Roleplaying > Freeform Roleplaying

One night at the Tavern

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Scrasamax:
The dreams were the worst part. The image of the glade would appear, and with it was an overwhelming feeling of horror and dread, and the shadow. It was a tower, a very typical sort of tower that might be found in a border area, like an outpost. But the tower was the source of the fear. I cant turn around, I've escaped from the tower, or I think I have. The grass is green, and the trees are sighing in the wind and I should be happy but I'm not. I run, but it doesn't work. The shadow is always leaning over my shoulder, and no matter how fast I run, the trees never get any closer.

I wake up with a scream stuck in my throat. Head pounding, hung over again. I have my sword, battered and notched from hard use and little care.

The sun has set. Time to head back down to the tavern, there are a few coins left in my pouch and a little hair of the dog never hurt anything.

Pieh:
Though the tavern wasn't a far walk away, the dreams always haunted me until I stepped through its door. Something about knowing that next drink was so close....

But, before that, the tower was solidified as a clear threat in my mind. I can almost feel its shadow, even now,  as I force myself to walk with confidence. It would be a bad idea to look scared at this time of night, in this part of town. Even with a sword at your side, a cowardly man is a target, and you can't always rely on your reputation to save you...

That tower, thought. There was a low rumble of thunder, looks like it might be a stormy night. The moon was shrouded with thick storm clouds that seemed tov be rolling towards the town. Rain. I didn't mind the rain so much, it was nice to have it wash away the nightmare sweat. Even in the cool downpour, I feel its shadow. What could be in such a normal looking tower as to be inescapable, I wondered for a moment. Bah! Just a dream, another dream...

And as it always is, I was at the tower- I mean-  Tavern, before I knew it. Looking up at the batter old sign, the dagger in a mug, and the off-beat slogan. Matter's Mugs: Fill your bladders at Matter's. I'm home, I thought, and opened the door...

Scrasamax:
The ale was passable, not good, but not the worst thing to have a cup of. There was a peculiar local custom of cutting the regular ale with a dose of vinegar steeped with some local herb. It was sour enough to make a golem gag. My thoughts wander like the flames in the hearth, almost lost but seemingly drawn along an inexorable course. I remember the sound of her laughter, and the anguish of her screams. Is she alive? Are any of the others alive? Is the wizard still alive? Is he still looking for me?

A familar face, but nameless, walks into the tavern. Fear and paranoia ripple like snakes in a river. Its time to go...

Gafgarion:
  Sweat covered Jedore, crawling on his skin like insects. How many dreams can a man have, he thought? How many sleepless nights until he finally breaks? He was beckoned by a womans voice, like always, towards the tower shrouded in fog. It was dank, and down right chilling everytime he entered into that dream. A mist covered the ground that seemed to suck up his feet and he glided towards an open doorway at the base of the structure. The closer he got to the tower the more and more it seemed to drag him by invisible strings, and the doorway would widen, the voice grow louder, turning into a stone mouth with sharpened teeth. He never made it inside before waking up again. But that was earlier, in the morning. It was dark out now, time to work. The tavern would be busy. Always was. One of the only good things his brother had left him before he died, the dumb bastard. Jedore was cleaning a glass with a dusty cloth from behind the bar, watching with a weary eye those that stood around him. He was tired, and angry, angrier than usual in fact, and he felt people could tell. He could feel their eyes, and he heard them whisper, or laugh, and he knew. They saw him, a man in his late forties, short gray hair and thin mustache, tall but thin and handsome as all hell if he do say so himself, even with his left eye gouged out and covered up with a patch. They saw all that and they laughed because he was nothin' but an old dog tamed by years of easy living. A beaten man.

  Jedore looks to the man closest to him, eying him up. He looks peeved, he thought. Panicked even. He watches him get up as if to leave, but Jedore sees a drink with no coin besides it and he barks,

"Ey! You! You gonna pay fer that drink before you march out of 'ere, or what?!"

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