"Prepare thyself. This lesson you will not forget."
Red lights. Angry music. Agitated discussions. Welcome to Blood Moon Spirits, a local speakeasy owned by none other than your friend Nigel.
You've all gathered here, not because of any Particular Reason that I know of, but probably because it is just the Thing To Do these days with the current political climate. Perhaps you do have some important reason to gather. But that's not for me to dictate, is it?
The air of the location is best described as "uneasy." Being filled with assassins and ne'er-do-wells on a regular basis, weapons have to be confiscated at the door to reduce cleaning costs. This is fine most of the time, and even appreciated by those who can hide weapons better, but lately the Knights of Fierre, who function as the guard and government of the city, have been cracking down on Everything That Breathes. They refuse to elaborate on why, or at least tell anyone beyond the Garnish Gardens near the center of the city.
See, the Filling District is sandwiched between the Garnish Gardens, the richest portion short of the Whipped Peak in the very center, and the Well-Done District, which was obliterated by the Knights during the Cupcake War. Everyone wants to be as close as possible to the Whipped Peak for status and safety reasons, so they built just around the Garnish Gardens where zoning laws were borderline nonexistent. They used rubble and salvage from the Well-Done district to build the city, even at the cost of those who managed to survive the war.
The Filling District isn't rich enough to be rich or poor enough to be poor. It is filled with angry middle-class people who hate the poor for being Inferior, hate the rich for being Superior, and hate Each Other for reminding themselves of their Lack of Godhood. Capitalism is King in Murka, and no one wants to be a peasant.
But all of that is beside the point. Filler about the Filling District, I'd say. The important thing is, the Knights usually don't come here. Now they swarm like ants. Everyone is Anxious About It.
Sitting at one of the many tables, though less wild than some of the others, is Pimento. He's tall and lanky, skin that typical tiefling red with the occasional black along his skin and on spots in his eyes, his pointed wings wrapped around the chair he's sitting in, about 50 gold sits in front of him after he's beaten everyone who's comes to him in some games of Five Finger Fillet, puddles of blood sit on the table from where people have stabbed themselves, but Pimento's hands are entirely unblemished.
He swipes the gold off of the table with a smile, his teeth sharpen and eyes glowing a crimson red, he shoos everyone else away from the table, putting his knife away as he leans back in his chair, waiting for something to happen, probably for Nigel to explain why he is here.
The door swings open and the hulking form of a family vagabond tramps in. You've probably seen him before, wandering the streets with seemingly no purpose in mind, sitting upon a bench as the world rushes by, or tossing crumbs to the birds and rats. Maybe you've even spent some time under Troll's bridge.
But now he is indoors here and you realize that this man is rarely seen inside. An umbrella is slung over his arm but other than that he carries nothing. The massive mountain of a man's hair hangs long and lank and his beard clings to his chin like a terrified woodland critter. Above his left eyebrow is a matted patch of scars. A long, dull green jacket somehow manages to cover his body and is covered itself in patches and stains.
Troll's eyes shine like pebbles found in a trickling creek and they sweep slowly across the room. He grunts a low deep grunt and then shambles over to the bar, tapping his umbrella against the ground absent mindedly.
Sitting at one of the many tables, though less wild than some of the others, is Pimento. He's tall and lanky, skin that typical tiefling red with the occasional black along his skin and on spots in his eyes, his pointed wings wrapped around the chair he's sitting in, about 50 gold sits in front of him after he's beaten everyone who's comes to him in some games of Five Finger Fillet, puddles of blood sit on the table from where people have stabbed themselves, but Pimento's hands are entirely unblemished. He swipes the gold off of the table with a smile, his teeth sharpen and eyes glowing a crimson red, he shoos everyone else away from the table, putting his knife away as he leans back in his chair, waiting for something to happen, probably for Nigel to explain why he is here.
The bartender appears from nowhere, as usual, and places a multicolored cocktail beside him. All of its layers are completely clear despite their faint coloration. "Must be hard work, getting so many proximal phalanges split with a butterknife." Their voice is raspy and curt. It sounds judgmental, but he knows that they just sound like that.
The door swings open and the hulking form of a family vagabond tramps in. You've probably seen him before, wandering the streets with seemingly no purpose in mind, sitting upon a bench as the world rushes by, or tossing crumbs to the birds and rats. Maybe you've even spent some time under Troll's bridge.
But now he is indoors here and you realize that this man is rarely seen inside. An umbrella is slung over his arm but other than that he carries nothing. The massive mountain of a man's hair hangs long and lank and his beard clings to his chin like a terrified woodland critter. Above his left eyebrow is a matted patch of scars. A long, dull green jacket somehow manages to cover his body and is covered itself in patches and stains.
Troll's eyes shine like pebbles found in a trickling creek and they sweep slowly across the room. He grunts a low deep grunt and then shambles over to the bar, tapping his umbrella against the ground absent mindedly.
The bartender looks up at him with their wet, hollow eyes. They place a glass bottle on the counter. "Smuggled from the streams of the Garnish Gardens. I hope you have enough love in your heart to appreciate it, Troll."
Sitting at one of the many tables, though less wild than some of the others, is Pimento. He's tall and lanky, skin that typical tiefling red with the occasional black along his skin and on spots in his eyes, his pointed wings wrapped around the chair he's sitting in, about 50 gold sits in front of him after he's beaten everyone who's comes to him in some games of Five Finger Fillet, puddles of blood sit on the table from where people have stabbed themselves, but Pimento's hands are entirely unblemished. He swipes the gold off of the table with a smile, his teeth sharpen and eyes glowing a crimson red, he shoos everyone else away from the table, putting his knife away as he leans back in his chair, waiting for something to happen, probably for Nigel to explain why he is here.
The bartender appears from nowhere, as usual, and places a multicolored cocktail beside him. All of its layers are completely clear despite their faint coloration. "Must be hard work, getting so many proximal phalanges split with a butterknife." Their voice is raspy and curt. It sounds judgmental, but he knows that they just sound like that.
He turns his smile up to them, taking the cocktail and looking at all of the layers "Hard work done and money made." He cackles, his accent perfectly clear, before beginning to sip the drink, taking out his comb and brushing his hair whenever he puts down the cocktail glass, "Where has Nigel gone? He told me ta get over here, and I ain't seen him around."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
Nigel, dressed in a button-up Hawaiian-esque shirt that is patterned with small weiner dogs, sits at the bar. His amber eyes may seem unfocused, but he is very much watching everything that goes on like a hawk. He shuffles through bills at the bar's counter, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he takes count of the money. His shaggy sandy-blonde hair falls over his eyes a bit, his face etched with scars from a life not worth remembering. A golden chain glints in the red pulsing lights of the bar, nestled between his pecs. He sets the bills aside and stretches, grumbling something about being 'too old'.
Nigel, dressed in a button-up Hawaiian-esque shirt that is patterned with small weiner dogs, sits at the bar. His amber eyes may seem unfocused, but he is very much watching everything that goes on like a hawk. He shuffles through bills at the bar's counter, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he takes count of the money. His shaggy sandy-blonde hair falls over his eyes a bit, his face etched with scars from a life not worth remembering. A golden chain glints in the red pulsing lights of the bar, nestled between his pecs. He sets the bills aside and stretches, grumbling something about being 'too old'.
Pimento looks over to them, head craning from behind his chair to look over to them, "There he is, the man himself, Nigel. Why the [gp] am I here, Nigel? Ya own the bar, ya probably know better than anybody else do. I'd rather not waste any more time than I already have here, I mean, I stole a couple chumps outta their gold, but I doubt I can fool anybody else."
*Wonderful opening, Baal! A marvelous opening act! Now, the stage is set... let the show begin!*
Walking into the speakeasy is someone that Nigel can immediately recognize- even before she walks through the door and into view. The rattling and clattering and jingling of bandoliers and belts and pouches full of vials and bottles- supplies she uses to make all manner of alchemical mixtures and remedies for her hole-in-the-wall potion shop that's a ten-minute walk away- herald her arrival wherever she goes. The regular visitor and occasional customer walks over to her usual spot in the corner of the bar, sitting down and looking around for wherever Nigel may be. She's here to make another trade, no doubt.
Lydia Ariphis is an odd character, though most that see or talk with her already know that. No one knows what she really looks like- she wears layers and layers of thick-fabric clothes that always obscure her appearance. With all the coats and robes and scarves and jackets and sweaters and gloves and pants, the most anyone knows about what she really looks like is that she's at least vaguely humanoid-shaped. Well, that and her eyes- which seem to always be glimmering with an emerald green within the shadow of the hood she wears. How she hasn't keeled over from heatstroke eight times over is anyone's guess. With how secretive and suspicious Lydia is, she probably won't be telling anyone anything any time soon.
She looks around at her surroundings to see if she can spot Nigel every few seconds. Time is money, after all- and most who've met her know just how much she values her money.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
Nigel, dressed in a button-up Hawaiian-esque shirt that is patterned with small weiner dogs, sits at the bar. His amber eyes may seem unfocused, but he is very much watching everything that goes on like a hawk. He shuffles through bills at the bar's counter, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he takes count of the money. His shaggy sandy-blonde hair falls over his eyes a bit, his face etched with scars from a life not worth remembering. A golden chain glints in the red pulsing lights of the bar, nestled between his pecs. He sets the bills aside and stretches, grumbling something about being 'too old'.
Pimento looks over to them, head craning from behind his chair to look over to them, "There he is, the man himself, Nigel. Why the [gp] am I here, Nigel? Ya own the bar, ya probably know better than anybody else do."
Nigel looked up, raising a brow "Pimento."
He stands up and fixes the front of his shirt, a charming smile gracing his face. He makes his way over, people parting to avoid him. He stands before Pimento and stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. "How're you, my friend? Good I hope."
The bartender looks up at him with their wet, hollow eyes. They place a glass bottle on the counter. "Smuggled from the streams of the Garnish Gardens. I hope you have enough love in your heart to appreciate it, Troll."
He stares at it with his solemn eyes before grabbing it with grubby fingers. The glass somehow manages to break through his beard and the alcohol flows down his mouth into who knows what deep lagoons. "Maybe this'll water what little I have and cause it to grow ready for harvest."
Nigel, dressed in a button-up Hawaiian-esque shirt that is patterned with small weiner dogs, sits at the bar. His amber eyes may seem unfocused, but he is very much watching everything that goes on like a hawk. He shuffles through bills at the bar's counter, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he takes count of the money. His shaggy sandy-blonde hair falls over his eyes a bit, his face etched with scars from a life not worth remembering. A golden chain glints in the red pulsing lights of the bar, nestled between his pecs. He sets the bills aside and stretches, grumbling something about being 'too old'.
The bartender moves over to him, silent enough to give a mouse pause. Nigel hired them because of their stealth and subtle brutality, as well as the fact that not even he could discover their origins or motives. Not even their species is known, but Nigel's best guess is some sort of undead.
They place a whiskey glass of soda beside him. "Eyes sharp. And stay hydrated." They croak their words like an irritated mother.
*Wonderful opening, Baal! A marvelous opening act! Now, the stage is set... let the show begin!*
Walking into the speakeasy is someone that Nigel can immediately recognize- even before she walks through the door and into view. The rattling and clattering and jingling of bandoliers and belts and pouches full of vials and bottles- supplies she uses to make all manner of alchemical mixtures and remedies for her hole-in-the-wall potion shop that's a ten-minute walk away- herald her arrival wherever she goes. The regular visitor and occasional customer walks over to her usual spot in the corner of the bar, sitting down and looking around for wherever Nigel may be. She's here to make another trade, no doubt.
Lydia Ariphis is an odd character, though most that see or talk with her already know that. No one knows what she really looks like- she wears layers and layers of thick-fabric clothes that always obscure her appearance. With all the coats and robes and scarves and jackets and sweaters and gloves and pants, the most anyone knows about what she really looks like is that she's at least vaguely humanoid-shaped. Well, that and her eyes- which seem to always be glimmering with an emerald green within the shadow of the hood she wears. How she hasn't keeled over from heatstroke eight times over is anyone's guess. With how secretive and suspicious Lydia is, she probably won't be telling anyone anything any time soon.
She looks around at her surroundings to see if she can spot Nigel every few seconds. Time is money, after all- and most who've met her know just how much she values her money.
Nigel, dressed in a button-up Hawaiian-esque shirt that is patterned with small weiner dogs, sits at the bar. His amber eyes may seem unfocused, but he is very much watching everything that goes on like a hawk. He shuffles through bills at the bar's counter, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he takes count of the money. His shaggy sandy-blonde hair falls over his eyes a bit, his face etched with scars from a life not worth remembering. A golden chain glints in the red pulsing lights of the bar, nestled between his pecs. He sets the bills aside and stretches, grumbling something about being 'too old'.
His eyes meet with Lydia's as he produces a toothy grin. He makes his way over, people parting the way for him. He stuffs his hands in his jean pockets and nods "Lydia, hello there."
Nigel, dressed in a button-up Hawaiian-esque shirt that is patterned with small weiner dogs, sits at the bar. His amber eyes may seem unfocused, but he is very much watching everything that goes on like a hawk. He shuffles through bills at the bar's counter, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he takes count of the money. His shaggy sandy-blonde hair falls over his eyes a bit, his face etched with scars from a life not worth remembering. A golden chain glints in the red pulsing lights of the bar, nestled between his pecs. He sets the bills aside and stretches, grumbling something about being 'too old'.
Pimento looks over to them, head craning from behind his chair to look over to them, "There he is, the man himself, Nigel. Why the [gp] am I here, Nigel? Ya own the bar, ya probably know better than anybody else do."
Nigel looked up, raising a brow "Pimento."
He stands up and fixes the front of his shirt, a charming smile gracing his face. He makes his way over, people parting to avoid him. He stands before Pimento and stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. "How're you, my friend? Good I hope."
He turns his head back to normal, wings flicking for a moment, "Friend?" He scoffs and shakes his head, "Do ya want somethin' from me?" He kicks out a chair for them to sit down, "Do ya know whatever gathered us here? I seen Lydia and ya already." He sticks his knife into the table, "I can't make no one money than I already got, and I'm runnin' low on patience."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
Nigel, dressed in a button-up Hawaiian-esque shirt that is patterned with small weiner dogs, sits at the bar. His amber eyes may seem unfocused, but he is very much watching everything that goes on like a hawk. He shuffles through bills at the bar's counter, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he takes count of the money. His shaggy sandy-blonde hair falls over his eyes a bit, his face etched with scars from a life not worth remembering. A golden chain glints in the red pulsing lights of the bar, nestled between his pecs. He sets the bills aside and stretches, grumbling something about being 'too old'.
The bartender moves over to him, silent enough to give a mouse pause. Nigel hired them because of their stealth and subtle brutality, as well as the fact that not even he could discover their origins or motives. Not even their species is known, but Nigel's best guess is some sort of undead.
They place a whiskey glass of soda beside him. "Eyes sharp. And stay hydrated." They croak their words like an irritated mother.
"I know that all too well." He said, stubbing out his cigarette in a red glass ashtray "And I am hydrated, well enough at least.' he chuckles, baring a toothy grin.
Nigel, dressed in a button-up Hawaiian-esque shirt that is patterned with small weiner dogs, sits at the bar. His amber eyes may seem unfocused, but he is very much watching everything that goes on like a hawk. He shuffles through bills at the bar's counter, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he takes count of the money. His shaggy sandy-blonde hair falls over his eyes a bit, his face etched with scars from a life not worth remembering. A golden chain glints in the red pulsing lights of the bar, nestled between his pecs. He sets the bills aside and stretches, grumbling something about being 'too old'.
Pimento looks over to them, head craning from behind his chair to look over to them, "There he is, the man himself, Nigel. Why the [gp] am I here, Nigel? Ya own the bar, ya probably know better than anybody else do."
Nigel looked up, raising a brow "Pimento."
He stands up and fixes the front of his shirt, a charming smile gracing his face. He makes his way over, people parting to avoid him. He stands before Pimento and stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. "How're you, my friend? Good I hope."
He turns his head back to normal, wings flicking for a moment, "Friend?" He scoffs and shakes his head, "Do ya want somethin' from me?" He kicks out a chair for them to sit down, "Do ya know whatever gathered us here? I seen Lydia and ya already." He sticks his knife into the table, "I can't make no one money than I already got, and I'm runnin' low on patience."
"Keep that tongue held here, Pimento. Also, you know the rules, no weaponry." he nods to the knife. "Put that away lest you cause issues."
*Wonderful opening, Baal! A marvelous opening act! Now, the stage is set... let the show begin!*
Walking into the speakeasy is someone that Nigel can immediately recognize- even before she walks through the door and into view. The rattling and clattering and jingling of bandoliers and belts and pouches full of vials and bottles- supplies she uses to make all manner of alchemical mixtures and remedies for her hole-in-the-wall potion shop that's a ten-minute walk away- herald her arrival wherever she goes. The regular visitor and occasional customer walks over to her usual spot in the corner of the bar, sitting down and looking around for wherever Nigel may be. She's here to make another trade, no doubt.
Lydia Ariphis is an odd character, though most that see or talk with her already know that. No one knows what she really looks like- she wears layers and layers of thick-fabric clothes that always obscure her appearance. With all the coats and robes and scarves and jackets and sweaters and gloves and pants, the most anyone knows about what she really looks like is that she's at least vaguely humanoid-shaped. Well, that and her eyes- which seem to always be glimmering with an emerald green within the shadow of the hood she wears. How she hasn't keeled over from heatstroke eight times over is anyone's guess. With how secretive and suspicious Lydia is, she probably won't be telling anyone anything any time soon.
She looks around at her surroundings to see if she can spot Nigel every few seconds. Time is money, after all- and most who've met her know just how much she values her money.
A glass is placed into her hand. The bartender got to her before she even noticed them. It's their favorite cocktail, a vile mix of hostile ingredients that should dissolve concrete and kill any dogs who happen to be in the area. It's not allowed outside due to its volatility. Shake it up too much and it will catch fire.
This was a game of theirs. The bartender would try to give Lydia a drink without her noticing. If they won, the drink was free. If Lydia noticed, the bartender would give her their last tip.
"Keep that tongue held here, Pimento. Also, you know the rules, no weaponry." he nods to the knife. "Put that away lest you cause issues."
He scoffs, but puts the knife away as asked, he knows this is the only Speakeasy in the Filling District worth doing, "Fine, Nigel. I'll keep it outta sight, outta mind."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
Nigel, dressed in a button-up Hawaiian-esque shirt that is patterned with small weiner dogs, sits at the bar. His amber eyes may seem unfocused, but he is very much watching everything that goes on like a hawk. He shuffles through bills at the bar's counter, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he takes count of the money. His shaggy sandy-blonde hair falls over his eyes a bit, his face etched with scars from a life not worth remembering. A golden chain glints in the red pulsing lights of the bar, nestled between his pecs. He sets the bills aside and stretches, grumbling something about being 'too old'.
His eyes meet with Lydia's as he produces a toothy grin. He makes his way over, people parting the way for him. He stuffs his hands in his jean pockets and nods "Lydia, hello there."
Her eyes seem to light up just a little bit more when she sees him. "Hello there, Nigel." She responds, a smile in her voice that cannot be seen on her face. "What's the news today, friend?" She adds, getting right to business- it's always straight to business with Lydia.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
"Keep that tongue held here, Pimento. Also, you know the rules, no weaponry." he nods to the knife. "Put that away lest you cause issues."
He scoffs, but puts the knife away as asked, he knows this is the only Speakeasy in the Filling District worth doing, "Fine, Nigel. I'll keep it outta sight, outta mind."
Nigel produces a smile. "Thank you." he says and leans back in his chair "You and Lydia are here for a reason. And from what you say you think I called you here?"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"Obsessed? Maybe... Devoted? Very."
[Taken by my blessed beloved]
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"Prepare thyself. This lesson you will not forget."
Red lights. Angry music. Agitated discussions. Welcome to Blood Moon Spirits, a local speakeasy owned by none other than your friend Nigel.
You've all gathered here, not because of any Particular Reason that I know of, but probably because it is just the Thing To Do these days with the current political climate. Perhaps you do have some important reason to gather. But that's not for me to dictate, is it?
The air of the location is best described as "uneasy." Being filled with assassins and ne'er-do-wells on a regular basis, weapons have to be confiscated at the door to reduce cleaning costs. This is fine most of the time, and even appreciated by those who can hide weapons better, but lately the Knights of Fierre, who function as the guard and government of the city, have been cracking down on Everything That Breathes. They refuse to elaborate on why, or at least tell anyone beyond the Garnish Gardens near the center of the city.
See, the Filling District is sandwiched between the Garnish Gardens, the richest portion short of the Whipped Peak in the very center, and the Well-Done District, which was obliterated by the Knights during the Cupcake War. Everyone wants to be as close as possible to the Whipped Peak for status and safety reasons, so they built just around the Garnish Gardens where zoning laws were borderline nonexistent. They used rubble and salvage from the Well-Done district to build the city, even at the cost of those who managed to survive the war.
The Filling District isn't rich enough to be rich or poor enough to be poor. It is filled with angry middle-class people who hate the poor for being Inferior, hate the rich for being Superior, and hate Each Other for reminding themselves of their Lack of Godhood. Capitalism is King in Murka, and no one wants to be a peasant.
But all of that is beside the point. Filler about the Filling District, I'd say. The important thing is, the Knights usually don't come here. Now they swarm like ants. Everyone is Anxious About It.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
*Fantastic, here we go!*
Sitting at one of the many tables, though less wild than some of the others, is Pimento. He's tall and lanky, skin that typical tiefling red with the occasional black along his skin and on spots in his eyes, his pointed wings wrapped around the chair he's sitting in, about 50 gold sits in front of him after he's beaten everyone who's comes to him in some games of Five Finger Fillet, puddles of blood sit on the table from where people have stabbed themselves, but Pimento's hands are entirely unblemished.
He swipes the gold off of the table with a smile, his teeth sharpen and eyes glowing a crimson red, he shoos everyone else away from the table, putting his knife away as he leans back in his chair, waiting for something to happen, probably for Nigel to explain why he is here.
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
The door swings open and the hulking form of a family vagabond tramps in. You've probably seen him before, wandering the streets with seemingly no purpose in mind, sitting upon a bench as the world rushes by, or tossing crumbs to the birds and rats. Maybe you've even spent some time under Troll's bridge.
But now he is indoors here and you realize that this man is rarely seen inside. An umbrella is slung over his arm but other than that he carries nothing. The massive mountain of a man's hair hangs long and lank and his beard clings to his chin like a terrified woodland critter. Above his left eyebrow is a matted patch of scars. A long, dull green jacket somehow manages to cover his body and is covered itself in patches and stains.
Troll's eyes shine like pebbles found in a trickling creek and they sweep slowly across the room. He grunts a low deep grunt and then shambles over to the bar, tapping his umbrella against the ground absent mindedly.
The bartender appears from nowhere, as usual, and places a multicolored cocktail beside him. All of its layers are completely clear despite their faint coloration. "Must be hard work, getting so many proximal phalanges split with a butterknife." Their voice is raspy and curt. It sounds judgmental, but he knows that they just sound like that.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
The bartender looks up at him with their wet, hollow eyes. They place a glass bottle on the counter. "Smuggled from the streams of the Garnish Gardens. I hope you have enough love in your heart to appreciate it, Troll."
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
He turns his smile up to them, taking the cocktail and looking at all of the layers "Hard work done and money made." He cackles, his accent perfectly clear, before beginning to sip the drink, taking out his comb and brushing his hair whenever he puts down the cocktail glass, "Where has Nigel gone? He told me ta get over here, and I ain't seen him around."
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
Nigel, dressed in a button-up Hawaiian-esque shirt that is patterned with small weiner dogs, sits at the bar. His amber eyes may seem unfocused, but he is very much watching everything that goes on like a hawk. He shuffles through bills at the bar's counter, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he takes count of the money. His shaggy sandy-blonde hair falls over his eyes a bit, his face etched with scars from a life not worth remembering. A golden chain glints in the red pulsing lights of the bar, nestled between his pecs. He sets the bills aside and stretches, grumbling something about being 'too old'.
"Obsessed? Maybe... Devoted? Very."
[Taken by my blessed beloved]
Pimento looks over to them, head craning from behind his chair to look over to them, "There he is, the man himself, Nigel. Why the [gp] am I here, Nigel? Ya own the bar, ya probably know better than anybody else do. I'd rather not waste any more time than I already have here, I mean, I stole a couple chumps outta their gold, but I doubt I can fool anybody else."
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
*Wonderful opening, Baal! A marvelous opening act! Now, the stage is set... let the show begin!*
Walking into the speakeasy is someone that Nigel can immediately recognize- even before she walks through the door and into view. The rattling and clattering and jingling of bandoliers and belts and pouches full of vials and bottles- supplies she uses to make all manner of alchemical mixtures and remedies for her hole-in-the-wall potion shop that's a ten-minute walk away- herald her arrival wherever she goes. The regular visitor and occasional customer walks over to her usual spot in the corner of the bar, sitting down and looking around for wherever Nigel may be. She's here to make another trade, no doubt.
Lydia Ariphis is an odd character, though most that see or talk with her already know that. No one knows what she really looks like- she wears layers and layers of thick-fabric clothes that always obscure her appearance. With all the coats and robes and scarves and jackets and sweaters and gloves and pants, the most anyone knows about what she really looks like is that she's at least vaguely humanoid-shaped. Well, that and her eyes- which seem to always be glimmering with an emerald green within the shadow of the hood she wears. How she hasn't keeled over from heatstroke eight times over is anyone's guess. With how secretive and suspicious Lydia is, she probably won't be telling anyone anything any time soon.
She looks around at her surroundings to see if she can spot Nigel every few seconds. Time is money, after all- and most who've met her know just how much she values her money.
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
Nigel looked up, raising a brow "Pimento."
He stands up and fixes the front of his shirt, a charming smile gracing his face. He makes his way over, people parting to avoid him. He stands before Pimento and stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. "How're you, my friend? Good I hope."
"Obsessed? Maybe... Devoted? Very."
[Taken by my blessed beloved]
He stares at it with his solemn eyes before grabbing it with grubby fingers. The glass somehow manages to break through his beard and the alcohol flows down his mouth into who knows what deep lagoons. "Maybe this'll water what little I have and cause it to grow ready for harvest."
The bartender moves over to him, silent enough to give a mouse pause. Nigel hired them because of their stealth and subtle brutality, as well as the fact that not even he could discover their origins or motives. Not even their species is known, but Nigel's best guess is some sort of undead.
They place a whiskey glass of soda beside him. "Eyes sharp. And stay hydrated." They croak their words like an irritated mother.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Nigel, dressed in a button-up Hawaiian-esque shirt that is patterned with small weiner dogs, sits at the bar. His amber eyes may seem unfocused, but he is very much watching everything that goes on like a hawk. He shuffles through bills at the bar's counter, a cigarette pinched between his lips as he takes count of the money. His shaggy sandy-blonde hair falls over his eyes a bit, his face etched with scars from a life not worth remembering. A golden chain glints in the red pulsing lights of the bar, nestled between his pecs. He sets the bills aside and stretches, grumbling something about being 'too old'.
His eyes meet with Lydia's as he produces a toothy grin. He makes his way over, people parting the way for him. He stuffs his hands in his jean pockets and nods "Lydia, hello there."
"Obsessed? Maybe... Devoted? Very."
[Taken by my blessed beloved]
He turns his head back to normal, wings flicking for a moment, "Friend?" He scoffs and shakes his head, "Do ya want somethin' from me?" He kicks out a chair for them to sit down, "Do ya know whatever gathered us here? I seen Lydia and ya already." He sticks his knife into the table, "I can't make no one money than I already got, and I'm runnin' low on patience."
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
"I know that all too well." He said, stubbing out his cigarette in a red glass ashtray "And I am hydrated, well enough at least.' he chuckles, baring a toothy grin.
"Obsessed? Maybe... Devoted? Very."
[Taken by my blessed beloved]
"Keep that tongue held here, Pimento. Also, you know the rules, no weaponry." he nods to the knife. "Put that away lest you cause issues."
"Obsessed? Maybe... Devoted? Very."
[Taken by my blessed beloved]
A glass is placed into her hand. The bartender got to her before she even noticed them. It's their favorite cocktail, a vile mix of hostile ingredients that should dissolve concrete and kill any dogs who happen to be in the area. It's not allowed outside due to its volatility. Shake it up too much and it will catch fire.
This was a game of theirs. The bartender would try to give Lydia a drink without her noticing. If they won, the drink was free. If Lydia noticed, the bartender would give her their last tip.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
He scoffs, but puts the knife away as asked, he knows this is the only Speakeasy in the Filling District worth doing, "Fine, Nigel. I'll keep it outta sight, outta mind."
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
Her eyes seem to light up just a little bit more when she sees him. "Hello there, Nigel." She responds, a smile in her voice that cannot be seen on her face. "What's the news today, friend?" She adds, getting right to business- it's always straight to business with Lydia.
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
Nigel produces a smile. "Thank you." he says and leans back in his chair "You and Lydia are here for a reason. And from what you say you think I called you here?"
"Obsessed? Maybe... Devoted? Very."
[Taken by my blessed beloved]