Hikari...isn't one who's much for heroics, to be honest. If you had approached the downtrodden, raggedly-dressed figure, slumped over the bar, the first thought that jumped to your mind probably wouldn't have been a good one -- and you probably would have been right. His lean, seven-foot frame would be imposing -- if his head wasn't against the counter, a thin trickle of ale frothing out of his open mouth as he tried desperately to drink his sorrows away.
Why is my journey so hard? he asks himself, scrabbling -- clawing -- for some sort of consolation. He finds none in his own mind, however -- only one in a barely raised hand to the bartender, another heavy, watered-down ale on his counter -- who says that bartenders have no concerns? I am a trained monk of the Order of the White Lotus, eternally bound to serve the world and its needs. I am trained to serve justice, and to protect against vice. I am shielded against the trickery of devils. I am trained in twelve forms of martial combat, and can read the future in the stars.Yet somehow, I cannot find myself in this house of lies. I am myself, but I am not-I at once. Why? He groans softly as this conundrum, which has puzzled him for years, returns to his mind, briefly sitting up to slop some more water-ale down his shirt.
His mind wanders, and again he recalls the wild -- the strange dreams he's been having lately invading his mind, breaching his defenses as a horse swats a fly. Him, running with the bears and wolves. Him, sleeping under the stars, no care for the world. When did I do that? he asks. I have always been a monk of the Order, never anything else. I was found as a child by Elder Za-màrò, and was raised by the same. Yet I feel carefree, unbound from the chains which hold me down to the world. He continues to think, futilely struggling past the tangle of his unconscious. He manages to signal the bartender for a glass of cold water, and then he knows no more, his head slamming on the table with a thud as everything fades to black.
(OOC: TLDR: He's a low-self-esteeming, bad-mental-health monk who is seeking "himself" in the world. He doesn't understand why society is so hard, and is also reminiscing -- and being confused -- on times he doesn't remember, but which are suddenly coming up in dreams. He also just fell unconscious, so anyone with slick fingers can steal pretty much everything off of him. Also has a 5 GP tab, if anyone wants to pay that for him :). Can't wait to get started, and great to meet you all! (I'll also be a bit sporadic in posting for the next three days, just to give you all a heads-up))
For a moment, the young man is silent—not from hesitation, but from habit. When he does step forward, there's an ease to his movement that speaks of long hours working beneath an open sky. His armor bears the honest wear of travel, and a wooden shield rests comfortably against his back. But it's the staff in his hand that truly catches the eye—its surface alive with careful carvings that seem to shift in the light. Moon phases spiral alongside leaping stags, prowling wolves, and soaring hawks. Here and there, the silver crescent of Selûne gleams among the menagerie.
He plants the staff firmly, a farmer's stance despite the warrior's garb, and his hazel eyes sweep across the gathering with quiet assessment. There's dirt under his nails that no amount of scrubbing will ever fully remove, and those standing close enough might catch the faint scent of cedar and earth that clings to him—as though the forest itself has marked him as its own.
"Rowan Alderis," he says simply, his voice carrying the unpretentious directness of someone who's introduced himself to nervous livestock more often than to grand assemblies. A calloused hand rests against his staff, fingers tracing one of the carved symbols absently. His mouth shifts into something that might be amusement or might be determination. "I've tended fields that refused to grow and mended fences that wouldn't hold. Watched seasons turn and turned with them. But the land doesn't need saving where I'm from. Seems like it does here."
"Galdrun Thinwhisker" A thin, by dwarf standard, middle aged dwarf replies back. His face is covered in a light peach fuzz of a beard and his eyes glance around in a constant state of anxiety. "Savior... Yeah, sure. Sounds like a plan"
He says as he tries to find someone strong and capable to buddy up with
"Excuse me, good sir," the trim young man with golden hair and faintly pointed ears said as he eased around the large farmer. At a quick glance, the young man was finely dressed, with layer upon layer of brocade silks and ruffles upon ruffles in a bright but tasteful assortment of colors. Closer inspection would reveal a multitude of patches and repairs, and some fading beginning to mar the elbows and edges of his doublet due to excessive wear and tear. A tip of the hat and a quick wink, and the young man swiftly enters the dim tavern. Leaning over the exceedingly tall monastic type currently slumped over at the bar, he says to the tavern keeper, "Hello there! Brion Haleford, at your service. You wouldn't happen to be in need of any entertainment this evening, would you? Your establishment, I mean - I'm offering my services - uh, as a violinist, I mean. You know what, just a pint of ale, please. Never mind."
Brion sits down a few seats away from the monk, and takes a habitual glance around for any creditors or their hired muscle, and also makes note of back entrances and other possible escape routes, should the need arise.
The tender casts a glance at you, cleaning the glass from fallen giant. His gaze switches from you to that of the drunken man in the corner, singing as if his very life depended on it, and back on you. "Depends," he says, "on how well yer' singing be. Though I be bettin' it's better than 'is."
his look drifts to the occupants of the farmer and the dwarf. "Ye' seem like ones who've gotten 'emselves a few good tales," he says, "Shall the depressing company of me' bar might be where ye' share em?" He asks, though the interest doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Hikari; you begin to dream. Of your hometown in a blanket of light snow, with children running down the streets and the dogs chasing after them. You see the monks underneath the branches of a mighty oak, it's leaves long fallen, speaking of the things all monks would speak of; spirits, life, and the welfare of your precious town.
Pumahk had to duck to enter the bar, and his broad shoulders and large stature would intimidate most at first glance. But a closer look at his face revealed soft brown eyes with a great sense of kindness and honor behind him. He gave a warm smile, and took a seat at the bar next to the others. On his left shoulder was a tattoo of a shield inside of a crescent moon - the mark of the Fellowship of Might. A tavern wasn't the kind of place he would normally spend his time, but he needed somewhere to rest for just a moment.
"Hello there." His voice was deep and slightly gruff. "I'm Pumahk. This is Arty, my apprentice." He gestures to the young human by his side. "I'll be sure he doesn't drink anything he shouldn't," he says to the bartender, then gives a small smile.
"I can drink anything you can, and twice as much of it!" Standing proudly, trying to look as tall and brod as a scrawny 4 foot and change kid can. He could almost pass as a halfling but his youthful face gives him away. Nice leather that clearly needing better attention then it was getting fit loosely on Arty. He liked the bigger size and Pumahk promised that Arty would grow into it one day, when ever that was. Seems like it was foreeevvvvveeerrrr ago Pumahk assured him of that.
"I claim that chair!" Arty proclaims as he tosses his bow to Pumahk and ru s to the tallest stool. Arty struggles to climb up but manages now that he has released himself of the last of his burdens. Arty carries no pack as others do, clearly depending on Pumahk to carry any items he doesn't want to keep in his immediate self. I wonder how much trouble I can possibly be in if I do drink that's nasty drink . "Pumahk says if I can have my very own shield, do you have one I can use and I'll show you how good I am?" He look around to see if any are ready for Arty to show them how much better he was then them.
OOC: I'm using Arty's "backpack" as items he has Pumahk carry. So any item no on his immediate person would have to be retrieved first.
The tender turns from the two customers to you. "Aye, help with the riff raff is appreciated by me, me friend." He looks you up and down. "Well, make yourself comfy. You need a drink, I can drown yer' sorrow."
The tender casts a glance at you, cleaning the glass from fallen giant. His gaze switches from you to that of the drunken man in the corner, singing as if his very life depended on it, and back on you. "Depends," he says, "on how well yer' singing be. Though I be bettin' it's better than 'is."
his look drifts to the occupants of the farmer and the dwarf. "Ye' seem like ones who've gotten 'emselves a few good tales," he says, "Shall the depressing company of me' bar might be where ye' share em?" He asks, though the interest doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Hikari; you begin to dream. Of your hometown in a blanket of light snow, with children running down the streets and the dogs chasing after them. You see the monks underneath the branches of a mighty oak, it's leaves long fallen, speaking of the things all monks would speak of; spirits, life, and the welfare of your precious town.
Rowan glances to the Dwarf and than back to the bartender. “I’m willing to share stories if people want to hear them. But I’ll warn you I’m not a practiced storyteller.” He takes in the scene around him. “It looks like we may have others more suited to that among us.”
Detecting the faintest traces of "The Lusty Maidens of Chult" in the drunk's slurred warbling, and seeing that a child had just come in alongside a veritable mountain of a man, Brion decided to try and drown out the bawdier elements of the song with a spirited rendition of "On the Banks of the Chionthar," a classic, if simple, tune that his mother used to sing to him as a child. Bringing his fiddle to the ready, Brion nods to the tavernkeep and begins playing.
The tavern quiets as you begin to play, and gets louder as the masses sing along with your song. Joyous racket fills the air, and even the drunken bard seems to sober up to sing.
"On the Banks of the Chionthar,
I met my love, my lady from afar,
she traveled long, and traveled hard,
just to meet me on the Banks of Chionthar!"
Already, it seems as though you are well liked by this bunch of drunken patrons. One throws you a silver, and another three copper.
Throughout this merry ballad, Hikari sleeps, walking through a dreamscape that seems so peaceful, so familiar -- yet so distant. He observes the monks, bustling through winter's gift, and, fondly, sadly, recalls those times that were but will no longer be. Monks stand beneath a tree, listening -- perhaps worshipping? it -- and Hikari stands, unnoticed by all, confused. Why do we worship a tree that proselytizes what we want to hear? Whatever this dream is, it must not bear good tidings for me -- and the Order as a whole. As the dream fades to black, Hikari comes to a conclusion: Although we may be at peace, we must take up arms to those who would change us.
He snaps awake to a rowdy chorus of drunken song. Blearily, he looks around, then spies a human boy standing on a chair while a fiddler quickly draws their bow back and forth. Well, those are things to worry about later. Let's have some fun now. He'll lift his water-cup and howl with the others, trying -- as best as he can -- to fit in and have a good time. He'll also inch over to the kid and the fiddler, now intrigued and hoping to find some goodwill for a poor soul in them.
As you begin to move to the musician and the child, you see the doors open once more, and a strange sight enters the bar. Though it has been a long time, you remember keenly what a thri-Kreen looks like; one you knew made quite the sparring partner. This one, however, looks Ill suited for combat. They wear a silken robe, emblazoned with the sigil of Pelor, God of the sun, and wield a staff carved of soft wood. Their eyes pass over the inhabitants of the bar, noting the bard, the dwarf, the child, and you, foremost. He finds himself a seat in the corner, pulls out a book that appears to be quite worn, a map, and a pen before his eyes begin scanning the items, his interest lost in the others.
The tender casts a glance at you, cleaning the glass from fallen giant. His gaze switches from you to that of the drunken man in the corner, singing as if his very life depended on it, and back on you. "Depends," he says, "on how well yer' singing be. Though I be bettin' it's better than 'is."
his look drifts to the occupants of the farmer and the dwarf. "Ye' seem like ones who've gotten 'emselves a few good tales," he says, "Shall the depressing company of me' bar might be where ye' share em?" He asks, though the interest doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Hikari; you begin to dream. Of your hometown in a blanket of light snow, with children running down the streets and the dogs chasing after them. You see the monks underneath the branches of a mighty oak, it's leaves long fallen, speaking of the things all monks would speak of; spirits, life, and the welfare of your precious town.
Rowan glances to the Dwarf and than back to the bartender. “I’m willing to share stories if people want to hear them. But I’ll warn you I’m not a practiced storyteller.” He takes in the scene around him. “It looks like we may have others more suited to that among us.”
"Bah," The tender says, "I'm a soul dedicated to story and drink. And any person 'ere 'll be willin' to listen to a tale."
"I can drink anything you can, and twice as much of it!" Standing proudly, trying to look as tall and brod as a scrawny 4 foot and change kid can. He could almost pass as a halfling but his youthful face gives him away. Nice leather that clearly needing better attention then it was getting fit loosely on Arty. He liked the bigger size and Pumahk promised that Arty would grow into it one day, when ever that was. Seems like it was foreeevvvvveeerrrr ago Pumahk assured him of that.
"I claim that chair!" Arty proclaims as he tosses his bow to Pumahk and ru s to the tallest stool. Arty struggles to climb up but manages now that he has released himself of the last of his burdens. Arty carries no pack as others do, clearly depending on Pumahk to carry any items he doesn't want to keep in his immediate self. I wonder how much trouble I can possibly be in if I do drink that's nasty drink . "Pumahk says if I can have my very own shield, do you have one I can use and I'll show you how good I am?" He look around to see if any are ready for Arty to show them how much better he was then them.
OOC: I'm using Arty's "backpack" as items he has Pumahk carry. So any item no on his immediate person would have to be retrieved first.
His gaze turns to the child who has taken his bar for his own. "While I doubt I 'ave a shield for ye, I believe that ye can find some kind, or drunken bum who'll lend ye theirs."
His gaze turns towards Pumahk. "Must get into trouble a lot, with 'ow he talks."
"I can drink anything you can, and twice as much of it!" Standing proudly, trying to look as tall and brod as a scrawny 4 foot and change kid can. He could almost pass as a halfling but his youthful face gives him away. Nice leather that clearly needing better attention then it was getting fit loosely on Arty. He liked the bigger size and Pumahk promised that Arty would grow into it one day, when ever that was. Seems like it was foreeevvvvveeerrrr ago Pumahk assured him of that.
"I claim that chair!" Arty proclaims as he tosses his bow to Pumahk and ru s to the tallest stool. Arty struggles to climb up but manages now that he has released himself of the last of his burdens. Arty carries no pack as others do, clearly depending on Pumahk to carry any items he doesn't want to keep in his immediate self. I wonder how much trouble I can possibly be in if I do drink that's nasty drink . "Pumahk says if I can have my very own shield, do you have one I can use and I'll show you how good I am?" He look around to see if any are ready for Arty to show them how much better he was then them.
OOC: I'm using Arty's "backpack" as items he has Pumahk carry. So any item no on his immediate person would have to be retrieved first.
"W-who are you who claim to be a better drinker?" Hikari queries, face set in a broad yet awkward grin. He says this in a higher-pitched, trembling voice, as if his charisma had just remembered a pressing appointment and left without a word. "I-I think that w-w-w--" -- he stutters for a second, coughing, "-we'll have to see! Let's s-see how much you c-c-can stomach, young one!"
He'll challenge Arty to a drinking contest (as long as Pumahk approves).
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Arty, standing on the already wobbly stool, tries to mimic similar fiddle movements as wobbles and leans on the stool. He hears the man behind the bar refusal to give Arty his shield, how rude, oh well he could ask around. Maybe the new comer didn't hear Arty's magnificent offer of showing what he can do.
"Trouble? I'm able to handle myself, besides I know what I'm doing!" With that, he leans a little too far on the stool and comes crashing down onto a stoll next to him, causing the boy and 2 stools to slam into the floor. With an embarrassed look on his face, he looks back at Pumahk , eyes low, he whispers, "Sorry."
Acrobatics check to see if he lands on his feet: 6!
The tender looks from you to the child and back. "Y... ye want to challenge a child... to a drinking competition...? Know what, I don't get enoug' excitement anymore. sure, jus' don't... go too hard, yes?" The tender places two mugs on the bar, one in reach of Arty, and one in reach of Hikari. He turns to Pumahk, "If yer' okay with it, that is."
"T-thank you, good fellow. I promise I'll win this one quickly enough, and leave without trouble. A-as long as he doesn't cause any, that is." Hikari turns to Arty. "W-what do you call yourself, boy? And w-what brings you to these parts?" he asks, hoping to glean some information from these two.
He picks up his first ale, briefly looking at the liquid sloshing around inside. He feels a pang of guilt, but it's immediately suppressed when his body screams at him to drink. He tips the mug and begins to drink.
(OOC: How'll we be doing the rules for this? DM -- just to note Hikari's already been drinking most of the night, if that impacts this in any way. Also, I'll be off DDB for the next two days, just to let you all know)
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Religious frisbee player, writer, goofball, and nerd. Some may say professional for the latter two.
Extended sig here. Send me a PM if you want to chat.
"I can drink anything you can, and twice as much of it!" Standing proudly, trying to look as tall and brod as a scrawny 4 foot and change kid can. He could almost pass as a halfling but his youthful face gives him away. Nice leather that clearly needing better attention then it was getting fit loosely on Arty. He liked the bigger size and Pumahk promised that Arty would grow into it one day, when ever that was. Seems like it was foreeevvvvveeerrrr ago Pumahk assured him of that.
"I claim that chair!" Arty proclaims as he tosses his bow to Pumahk and ru s to the tallest stool. Arty struggles to climb up but manages now that he has released himself of the last of his burdens. Arty carries no pack as others do, clearly depending on Pumahk to carry any items he doesn't want to keep in his immediate self. I wonder how much trouble I can possibly be in if I do drink that's nasty drink . "Pumahk says if I can have my very own shield, do you have one I can use and I'll show you how good I am?" He look around to see if any are ready for Arty to show them how much better he was then them.
OOC: I'm using Arty's "backpack" as items he has Pumahk carry. So any item no on his immediate person would have to be retrieved first.
His gaze turns to the child who has taken his bar for his own. "While I doubt I 'ave a shield for ye, I believe that ye can find some kind, or drunken bum who'll lend ye theirs."
His gaze turns towards Pumahk. "Must get into trouble a lot, with 'ow he talks."
"I've had to talk my way out of more situations than I'd like because of his antics. He never had any ill intent though, just a kid with an abundance of energy."
Arty, standing on the already wobbly stool, tries to mimic similar fiddle movements as wobbles and leans on the stool. He hears the man behind the bar refusal to give Arty his shield, how rude, oh well he could ask around. Maybe the new comer didn't hear Arty's magnificent offer of showing what he can do.
"Trouble? I'm able to handle myself, besides I know what I'm doing!" With that, he leans a little too far on the stool and comes crashing down onto a stoll next to him, causing the boy and 2 stools to slam into the floor. With an embarrassed look on his face, he looks back at Pumahk , eyes low, he whispers, "Sorry."
Acrobatics check to see if he lands on his feet: 6!
Prone on the floor it is!
"A drinking competition? Absolutely not. You can hardly keep your balance completely sober, and given your size I think it would only take about half a bottle of ale to knock you out." Pumahk sees the disappointed look in the boy's eyes, and quickly comes up with an alternative. "Look, if you must prove your worth to the crowd, how about an arm wrestling match? No need for any drunken children, and it seems that this man has already had enough to drink. I'm even willing to put 5 gold on Arty's victory!" Pumahk tosses 5 pieces of gold out on the bar.
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Your story begins here, adventurers. Please, speak your names. Let the realms know who shall be their saviors.
Hikari...isn't one who's much for heroics, to be honest. If you had approached the downtrodden, raggedly-dressed figure, slumped over the bar, the first thought that jumped to your mind probably wouldn't have been a good one -- and you probably would have been right. His lean, seven-foot frame would be imposing -- if his head wasn't against the counter, a thin trickle of ale frothing out of his open mouth as he tried desperately to drink his sorrows away.
Why is my journey so hard? he asks himself, scrabbling -- clawing -- for some sort of consolation. He finds none in his own mind, however -- only one in a barely raised hand to the bartender, another heavy, watered-down ale on his counter -- who says that bartenders have no concerns? I am a trained monk of the Order of the White Lotus, eternally bound to serve the world and its needs. I am trained to serve justice, and to protect against vice. I am shielded against the trickery of devils. I am trained in twelve forms of martial combat, and can read the future in the stars.Yet somehow, I cannot find myself in this house of lies. I am myself, but I am not-I at once. Why? He groans softly as this conundrum, which has puzzled him for years, returns to his mind, briefly sitting up to slop some more water-ale down his shirt.
His mind wanders, and again he recalls the wild -- the strange dreams he's been having lately invading his mind, breaching his defenses as a horse swats a fly. Him, running with the bears and wolves. Him, sleeping under the stars, no care for the world. When did I do that? he asks. I have always been a monk of the Order, never anything else. I was found as a child by Elder Za-màrò, and was raised by the same. Yet I feel carefree, unbound from the chains which hold me down to the world. He continues to think, futilely struggling past the tangle of his unconscious. He manages to signal the bartender for a glass of cold water, and then he knows no more, his head slamming on the table with a thud as everything fades to black.
(OOC: TLDR: He's a low-self-esteeming, bad-mental-health monk who is seeking "himself" in the world. He doesn't understand why society is so hard, and is also reminiscing -- and being confused -- on times he doesn't remember, but which are suddenly coming up in dreams. He also just fell unconscious, so anyone with slick fingers can steal pretty much everything off of him. Also has a 5 GP tab, if anyone wants to pay that for him :). Can't wait to get started, and great to meet you all! (I'll also be a bit sporadic in posting for the next three days, just to give you all a heads-up))
Religious frisbee player, writer, goofball, and nerd. Some may say professional for the latter two.
Extended sig here. Send me a PM if you want to chat.
DM: Liquid Swords - A Historical Wuxia Campaign
Player: Marcus Aquillus Arcade (Quil) - 1st Rogue - Pax Romana
For a moment, the young man is silent—not from hesitation, but from habit. When he does step forward, there's an ease to his movement that speaks of long hours working beneath an open sky. His armor bears the honest wear of travel, and a wooden shield rests comfortably against his back. But it's the staff in his hand that truly catches the eye—its surface alive with careful carvings that seem to shift in the light. Moon phases spiral alongside leaping stags, prowling wolves, and soaring hawks. Here and there, the silver crescent of Selûne gleams among the menagerie.
He plants the staff firmly, a farmer's stance despite the warrior's garb, and his hazel eyes sweep across the gathering with quiet assessment. There's dirt under his nails that no amount of scrubbing will ever fully remove, and those standing close enough might catch the faint scent of cedar and earth that clings to him—as though the forest itself has marked him as its own.
"Rowan Alderis," he says simply, his voice carrying the unpretentious directness of someone who's introduced himself to nervous livestock more often than to grand assemblies. A calloused hand rests against his staff, fingers tracing one of the carved symbols absently. His mouth shifts into something that might be amusement or might be determination. "I've tended fields that refused to grow and mended fences that wouldn't hold. Watched seasons turn and turned with them. But the land doesn't need saving where I'm from. Seems like it does here."
"Galdrun Thinwhisker" A thin, by dwarf standard, middle aged dwarf replies back. His face is covered in a light peach fuzz of a beard and his eyes glance around in a constant state of anxiety. "Savior... Yeah, sure. Sounds like a plan"
He says as he tries to find someone strong and capable to buddy up with
"Excuse me, good sir," the trim young man with golden hair and faintly pointed ears said as he eased around the large farmer. At a quick glance, the young man was finely dressed, with layer upon layer of brocade silks and ruffles upon ruffles in a bright but tasteful assortment of colors. Closer inspection would reveal a multitude of patches and repairs, and some fading beginning to mar the elbows and edges of his doublet due to excessive wear and tear. A tip of the hat and a quick wink, and the young man swiftly enters the dim tavern. Leaning over the exceedingly tall monastic type currently slumped over at the bar, he says to the tavern keeper, "Hello there! Brion Haleford, at your service. You wouldn't happen to be in need of any entertainment this evening, would you? Your establishment, I mean - I'm offering my services - uh, as a violinist, I mean. You know what, just a pint of ale, please. Never mind."
Brion sits down a few seats away from the monk, and takes a habitual glance around for any creditors or their hired muscle, and also makes note of back entrances and other possible escape routes, should the need arise.
The tender casts a glance at you, cleaning the glass from fallen giant. His gaze switches from you to that of the drunken man in the corner, singing as if his very life depended on it, and back on you. "Depends," he says, "on how well yer' singing be. Though I be bettin' it's better than 'is."
his look drifts to the occupants of the farmer and the dwarf. "Ye' seem like ones who've gotten 'emselves a few good tales," he says, "Shall the depressing company of me' bar might be where ye' share em?" He asks, though the interest doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Hikari; you begin to dream. Of your hometown in a blanket of light snow, with children running down the streets and the dogs chasing after them. You see the monks underneath the branches of a mighty oak, it's leaves long fallen, speaking of the things all monks would speak of; spirits, life, and the welfare of your precious town.
Pumahk had to duck to enter the bar, and his broad shoulders and large stature would intimidate most at first glance. But a closer look at his face revealed soft brown eyes with a great sense of kindness and honor behind him. He gave a warm smile, and took a seat at the bar next to the others. On his left shoulder was a tattoo of a shield inside of a crescent moon - the mark of the Fellowship of Might. A tavern wasn't the kind of place he would normally spend his time, but he needed somewhere to rest for just a moment.
"Hello there." His voice was deep and slightly gruff. "I'm Pumahk. This is Arty, my apprentice." He gestures to the young human by his side. "I'll be sure he doesn't drink anything he shouldn't," he says to the bartender, then gives a small smile.
"I can drink anything you can, and twice as much of it!" Standing proudly, trying to look as tall and brod as a scrawny 4 foot and change kid can. He could almost pass as a halfling but his youthful face gives him away. Nice leather that clearly needing better attention then it was getting fit loosely on Arty. He liked the bigger size and Pumahk promised that Arty would grow into it one day, when ever that was. Seems like it was foreeevvvvveeerrrr ago Pumahk assured him of that.
"I claim that chair!" Arty proclaims as he tosses his bow to Pumahk and ru s to the tallest stool. Arty struggles to climb up but manages now that he has released himself of the last of his burdens. Arty carries no pack as others do, clearly depending on Pumahk to carry any items he doesn't want to keep in his immediate self. I wonder how much trouble I can possibly be in if I do drink that's nasty drink . "Pumahk says if I can have my very own shield, do you have one I can use and I'll show you how good I am?" He look around to see if any are ready for Arty to show them how much better he was then them.
OOC: I'm using Arty's "backpack" as items he has Pumahk carry. So any item no on his immediate person would have to be retrieved first.
The tender turns from the two customers to you. "Aye, help with the riff raff is appreciated by me, me friend." He looks you up and down. "Well, make yourself comfy. You need a drink, I can drown yer' sorrow."
Rowan glances to the Dwarf and than back to the bartender. “I’m willing to share stories if people want to hear them. But I’ll warn you I’m not a practiced storyteller.” He takes in the scene around him. “It looks like we may have others more suited to that among us.”
Detecting the faintest traces of "The Lusty Maidens of Chult" in the drunk's slurred warbling, and seeing that a child had just come in alongside a veritable mountain of a man, Brion decided to try and drown out the bawdier elements of the song with a spirited rendition of "On the Banks of the Chionthar," a classic, if simple, tune that his mother used to sing to him as a child. Bringing his fiddle to the ready, Brion nods to the tavernkeep and begins playing.
Performance: 15
The tavern quiets as you begin to play, and gets louder as the masses sing along with your song. Joyous racket fills the air, and even the drunken bard seems to sober up to sing.
"On the Banks of the Chionthar,
I met my love, my lady from afar,
she traveled long, and traveled hard,
just to meet me on the Banks of Chionthar!"
Already, it seems as though you are well liked by this bunch of drunken patrons. One throws you a silver, and another three copper.
Throughout this merry ballad, Hikari sleeps, walking through a dreamscape that seems so peaceful, so familiar -- yet so distant. He observes the monks, bustling through winter's gift, and, fondly, sadly, recalls those times that were but will no longer be. Monks stand beneath a tree, listening -- perhaps worshipping? it -- and Hikari stands, unnoticed by all, confused. Why do we worship a tree that proselytizes what we want to hear? Whatever this dream is, it must not bear good tidings for me -- and the Order as a whole. As the dream fades to black, Hikari comes to a conclusion: Although we may be at peace, we must take up arms to those who would change us.
He snaps awake to a rowdy chorus of drunken song. Blearily, he looks around, then spies a human boy standing on a chair while a fiddler quickly draws their bow back and forth. Well, those are things to worry about later. Let's have some fun now. He'll lift his water-cup and howl with the others, trying -- as best as he can -- to fit in and have a good time. He'll also inch over to the kid and the fiddler, now intrigued and hoping to find some goodwill for a poor soul in them.
Religious frisbee player, writer, goofball, and nerd. Some may say professional for the latter two.
Extended sig here. Send me a PM if you want to chat.
DM: Liquid Swords - A Historical Wuxia Campaign
Player: Marcus Aquillus Arcade (Quil) - 1st Rogue - Pax Romana
As you begin to move to the musician and the child, you see the doors open once more, and a strange sight enters the bar. Though it has been a long time, you remember keenly what a thri-Kreen looks like; one you knew made quite the sparring partner. This one, however, looks Ill suited for combat. They wear a silken robe, emblazoned with the sigil of Pelor, God of the sun, and wield a staff carved of soft wood. Their eyes pass over the inhabitants of the bar, noting the bard, the dwarf, the child, and you, foremost. He finds himself a seat in the corner, pulls out a book that appears to be quite worn, a map, and a pen before his eyes begin scanning the items, his interest lost in the others.
"Bah," The tender says, "I'm a soul dedicated to story and drink. And any person 'ere 'll be willin' to listen to a tale."
His gaze turns to the child who has taken his bar for his own. "While I doubt I 'ave a shield for ye, I believe that ye can find some kind, or drunken bum who'll lend ye theirs."
His gaze turns towards Pumahk. "Must get into trouble a lot, with 'ow he talks."
"W-who are you who claim to be a better drinker?" Hikari queries, face set in a broad yet awkward grin. He says this in a higher-pitched, trembling voice, as if his charisma had just remembered a pressing appointment and left without a word. "I-I think that w-w-w--" -- he stutters for a second, coughing, "-we'll have to see! Let's s-see how much you c-c-can stomach, young one!"
He'll challenge Arty to a drinking contest (as long as Pumahk approves).
Religious frisbee player, writer, goofball, and nerd. Some may say professional for the latter two.
Extended sig here. Send me a PM if you want to chat.
DM: Liquid Swords - A Historical Wuxia Campaign
Player: Marcus Aquillus Arcade (Quil) - 1st Rogue - Pax Romana
Arty, standing on the already wobbly stool, tries to mimic similar fiddle movements as wobbles and leans on the stool. He hears the man behind the bar refusal to give Arty his shield, how rude, oh well he could ask around. Maybe the new comer didn't hear Arty's magnificent offer of showing what he can do.
"Trouble? I'm able to handle myself, besides I know what I'm doing!" With that, he leans a little too far on the stool and comes crashing down onto a stoll next to him, causing the boy and 2 stools to slam into the floor. With an embarrassed look on his face, he looks back at Pumahk , eyes low, he whispers, "Sorry."
Acrobatics check to see if he lands on his feet: 6!
Prone on the floor it is!
The tender looks from you to the child and back. "Y... ye want to challenge a child... to a drinking competition...? Know what, I don't get enoug' excitement anymore. sure, jus' don't... go too hard, yes?" The tender places two mugs on the bar, one in reach of Arty, and one in reach of Hikari. He turns to Pumahk, "If yer' okay with it, that is."
"T-thank you, good fellow. I promise I'll win this one quickly enough, and leave without trouble. A-as long as he doesn't cause any, that is." Hikari turns to Arty. "W-what do you call yourself, boy? And w-what brings you to these parts?" he asks, hoping to glean some information from these two.
He picks up his first ale, briefly looking at the liquid sloshing around inside. He feels a pang of guilt, but it's immediately suppressed when his body screams at him to drink. He tips the mug and begins to drink.
(OOC: How'll we be doing the rules for this? DM -- just to note Hikari's already been drinking most of the night, if that impacts this in any way. Also, I'll be off DDB for the next two days, just to let you all know)
Religious frisbee player, writer, goofball, and nerd. Some may say professional for the latter two.
Extended sig here. Send me a PM if you want to chat.
DM: Liquid Swords - A Historical Wuxia Campaign
Player: Marcus Aquillus Arcade (Quil) - 1st Rogue - Pax Romana
"I've had to talk my way out of more situations than I'd like because of his antics. He never had any ill intent though, just a kid with an abundance of energy."
"A drinking competition? Absolutely not. You can hardly keep your balance completely sober, and given your size I think it would only take about half a bottle of ale to knock you out." Pumahk sees the disappointed look in the boy's eyes, and quickly comes up with an alternative. "Look, if you must prove your worth to the crowd, how about an arm wrestling match? No need for any drunken children, and it seems that this man has already had enough to drink. I'm even willing to put 5 gold on Arty's victory!" Pumahk tosses 5 pieces of gold out on the bar.