Roleplaying > Archive

[Tarlith]-Seven Suns

(1/31) > >>

Drackler:
 Rhen Volmar staggered into Herolty. Dusty, sweaty, and tired, he looked as though he was in need of refreshment and shade. When he saw the Dirty Tankard alehouse, he decided that this was a place in which he could get both. He disappeared into the doorway.

Drackler:
 Kherbish entered the town at midday with the caravan that he had most recently been traveling with. As he took his leave of the caravan master, a rather portly man with a wandering eye, he seemed to notice a definite air of relief at his departure. The streets were not crowded, as the suns drove most indoors at this time of day, and Kherbish decided to follow their example. He spotted an alehouse, the Dirty Tankard, and headed towards it.

Drackler:
 Ss'kerswihpp Kha'nklun Gi'ndfer sat in one corner of his favorite seedy tavern. The Dirty Tankard was not overly busy this day, so there was ample notice when a human entered, and a half-elf a little afterward.

Ss kerswihpp:
Ss'kerswihpp made note of the newcomers, they may be his ticket out of here. Besides, what's the worst that could come from trying to make a few friends? He adjusted his neck-frill to make sure he was presentable, not that a human or half-elf would notice if his colors weren't showing properly, but it was important to him.

Making his way out of the dark corner; he may have been slightly frightening to those who had not seen a Bhuka before. Aware of this, he tried his best to stand up straight and attempted a smile. It came out a little creepy and crooked, but it would do.

He approached the human, and offered his waterskin, "The name's Ss'kerswihpp," He said in his low, goblin-like, voice. "What brings you newcomers," He looked at the Half-Elf as well, "to the Dirty Tankard?"

Dozus:
Kherbish inclined his head slightly.  "Bhuka."  He'd seen their kind before, and wasn't fond of them; but then, he figured, this one might have a little coin, so there was no hurt in playing nice.  "Only passing through," he murmured in reply.

Passing through was all he could probably manage, judging by the dusty town.  The small tavern - filthy, though not especially - was sparsely populated.  It would be tough to make much coin here, even by subversive means.  "Slow day here, I suppose," he commented, his halting but melodic Maidar accent spilling through.  Perhaps in the evening, when the suns were not quite so hot, more souls might find their way into the bar.

With little interest in the pretentious Bhuka or the exhausted looking man for now, Kherbish muttered an excuse and found a comfortable corner of the bar, pulling his rebab from his sack.  Resting the spike of the stringed instrument on his ankles, he plucked and tuned the strings in the proper Maidar - no, Northern Flats today - octaves.  He dragged his bow across the instrument as his fingers danced on the strings, playing an slow, easy and crowd-pleasing tune.  Perhaps when more folk arrived, he would change into his Maidar clothing to attract the eye of more customers, but for now, he would simply play.

Navigation

[0] Message Index

[#] Next page

Go to full version