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Current Season & Month:  , Year: 543 A.R. (ref)

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The Common Room

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Duilliath
(@duilliath)
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Seven Oaks(common)

 

Here is the Common Room with its woodsmoke-stained walls and smooth-worn planks of trestle tables.  In a fit of whimsy, the Old Seven Oaks layout had been one that omitted the popular 'Darkened Corners' until the proprietors discovered just how much business transacts in the shadows.  It was promptly redesigned to include these important and secretive locations.  So, the room is sprawling, and has numerous alcoves with low ceiling at the perimeter, but higher near the bar and the entry.  The place gives the distinct impression of a homey lair.

Here, you can drink, carouse, have a bite, make a deal... and change your life. 

Welcome Traveler.  

Duilliath Suilleach Seanake, Fool and the Traveler Who Lost a Kingdom


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Calen
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A boldly lettered sign was posted on the door of the Inn's Common Room: 

INTERVIEWS TODAY FOR VARIOUS POSITIONS WITH MERCHANT CARAVAN TRAVELING TO

                                          DAELOWS.  ONLY QUALIFIED NEED APPLY.   IF HIRED TODAY, YEW LEAVE IN THE MORROW.

                                          OPENINGS:  Guardsmen, Scout, Cook, Carpenter, Healer.

                                                                                      ASK FOR foreman OneShot.

                                    

"Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.” Dr. Seuss.


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Duilliath
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The Seven Oaks Tavern was filling up, bit by bit, and as the ale began to flow, the amount of noise rose as well.

As the crowd gathered, the rough planked table manned by the dwarf had its share of visitors.

Surely there were prospects for all who wished?

Duilliath Suilleach Seanake, Fool and the Traveler Who Lost a Kingdom


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Calen
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Both Arcos and Calen had risen before dawn, hastily dressed and skipped breakfast.  They were both too excited to eat.   The prospect of the impending interview with the caravan Foreman was giving Calen a bit of an upset stomach now that the time was drawing near.   Arcos felt more confident and was in a fine mood.  He had a contagious laugh, and soon his sister was smiling and feeling much better.

Rather than walk the several miles into Seven Oaks this morning, they rode together on a favorite mare to save time.   Dawn was just breaking when they arrived outside the inn.

Arcos was surprised to see just how many other horses were tethered at the troughs outside the old inn, especially this early in the morning.   "Surely the whole town is not applying," he spoke in a low voice to Calen, only half-joking.   For the first time, the two siblings realized they might not be the only contenders for the coveted positions they hoped to secure.

They walked into the inn together, took in the crowd and saw a few familiar faces.  Arcos waved at an old friend, who motioned for them to join him at the end of a long table, which was nearly filled with other early arrivals.   Calen leaned forward to inquire of their friend; "Has the foreman made an appearance yet?  Have the interviews started?"

"Nay," the young man answered, "but I expect he'll be out any moment."  He smiled at Calen, noting her lovely skin and light shining hair.   "I s'pose yew are here to lend Arcos yer moral support, eh?"     Calen simply smiled and nodded.  She did not want to say she was applying as well, in case she was not selected for the healer's position.

 

 

"Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.” Dr. Seuss.


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Duilliath
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Castor

He entered the Common Room in the company of a few other laborers and looked at how busy the place was.

”Best 2 copper ale in Seven Oaks, is why,” when the big fellow had asked.

”What’s goin’ on over there?” He asked, looking at the gaggle of folk around the table.  “What’s that sign say?” 

He peered at it trying to make sense of the words and the scene. “An’ who’s that?  She’s awful pretty.”

Nool, the sarcastic one of the bunch shook his head, “Maybe she’s a Traveling Princess, you big goof.  Why does it matter? She’s over there with them and she ain’t gonna talk to you.”

Duilliath Suilleach Seanake, Fool and the Traveler Who Lost a Kingdom


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Calen
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ONESHOT - the Interviews Begin

There was a low hum of conversation in the Common Room of the inn, as groups of hopeful job seekers talked among themselves, eyed their competition, and tried to figure their own odds of getting hired.    Some were friends, but many were strangers to one another, a few well-dressed, and others a bit rag-tag.  There was an air of tension in the large room as they waited to see the man who made all the decisions.
 
 
Suddenly a side door flew open, and a gruff voice roared:  "Ladies and gents, interviews are about ta' begin!"   The stout and thickly muscled form of a well-seasoned Dwarf entered the room and strode to the center as confident as a King taking his throne.   He was a sight to behold with his massive arms and hands, thick mop of grizzled gray hair and full beard, a bulbous nose, skin like old leather with scars a'plenty.  There was a short axe at his belt.    "Fer ta' few among ya' who dunno' know me, I be Oneshot.   Yew'll all git yer fair bit o' time ta' impress me, but 'twill be a long day.  If ye stay ta' course and wait yer turn in a mannerly way, yer noonday vittles will be on me."    A low murmur of approval ran through the crowd.   Oneshot was tough, but he was fair.  He knew hungry men were unhappy men.
 
 
"Now, there be one more 'ting to get out 'o ta' way."   The crowd quickly quieted.  "So I dunno hav' ta' answer ta' question fifty times over, that be always asked o' me, I will tell ya why I be called "Oneshot".    He signaled for a barmaid to bring over the shiny object and set it about ten feet away from him on the floor.   He smiled at the crowd, revealing one missing front tooth, and the other of gold.   Then the burly dwarf worked his jaw for a minute, and without warning, let fly a large stream of spittle that streaked across the room as true as a well aimed arrow, and landed dead center into the brass spittoon with a resounding thud that gave a loud metallic ring throughout the common room.  Good-natured laughter rippled through the crowd.
 
 
People were more relaxed now, many were smiling, much of the tension now gone.  Oneshot bent in a small mock bow to the crowd, then his face turned serious again and he got down to business.   "I need ya ta' form five lines; first line fer ta' would-be guardsmen.  Second line fer Scout position.  Third line fer Carpenter, Fourth fer Cook, and Fifth line fer Healer."   He signaled his regular men to come forward to help keep it orderly.  Each of his men held a large sign with the corresponding number.   "Ye'll git yer turn. No shovin' or bully tactics.   Save it fer the brigands on the road." 
   
 
The hopefuls all began to find the line they needed, as Oneshot continued to speak;  "Yew know yew 'ave ta' be at least 18, so dunna' try ta fool me.   And dunna' try ta fool me with false claims of yer skills.   Yew be honest, and I be fair."
Oneshot headed to Line number 1; Interviews had begun.

"Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.” Dr. Seuss.


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Duilliath
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Castor

The Longshoremen were suitably impressed by the dwarf’s salivary precision and clapped and hooted at the dwarf’s achievement.

”Wow! That was AMAZING!” Gushed Castor, “I wonder if he’s ever spit in a dragon’s eye?” He mused.

He was looking at the lines, then back along the group toward where he’d seen the pretty girl.  She wasn’t immediately visible but his search attracted the scornful criticism of Nool.

”What are ya doing, ya big oaf? Lookin’ for yer “princess”?” The air quotes were as prominent as the sarcasm.

”Shut up, Nool.” He grumbled. He was confused and embarrassed.

”Yeah? Whatcha gonna do, introduce herself as Ser Castor? Ser Castor the Bastar… urk!” Castor’s fist connected with Nool’s big mouth.

Duilliath Suilleach Seanake, Fool and the Traveler Who Lost a Kingdom


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Lassroyale
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chatte(cheetah)1

Chatte

 

Catboy Courier, Smuggler, & More

╺ ✽ ╸ 

“Running drugs is just a side hustle – there’s a difference.

Chatte

(in a conversation w/ his sister, Faline)

 

Chatte slips into the Seven Oaks Inn before the door swings shut behind the man who enters before him.  He stands just inside the door for a moment, letting the smoky atmosphere of the inn wash over his senses.   A dark fringe of hair falls stylishly across one of his eyes, though one gets the sense that his hair just naturally lays that way, and not because he’s put any sort of effort into his “look”.  The same could be said of the catboy’s attire, worn with the effortless ease of those who look good in whatever they happened to have picked up off of the bedroom floor that morning.  His clothing is simple, free of frills or identifying marks, consisting of black leather pants, a black sleeveless top, and comfortable shoes that looked like they were made for running.  His only visible gear is a medium-sized sling backpack worn close to his back, with the strap slung crosswise over his chest from shoulder to hip.  If he has any weapons, they’re well hidden.

 

Chatte sweeps the common room with a disinterested, amber brown gaze, the  vertical pupil of his only visible eye widening to accommodate for the dimmer interior.  His bearing is exceedingly aloof, as if he could take it or leave it, though what exactly, he could take or leave, isn’t clear.  He gives an almost bored flick of his long tail, the sinuous and furred appendage bearing the iconic spotted pattern and black-ringed tip of a cheetah.

  

The catboy doesn’t look at anyone in particular as he slouches forward towards the bar, only flicking a furred, pierced ear towards the sound of a punch to his right, not sparing a glance at the falling body that he smoothly sidesteps, his movement bearing the effortless fluidity that he shared with all of his catling siblings.  He’s leaner than the rest of his brothers (even their youngest brother, Tom-Cat, was already a bit broader than him in the shoulders and would probably be as tall once he was done fully growing), though he bears the same innate athleticism as all of his kin.  He has the long, graceful limbs and long body of a dancer or a long distance runner, and while he, along with all of his siblings, were literally bred to be beautiful, Chatte is luring in a different and darkly seductive way.

 

In a different place, a different universe, and in a different time, he would be the poster child for that romanticized and iconic image of the rebellious, drugged-out, and leather-pants clad rock star, a la  David Lee Roth, Axl Rose, or Bon Jovi, back in the day.  Faline calls his look “heroin chic”, and as their sister is quite a successful fashion model (at least in the places that are cosmopolitan enough to actually care about things like haute couture), it’s as good a description as any.  Chatte might argue the point that he only sometimes smuggles drugs, not uses them, but Faline can hold a grudge like no other and can be so exceedingly petty about it all, that he learned to pick his arguments with her very carefully.

 

Chatte reaches the bar and slides around behind it like he owns the place, only acknowledging the bartender with a glance and a laconic twitch of an ear as he passes by and disappears into the back room.  The bartender waits a beat before putting down the glass he’d been cleaning and follows, re-emerging not five minutes later.  He resumes his spot at the bar like he never left.  The felinoid courier reappears after another few minutes go by, this time not even looking at the bartender as he slips back around the bar and takes a seat at one of the stools.  Wordlessly, the bartender places a glass of some sort of amber colored liquid next to the courier’s elbow, and walks off before taking any payment.

 

Without looking, Chatte picks up the glass and sips the liquid, his attention now on what appears to be an argument unfolding between a huge lug of a buck-toothed man and a smaller Uman; the catboy sniffs and narrows his eyes at the bigger man.  There’s something unusual about him, something off about his scent that reminds Chatte of some sort of prey, but not any prey he's ever smelled before.  It's almost rodent-like - almost. Hm. He breathes in carefully through his mouth, tasting the particles in the air.  He can't put his finger on it, though he has his theories..He snickers quietly to himself, deciding to let the massive man keep his secrets - for now.  Instead, he slides his gaze over to a busy table with queues formed in front of a hardened-looking dwarf.  None of the people gathered are especially interesting to him, although...  Chat surreptiously studies a young blonde woman standing next to - he presumes - her brother, if the familial scent they share is anything to go by.  There's a faint whiff of something vaguely familiar (and yet oddly different) that lingers about the girl.  Almost like kin, but not; perhaps she was a were-something?

 

He looks away from her, his lip curling in slight distaste even as an abstract sort of curiosity burns in his blood.  The catboy courier, smuggler, and occasional drug runner, takes thoughtful sip of his drink.  With his luck, she’d end up being some sort of a werelilu (werewolf) or maybe a werefox or werekewlan (wererabbit).  Ooh, maybe she was a werepilsin - a werebird of some sort.  He'd enjoy that.

 

Ultimately, it was no matter - Chatte didn't have time to stalk, pounce, and play.  He needs to find Cheshire in Daelows (or was it El Hazir?) to relay some important information that he's come across, on their missing brother.  He spares a final glance at the girl and then shakes his head and dismisses her from his mind.

 

Jookan weres.

 


Spoiler
OOC: The end of this post has been changed...
...if you happened to read the original iteration, please ignore any speculation on Chatte's part about a certain character. 😉 Things will be revealed in due time.  Thanks for the understanding! 

 

This post was modified 1 week ago 6 times by Lassroyale

TOM-CAT (Must Read): Teleskela - Kiana Beach Battle (3/3) - ★★Try Again - ★★Powder Keg - Soft, soft - Imprint - ★★Stupid Little Tom-Cat
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RISQUÉ (most recent): ★★Fun with Fisticuffs!
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Calen
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Calen stood up right after Oneshot announced the forming of the lines.   She could see the longest line was, by far, the one for Guardsmen to accompany the caravan, but since there were multiple positions, that was understandable.  It looked like Foreman Longshot had already begun talking to the first candidate.   Her eyes scanned the other lines, looking for the Number 5 sign for the Healer position.   So far, she saw only one person standing there; an older gentleman that she did not recognize, but he carried a big black case, no doubt the tools of his trade.   She had a similar bag, but not quite so fine as his.   It gave her pause, just for a moment.

 
"Arcos," she spoke to her sibling, who was craning his neck for the Number 3 line forming for the wagon carpentry position.  "We must go to our respective lines now, brother.   I wish yew luck, though I am quite sure yew will not need it, and I shall see yew back here when we are finished?"
 
"Aye, sister."  Arcos responded, his eyes watching the number 3 line as several more queued up for the Carpenter's position.   "I must be off, more competition just arrived."  He grinned and gave Calen a brotherly hug.
 
She returned the quick hug, then was off to stand behind the old gentleman with the large bag.   Even with just one person ahead of her, the wait would still be lengthy by the time Oneshot made his way through the four other lines to be interviewed ahead of them.   Calen felt anxious; she knew she had the skills, but could she convince the dwarf?  She was caught up in her thoughts and paid no attention to the comings and goings on the other side of the inn.   She was completely unaware how much she stood out among the mostly male clientele.   Even among the lines of applicants, she saw only one other older woman, whom she recognized as the Widow Larkin, known in town for her tasty soups and stews served at the Autumn Faire.   Calen hoped Widow Larkin would be hired, as she would make an excellent cook, and be a familiar face.

"Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.” Dr. Seuss.


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Duilliath
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Castor

 

Or: A new miserable experience

Nool was rocked back, his head snapping back and forth like a melon on a rope.  The skinny rat-faced man swayed for a moment.  He did not, however, go down.

With a nasty light kindled in his eyes, he hawked a bloody glob and sneered “That all you got, big fellow? You gotta do better than that!”  There was a flicker of metal in his hand and the weaselly launched himself at the big longshoreman.

The melee was still confined, for now, to the area around their table. That was on the verge of change.  Castor lashed out, afraid of hurting and being hurt, but Nool persisted intending to cut the bigger man a little.  Intimidate him, you know?

It always worked in the past.

The bigger man’s fist again struck at his tormentor, punching the knife hand. The knife spun away.

The next thing that happened was a blur, Nool struck at him with a stool, knocking Castor into a table filled with men of the trail. There were shouts of protest as drinks spilled and suddenly keening pain as the leg of one of the drinkers snapped under the force of the flipping table and the falling Castor.

The sound alone was enough to make everyone sickened. Castor might have blacked out a little, his head hurt.

Castor, in a tangle of bodies watched as Nool and another man were dragged away by the City Watch.

As suddenly as it had begun, the bar fight ended.

Duilliath Suilleach Seanake, Fool and the Traveler Who Lost a Kingdom


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Calen
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The interviews appeared to be going along at a decent pace.   Oneshot clearly knew the right questions to ask and could make a quick decision.  The Dwarf foreman had been doing this for many years, and he had a fine track record for getting the Caravans to their destination both timely and with minimal losses.    He'd already worked his way through the longest line of would-be guardsmen, and the motley crew he'd selected did indeed look strong and well-vetted.  The ones who did not make the cut, walked away a bit dejected, but found their way to the bar on the other side of the room, no doubt to commiserate with one another.   At least they would get a free midday meal for their trouble.

Calen watched the interviews from her own line (if two candidates could be considered a line) and saw Oneshot begin the interviews for Scout.   She'd heard that could be one of the most dangerous positions, since the Scout must often ride ahead of the Caravan to spot possible dangers along the route.   That could mean anything from fallen timber across the Lorimar Road, mud and ruts from recent rains that could mire the laden wagons, or the worst of all possibilities, brigands and highwaymen.   If they spotted the Scout, they would no doubt try to dispatch him so he could not report back to the Caravan.   Calen felt a small shiver at the prospect, and fervently hoped the journey would be uneventful.
 
Her thoughts and observations were suddenly pierced by the shouts and curses of a barroom brawl, followed by thuds and groans of the participants as heavy furniture was tossed about.   But the sound that most got her attention was the sharp high-pitched craaaaaaacking noise, the unmistakable sound of a severely broken bone!   Her silver-blue eyes quickly focused on the man lying under a solid overturned table and groaning in great pain.  Without further thought, Calen reacted, and was moving across the room quickly, her healer's instinct having taken over.   She yelled out in a strong voice, "Make way, make way.  Healer here!"  As the gawkers parted to let her past, she quickly took charge and ordered two strong looking fellows to lift the heavy table off the downed man.  "Careful, careful there." she could see it was a very nasty break and would require setting and splints, but first she would give the poor man something for his pain.   She was unaware of anything else in the room as she focused on the leg injury, though she made a quick note to herself to check for any others with injuries after she'd tended to the badly hurt man on the floor.  
 
Meanwhile, the well-dressed Healer in Line 5, now stood alone waiting calmly for his interview.  He had a barely perceptible smile on his face, realizing that he was now the only candidate for the Healer position.   Not that he had been worried.  He'd quickly appraised the young woman standing behind him, her small medical bag, and her obvious lack of any real experience.    From the sound of the broken bone, he doubted seriously she could save the leg.   It took skills she could not possibly possess.  Personally, he would opt for amputation.
 
Back at Line 2, Oneshot finalized the Scout position and welcomed the caravan Scout on board, an experienced fellow who'd served Oneshot well in the past.  The dwarf was glad to have him on board.   Then the Foreman moved on to Line 3, the Carpenter's position needed for upkeep of the many wagons in the caravan.   But during all of this seeming business as usual,  Oneshot had not missed any of the action on the other side of the room.   It was an interesting development, to be sure.  His still-sharp eyes glanced from the lone Healer standing calmly in Line 5 by himself, to the young woman working feverishly on the injured man on the floor.   Interesting indeed. 
This post was modified 7 days ago by Calen

"Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.” Dr. Seuss.


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Duilliath
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Castor

The big man was slowly getting to his feet while Nool's verbal abuse continued despite his being hauled off.  "Oh, Big Man Castor, Castor the Bast--" He was interrupted by a cuff on the back of his head.

"Shuddup, you, " the Watchman snarled. "Close yer yap.  You'll get to spend tonight in the lockup."  They hauled Nool away, his eyes blazing and his invective spitting.  

"Castor... you big lout... guess what?  Yer off the crew.  Don' come back beggin' for yer old job... NOBODY will hire you."

Castor blinked once, his amber-brown eyes holding something in them, "Yeah, Nool you... bowl of gruel..." it was a stupid insult, and an unsatisfying one, but the big fellow looked at his bloody hand and thought for a moment about the prospects of not having a job in a predatory place like Seven Oaks.  

He turned, oblivious to the injured party that was being lifted from under the fallen table, at least he did not have full awareness of the injured fellow.  He muttered to himself, standing a couple feet from the bar near the dangerous looking fellow [Chatte] and said, "Nool... Fool.  That's what I should have said."  He seemed to become aware of the injured man.  "Who's that?" he asked, because he really had no idea.  The fellow was dressed in drover or teamster gear, but he did not immediately put two and two together. 

Mostly because sums were difficult [and they generally didn't much matter].

The man's friend, or maybe his boss, wasn't quite so charitable.  "Look here... ya cost me Arphin, he'll be laid up for weeks, even if we can find a..." "Make way, make way.  Healer here!Calen's appearance stunned Castor and the road boss finished lamely, hearing her declaration of 'Healer'... "Healer."

It was Her.  It was THE GIRL. 

Duilliath Suilleach Seanake, Fool and the Traveler Who Lost a Kingdom


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Lassroyale
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chatte(cheetah)1

CHATTE

Catboy Courier, Smuggler, Shifter & More

╺ ✽ ╸ 

Of Bar Fights and Budalls

 

Chatte sits and idly taps his toe against the lower rung of the barstool as he catches the barkeep’s eye and glances down at his empty glass, then back up.  He props an elbow atop the scarred bartop and half pivots in his seat as he leans back on his elbow and extends a long leg, his foot braced against the floor in counterbalance.  He glances briefly at the bartender from the corner of one dark-rimmed, amber eye as the man pushes another glass of finely aged rum towards him, giving the catboy a small nod before he retreats, once again without waiting for payment.

 

Chatte lifts his glass and turns a little to the common room again, although he doesn’t look up as he takes a long sip of rum, his eyes falling partially shut in appreciation as the liquid warms his throat with a pleasant burn.  He takes another long sip before resting the half-empty glass on his knee, and sort of melted back into a languid sprawl that conveys a simple, low-grade apathy that isn’t necessarily unfriendly, and more just unconcerned with the “bar fight” – and he’s being generous even calling it that.  The…squabble between the iswetman (a bear of a man) and the shorter hayash-faced man, has to be one of the saddest “fights' he’s ever accidentally witnessed; it started with the energy of a cranky 70-year old retiree, and ended with a blur of panicked, windmilling fists, lucky shots and glancing blows, and was punctuated by a single thrown stool.  And all of it was couched in some truly, truly pathetic insults that were continually shrilled by the rat-faced man at the buck-toothed giant, as if red-faced kopil was an author carrying a motif of uninspired invectives through the narrative his next poorly written Penny Dreadful.

 

Still, the fight could boast at least one broken bone, through there was admittedly a shocking lack  of any sort of blood splatter or spray patterns.  Nobody even got a nosebleed.  It wasn't even considered a "bar fight" in  Haven, unless there was at least one debate if someone was dead or just unconscious, and there was enough blood on the floor, walls, and ceiling to be able to accurately follow the progress of the fight the next day, based solely on the direction of the spray and hungover recollections.

 

He swivels an ear towards the sound of heavy breathing and rumbly muttering being diffused into the air en sotto voce, some mere feet from where the catboy sat.  He didn’t have to look up to know who it was; if the strange note of something weirdly prey, but not that was braided into the big man's scent didn't give it away, the palpable frustration and confusion he heard strung through each tremulous syllable as he slowly puts his his thoughts into words, would. 

 

Chatte takes another drink, his lips twitching as he once more thinks about the two lucky shots the huge man managed to land, as well as the sorry nature of the fight overall.  He’s not so cruel that he’d actually say any of that to the big  guy, of course; especially as he continues to listen to the muttering lug slowly fit together his consonants and vowels as he continues to haltingly give voice to his thoughts.  As he listens, the catling gets the distinct sense that the man is less iswetman and more of a Budall – a mind-slow yet heart-gentle giant.  

 

He raises his amber gaze and looks over to the Budall (Castor)his eyes gently glowing in the inn’s dim, smoky interior.  Chatte notes the faint residue of fear pressing a line across the big man’s brow, sees the confusion still creased at the corners of his crinkled eyes, and smells the echo of fear-driven adrenaline on his skin. He's staring open-mouthed at the blonde girl.  Ah. The catboy feels a little bad for the guy, so leans forward and thwips Castor's leg or arm or wherever the heavy cheetah tail had landed when he'd flicked it at him, then tries to catch the stricken Romeo's eye.  The smuggler chuckles, the sound stained dark and rough as it cuts through the sussurus of the inn.  If or when Castor looked at him, Chatte would say, Ikta kata?” amending to ask, “What'ss the matterrr?” A moment later.

 

He absently thumps the tip of his heavy, thick, and long, tawny-furred tail against the big lug's broad side once more, before whipping the long appendage behind him.  He sips his drink unhurriedly as he waits to see if the Budall is going to respond.  He'd initially ignored the cries of Healer! that had suddenly been bandied about in different sundry tones, with various levels of urgency pressed into the syllables.  Now, as he waits for a reply, he flicks one ear in that direction but remains focused on the giant of a man standing nearby.

 

This post was modified 7 days ago 7 times by Lassroyale
This post was modified 6 days ago 7 times by Lassroyale

TOM-CAT (Must Read): Teleskela - Kiana Beach Battle (3/3) - ★★Try Again - ★★Powder Keg - Soft, soft - Imprint - ★★Stupid Little Tom-Cat
DAETH (top 3): Breaking Callon - Pleasure w/Pain - ★★Sensing Death
RISQUÉ (most recent): ★★Fun with Fisticuffs!
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[ ☆ = favorite / ★★= extra fave]


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Calen
(@calen)
Citizen Citizen
Joined: 3 weeks ago
Posts: 52
 

Arcos had watched the unfolding drama of the barroom brawl.   Any man who'd been around bar fights recognized that sickening sound of a seriously broken bone, and Arcos winced in sympathy when he heard it.  He was not a brawler himself, though capable of defending himself if the occasion arose.  Suddenly he saw his sister run toward the carnage, and his first instinct was to follow her and protect her as needed. The last place he wanted his sister was in the middle of a bar fight.

He quickly turned to see where Oneshot was in his interviews and saw that the brawny foreman was now talking with the first carpentry candidate.   Arcos was still third, but there were now two behind him in line.   He tried to judge if he could help Calen and still make it back in time for an interview.  In a split second the young man made his choice and ran toward his sister working on the unfortunate fellow with the badly broken leg.  Family first, no matter the cost.

"My apologies Mr. Oneshot, sir," he yelled over his shoulder to the Dwarf foreman, "I must help my sister with this injured man.  'Tis the right thing to do though it may cost me my interview."

Calen was glad for the help when she saw Arcos, and quickly asked him to find two strong boards she might use as a splint.   She had already administered several pain killers to the injured man; topical oils of crushed lavender, rosemary, and peppermint to seep into the bone and aid with pain and healing.  She had him drink a strong draught made of some of the stronger plants and herbs to help him rest and numb his senses somewhat.   "This will help, sir, but I want yew to keep off yer leg as much as yew can, and if yew must be up, use a crutch.   Chew some cloves to help yew sleep at night.  Yew'll need someone to look after yew for a fair number of months I'm afraid, if yew want to keep your leg."   She paused, then asked, "Are ye married, sir?"

   
The injured man was already feeling some of the effects of the potion and oils administered by the Healer girl.  He shook his head affirmatively; "Aye... I be married. and she will tend me true, but how am I to feed me five children through Winter if I cannot work?" 

   
Arcos had been listening as he secured the sections of wood with rope and twine to make a strong splint 'round the man's carefully wrapped leg.  His sister had done fine work.   But when he heard the man's lament, Arcos fished his coin bag from inside his jerkin, and quickly emptied out the coins he'd planned to take on his journey to Daelows.  He bent down again and placed the whole of it into the man's palm, then gently closed the man's fingers over it.   "Do not worry, sir.   This should tide yew over the Winter months.  Yer children will not go hungry."   He spoke in a soft voice, so as not to embarrass the man. 

The man could hardly believe it, and he stammered a heartfelt "thank yew" to both Arcos and Calen.  "Bless ye both fer yer kindness."

 It was then Calen looked at her brother and realized that he too had made the choice to forego his chance to join the Caravan, in order to help this poor unfortunate man who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.   She gave a soft sigh, then stood.  "Please can any of yew men help this man home to the care of his wife, and see that he gets to his bed?   And go slowly please; avoid the bumps in the road!"  

"Now," she stood and wiped her hands on a clean cloth from her bag.   She took stock of her surroundings for the first time, noticing a few men standing about the bar, including two rather unusual looking characters.   One was a veritable mountain of a man, far bigger than most, and the other...  well, Calen had never seen anything quite like him either; perhaps he was the big man's feline pet?   But she had little time to ponder the oddities around her, and quickly turned her thoughts to the task at hand.  She called out in a firm voice; "Who else was hurt in this childish brawl?  Can yew line up with the most serious injuries first?"  She sounded rather like a school marm chastising naughty children.

She was more than a little piqued right now.   Men did such foolish things, and just look at the carnage and pain it caused for others.   She assumed whoever had started the fracas had been hauled off by the City Guard and would face the consequences, but she was still feeling disappointment and irritation at the moment.   Best to concentrate on any other injuries, rather than dwell on the adventure that might have been.   

This post was modified 6 days ago 4 times by Calen

"Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.” Dr. Seuss.


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Duilliath
(@duilliath)
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Joined: 5 months ago
Posts: 484
Journey starter  

Castor 

He looked back at the feline humanoid and a little humor bloomed in those golden brown eyes.

”I lost my job,” but he had gained back a measure of his sense of self.  That was worth something.  “It wasn’t a good job, loading and driving and unloading… but I was good at it”

”I’ll have to leave town.” He didn’t seem to care about leaving, but not doing it in his own terms galled him.

He looked down, apart from some bruises on his back, he was fine, except for his skinned knuckles. A little blood bloomed there. He covered it hastily with his other hand, concealing it.   “Miss,” he said, “I think that man is in need of help.” The table and Castor had fallen on several folk. Two of them were rubbing shoulders or knees.  He was not a small man, and he watched with a feral interest the comings and goings around him. 

As much as he would have liked to have her fuss over him, he was worried.  The blood from his cut knuckles oozed around his opposite hand.

Duilliath Suilleach Seanake, Fool and the Traveler Who Lost a Kingdom


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