the last of it earlier. Quite dreadful, if he could be honest. But he isn't one to complain.
"Excuse an old woman, but is this seat taken?"
The address is enough to rouse him from his quiet self-reflection, and he finds a fair, mature lady staring down at him. The gentleman remembers himself quite suddenly and stands at attention. "Not at all. Please." He moves around the table, pulling the chair out. When the woman has taken her seat, he takes a moment to bow, years of pomp and foppery suddenly seizing hold of him. He takes her hand and dips his head.
"Mortimer Beaufort. A pleasure." He raises his head, delivering a small, polite smile. "And you, Milady?"
Patch settles down in the chair that has been so graciously pulled out for her. "Such manners, gentle sir." Patch says allowing him to take her hand. You notice her hand is less a hand, but a clawed paw with four fingers. It is soft and warm to the touch. She bows her head in response to his kind gesture.
"Mortimer, it is an absolute pleasure to meet you. I am Patch of Wisdom, but many call me Patch." she leans her gnarled staff up against the table. "I couldn't help but notice your symbol. It's what drew me to your table. I apologize if I have interrupted your conversation with this other gentleman."She says referring to the other companion at the table. Turning back to the Mortimer, she asks hopefully, "Are you a man of faith in these troubled times?"
Sethok pauses in his tracks, and frowns. His voice had caught, his words lost to the bustle of the tavern. Perhaps he needed to be louder. In this moment of confusion and awkward half-approaches, an older woman slides in, with that sort of half-grace, half-boldness that only a person with experience and confidence could master. But at least she wasn't rude, and even shadow elves had manners - they were no strangers to wizened matrons, after all. He bows his head as Patch acknowledges his presence, and tries to match their tone.
"Ah, no worries, Miss Patch. I hadn't properly struck up a conversation with Mortimer here yet. Please, go on. You two seem like old friends."
"Heard rumors of a soul-trapping monster. Good opportunity to hone my magic. You?"
"ooo, brave one aren't you?! I've got the magical touch myself" the Herengon says whilst so clearly giving of the vibe of dandy wizard. "Me, well you see my colleague over here," he points to an empty space a few feet away from him 'we used to work together, well I was his apprentice, and well, we got messed up in one of those Deck of Many Things...I came out of it blessed with a little bit of luck, but my friend...well, you've heard of the Invisibility spell, surely, and you've heard of the Greater Invisibility spell, but have you heard of the Greatest Invisibility spell? That's what happened to him. Anyway, I'm looking for a way to help him get back to normal."
He sighs and that puts back on a happy face.
"Tart, Ruby Tart is my name. How about you stranger?"
Patch settles down in the chair that has been so graciously pulled out for her. "Such manners, gentle sir." Patch says allowing him to take her hand. You notice her hand is less a hand, but a clawed paw with four fingers. It is soft and warm to the touch. She bows her head in response to his kind gesture.
"Mortimer, it is an absolute pleasure to meet you. I am Patch of Wisdom, but many call me Patch." she leans her gnarled staff up against the table. "I couldn't help but notice your symbol. It's what drew me to your table."
The gentleman listens earnestly, yet raises an eyebrow at the mention of his emblem. His hand absentmindedly moves to cover the ring on his finger before he stops himself. "Mmm. I daresay. That is quite the surprise." He adjusts his mantle, allowing the image to be better examined. "Tis the crest of my lineage, you see. A family most foul. My dispositions against corruption and villainy have unserruptitiously left me the veritable black sheep of the clan. I mostly wear it as a reminder of my origins."
"I apologize if I have interrupted your conversation with this other gentleman"
"Eh? To whom do you--" He's set to respond further when a voice piques up aside him.
"Ah, no worries, Miss Patch. I hadn't properly struck up a conversation with Mortimer here yet. Please, go on. You two seem like old friends."
"Oh, dear ser! Apologies. I did not see you. I confess, I was a tad preoccupied with menial upkeep. When a weapon is your lifeline, you tend to dedicate it's functionality, albeit oft at the cost if your own!" At this, he offers the other man his liverspotted hand in greeting.
"Are you a man of faith in these troubled times?" Asks this 'Patch.'
"Alas, not in the sense I am sure you were anticipating, Milady." He gives slight pause to lift his crossbow, propping it against his seat, by his rucksack.
"I am more of the opinion that man should believe in their own strength in order to enact change. It's one of the reasons I find myself out here."
The sullen elf accepts Mortimer's offered hand and gives it a firm shake, taking note of what strength is there. Sethok's own hand is thin and cool to the touch - though he bares none of the blemishes of aging, there is no youthful warmth or vigor in his grasp. He arches an eyebrow. This was a strange place for two polite old people to meet. There was something interesting here.
"Sethok," he finally introduces himself. . . before quietly taking a seat at their table. He had already made several missteps in the dance of etiquette. What was one more? He calmly brings his tankard back to his thin, dark lips as the couple continue on.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Another medical problem. Indefinite hiatus. Sorry, all.
"I'm sorry to have misrepresented you, Mortimer. Sometimes it is faith in ourselves that is needed in a time like this." Patch adjusts herself in her chair and takes a drink of the warm milk that had so kindly been delivered to the table by a watchful waitress.
"Sekoth. It is a pleasure to meet you. What brings you to this town?"
Sethok arches an eyebrow. It had been his intention to listen, not to speak.
"Well, as is probably obvious, I am a wanderer. Some time ago, a woman I. . . respected and loved went missing. I suppose I've just been looking for her. Taking odd jobs along the way, of course, to keep myself busy and fed. And you two?"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Another medical problem. Indefinite hiatus. Sorry, all.
"Ahaha. Well, this old dandy has no grand quest of any sort. My... family is not the sort that I would wish to associate with. Nor do they, me. I merely travel outside their influence. If by some 'miracle,' I manage to do some good along the way, all the better!" With this, the old gentleman lets out a jovial chuckle. He tries to take a sip of his tea... before once more remembering that he'd drank it already.
(You have few complaints this night as you rest in the common room of the Crooked Crow Inn. While winter has passed, the night air carries enough of a chill to make any hearth a welcome sight. The village of Havehollow is typical for this part of the realm. Livelihoods are made from farming and livestock with a few merchants and the Inn catering to travelers along the Baron’s Road. You are surrounded by good folk who know that hard work is what’s needed to make it through harsh times. As you finish your meal you notice a raven haired woman walk to the front of the common room with a lyre in hand. She plucks a few practice cords then breaks out into song. The song tells of a mage known as Astabar who experimented with the mysterious Wand of Wonder, with catastrophic results.)
“Oh the old wand story!?” Ruby nudges whomever maybe sitting next to them. “Stay away from them magic objects, trust me I should know.”
Ruby has been drinking too long into the day and is a bit loose tongued.
“Boooo!” The drunk Herangon burps.
[hoping we can get this game going again]
"Somebody must have put Otyugh spit in their wine." The woman laughs as she approaches your table, "Not that I’m surprised. The story of Astabar is not a popular tale in these parts. My name is Rivana Greywire and the tale of Astabar is true. His manor is but an hour walk north of the village and has been abandoned for many years. Fortune and magic awaits those bold enough to risk it. I plan on heading there in the morning. Perhaps you would be interested in joining me?"
The old fop, quite eager to be on the road once more, rises forth. He looks to the aged cat and the quiet figure aside him and offers a genial dip of his head. Taking up his fine weapon, he turns to woman speaking to the others -- this "Rivana" -- and politely interjects.
"Ahem. Good lady, I wonder if I might take you upon your proposal and accompany you on this trek? I fear sitting about this fine establishment shall win us no battles nor do any good." With a flourish and a bow, he sweeps his mantle aside, his rich voice drifting about him.
The herengon in his dapper robe pauses, tilting his head as if listening to someone whisper in the ear. Then he straightens up. “Well hello stranger,” he says to the young old fop and Rivan “I’ve grown tired of the wine cup. My friend here insists I should join you. I certainly shall join you.”
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
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The old archer is, if nothing else, thorough in his treatment of the wood and bowstring. He has no proper tools, and thus makes use with what he can, tightening the spring, adjusting the sights, tuning the tension on his trigger mechanism, etc. He goes for another sip of his tea before... oh, right. He'd finished the last of it earlier. Quite dreadful, if he could be honest. But he isn't one to complain.
"Excuse an old woman, but is this seat taken?"
The address is enough to rouse him from his quiet self-reflection, and he finds a fair, mature lady staring down at him. The gentleman remembers himself quite suddenly and stands at attention. "Not at all. Please." He moves around the table, pulling the chair out. When the woman has taken her seat, he takes a moment to bow, years of pomp and foppery suddenly seizing hold of him. He takes her hand and dips his head.
"Mortimer Beaufort. A pleasure." He raises his head, delivering a small, polite smile. "And you, Milady?"
Patch settles down in the chair that has been so graciously pulled out for her. "Such manners, gentle sir." Patch says allowing him to take her hand. You notice her hand is less a hand, but a clawed paw with four fingers. It is soft and warm to the touch. She bows her head in response to his kind gesture.
"Mortimer, it is an absolute pleasure to meet you. I am Patch of Wisdom, but many call me Patch." she leans her gnarled staff up against the table. "I couldn't help but notice your symbol. It's what drew me to your table. I apologize if I have interrupted your conversation with this other gentleman." She says referring to the other companion at the table. Turning back to the Mortimer, she asks hopefully, "Are you a man of faith in these troubled times?"
"Ah, no worries, Miss Patch. I hadn't properly struck up a conversation with Mortimer here yet. Please, go on. You two seem like old friends."
Another medical problem. Indefinite hiatus. Sorry, all.
"ooo, brave one aren't you?! I've got the magical touch myself" the Herengon says whilst so clearly giving of the vibe of dandy wizard. "Me, well you see my colleague over here," he points to an empty space a few feet away from him 'we used to work together, well I was his apprentice, and well, we got messed up in one of those Deck of Many Things...I came out of it blessed with a little bit of luck, but my friend...well, you've heard of the Invisibility spell, surely, and you've heard of the Greater Invisibility spell, but have you heard of the Greatest Invisibility spell? That's what happened to him. Anyway, I'm looking for a way to help him get back to normal."
He sighs and that puts back on a happy face.
"Tart, Ruby Tart is my name. How about you stranger?"
The gentleman listens earnestly, yet raises an eyebrow at the mention of his emblem. His hand absentmindedly moves to cover the ring on his finger before he stops himself. "Mmm. I daresay. That is quite the surprise." He adjusts his mantle, allowing the image to be better examined. "Tis the crest of my lineage, you see. A family most foul. My dispositions against corruption and villainy have unserruptitiously left me the veritable black sheep of the clan. I mostly wear it as a reminder of my origins."
"I apologize if I have interrupted your conversation with this other gentleman"
"Eh? To whom do you--" He's set to respond further when a voice piques up aside him.
"Ah, no worries, Miss Patch. I hadn't properly struck up a conversation with Mortimer here yet. Please, go on. You two seem like old friends."
"Oh, dear ser! Apologies. I did not see you. I confess, I was a tad preoccupied with menial upkeep. When a weapon is your lifeline, you tend to dedicate it's functionality, albeit oft at the cost if your own!" At this, he offers the other man his liverspotted hand in greeting.
The sullen elf accepts Mortimer's offered hand and gives it a firm shake, taking note of what strength is there. Sethok's own hand is thin and cool to the touch - though he bares none of the blemishes of aging, there is no youthful warmth or vigor in his grasp. He arches an eyebrow. This was a strange place for two polite old people to meet. There was something interesting here.
"Sethok," he finally introduces himself. . . before quietly taking a seat at their table. He had already made several missteps in the dance of etiquette. What was one more? He calmly brings his tankard back to his thin, dark lips as the couple continue on.
Another medical problem. Indefinite hiatus. Sorry, all.
"I'm sorry to have misrepresented you, Mortimer. Sometimes it is faith in ourselves that is needed in a time like this." Patch adjusts herself in her chair and takes a drink of the warm milk that had so kindly been delivered to the table by a watchful waitress.
"Sekoth. It is a pleasure to meet you. What brings you to this town?"
Sethok arches an eyebrow. It had been his intention to listen, not to speak.
"Well, as is probably obvious, I am a wanderer. Some time ago, a woman I. . . respected and loved went missing. I suppose I've just been looking for her. Taking odd jobs along the way, of course, to keep myself busy and fed. And you two?"
Another medical problem. Indefinite hiatus. Sorry, all.
"Ahaha. Well, this old dandy has no grand quest of any sort. My... family is not the sort that I would wish to associate with. Nor do they, me. I merely travel outside their influence. If by some 'miracle,' I manage to do some good along the way, all the better!" With this, the old gentleman lets out a jovial chuckle. He tries to take a sip of his tea... before once more remembering that he'd drank it already.
Ruby stares at the stranger looking folks in the establishment.
(You have few complaints this night as you rest in the common room of the Crooked Crow Inn. While winter has passed, the night air carries enough of a chill to make any hearth a welcome sight. The village of Havehollow is typical for this part of the realm. Livelihoods are made from farming and livestock with a few merchants and the Inn catering to travelers along the Baron’s Road. You are surrounded by good folk who know that hard work is what’s needed to make it through harsh times. As you finish your meal you notice a raven haired woman walk to the front of the common room with a lyre in hand. She plucks a few practice cords then breaks out into song. The song tells of a mage known as Astabar who experimented with the mysterious Wand of Wonder, with catastrophic results.)
Pronouns: She/Her
Gender: Nonbinary Female, 1/3 human, 1/3 feline, 1/3 dragon
Mentally and emotionally unstable, anorexic, autism, ADHD, anger issues
“Oh the old wand story!?” Ruby nudges whomever maybe sitting next to them. “Stay away from them magic objects, trust me I should know.”
Ruby has been drinking too long into the day and is a bit loose tongued.
“Boooo!” The drunk Herangon burps.
[hoping we can get this game going again]
"Somebody must have put Otyugh spit in their wine." The woman laughs as she approaches your table, "Not that I’m surprised. The story of Astabar is not a popular tale in these parts. My name is Rivana Greywire and the tale of Astabar is true. His manor is but an hour walk north of the village and has been abandoned for many years. Fortune and magic awaits those bold enough to risk it. I plan on heading there in the morning. Perhaps you would be interested in joining me?"
Pronouns: She/Her
Gender: Nonbinary Female, 1/3 human, 1/3 feline, 1/3 dragon
Mentally and emotionally unstable, anorexic, autism, ADHD, anger issues
The old fop, quite eager to be on the road once more, rises forth. He looks to the aged cat and the quiet figure aside him and offers a genial dip of his head. Taking up his fine weapon, he turns to woman speaking to the others -- this "Rivana" -- and politely interjects.
"Ahem. Good lady, I wonder if I might take you upon your proposal and accompany you on this trek? I fear sitting about this fine establishment shall win us no battles nor do any good." With a flourish and a bow, he sweeps his mantle aside, his rich voice drifting about him.
The herengon in his dapper robe pauses, tilting his head as if listening to someone whisper in the ear. Then he straightens up. “Well hello stranger,” he says to the young old fop and Rivan “I’ve grown tired of the wine cup. My friend here insists I should join you. I certainly shall join you.”