Trog's Tavern CCXLIX

[Earl of Purple]

The scroll is covered in writing! The writing is strange, mysterious and incomprehensible, unless Spako tries to read it.

[Deathkeeper]

Spako squints at the weird writing, but after a moment of that turns to the man.
"Yes I am, sir. I think you're one of my superiors? You'll have to forgive me, I'm not very good at remembering faces, and it'll take me a while to remember everyone." says the kobold apologetically, his ears folded.

[Septimus Faber]

Any tavern-goers observing the far corner of the room might notice a man in a rather eccentric bowler hat and pinstripe suit sitting at a table on his own, sipping a glass of mineral water. He looks up briefly, and sees Myrrh doing the rounds of the tavern, commenting on magic and technology and technomagic and so on. Those patrons with supernatural-grade eyesight might notice a small grin, tempered by a very slight nervousness. The oddly dressed man pushes back his chair, gets up, and crosses the room towards Myrrh with a swaggering gait, stumbling several times on the way.

Ah, you look like a being of exquisite taste! I bet you haven't seen this before. He extracts a rather gaudy handkerchief and a coin of indeterminate origin from his breast pocket. He proceeds to deposit the coin in the handkerchief, wink knowingly at Myrrh, and fling the handkerchief up into the air - with the coin nowhere to be seen. He grins again, makes a gesture that looks like it was the start of pulling something out from behind Myrrh's horn before he thought better of it, and puts his hand to his mouth. Coughing, he removes it - with the coin. Oh, what a trickster.
Not bad, huh? I spent years perfecting that. I'm a connoiseur, I am. And not just of magic, no! I know about all sorts of things. Take this, for instance.

He pulls out a bizarre piece of technology that looks like a cross between a pocket watch and a miniature desk lamp, if you can imagine such a thing.
Now this, this is special. This is a rare piece indeed! I know you have impeccable taste in fine technological antiques. What do you say? Very reasonable price, only 200 gleamers.

A "gleamer" is apparently an idiosyncratic unit of currency equivalent to about half a pound, or $0.80, so the whole thing is £100 or $160.

Hey, if it's genuinely an antique, and a functional one at that... But all the same, it does look rather like a mutated shrunken clock.

[Morty]

"I'm Wenomir, one of the staff officers. Formerly in charge of Watchtower before the merge," the swordmaster says. "And I see it's another of those scrolls that randomly appear around the place."

[Rebonack]

Myrrh had just badgered some poor person into letting her fiddle with their 3DS when a new opportunity for slacking her thirst for knowledge arises! She politely hands the device back to the owner and raises at the display of slight of hand. A slightly amused smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth, exposing her predatory teeth ever so slightly, whilst leaning back to sit on her haunches rather like a huge cat. She had seen tricks like these often performed for the sultan, much to his delight. But she's knowledgeable enough to understand that there's no true magic involved.

Skill?

Certainly.

But not magic.

"An impressive display of legerdemainship," she laughs in her bright, exotic voice. "But please, don't expect me to be impressed by every pretty bauble that you- ooooh, what's that?"

Now he has a thing!

A fancy thing!

"What manner of artifice is this? What purpose does it serve?"

[Septimus Faber]

Oh, this? says the man in the pinstripe suit, caught slightly off-guard. This is an ancient device, a family heirloom. It messes with time and space and the fundamental elements of reality, as I understand it. It also - damn!
It slips out of his hand somehow and tumbles to the floor. Nothing seems broken, but the man picks it up and quickly dusts it off.
Oh, dear. Butterfingers, I am. Anyway - I don't pretend to know exactly how it works or, specifically, what it does... But I'm given to understand it harbours unfathomable magics, and is sold very cheaply by yours truly.

If Myrrh is paying attention and sensitive to such things, she may notice that the mechanism is emitting a strong magical aura - not necessarily benevolent or malicious, or even identifiable in any other way, but somehow... Unnerving might be the word for it.

[Rebonack]

The higher echelons of nightshade minions can detect magic, at it happens. It's a really super-useful ability. Myrrh is focusing on the mechanism, trying (like fruitlessly) to divine its purpose. Though if it is giving off powerful and mysterious magic, that's certainly a powerfully mysterious observation. However... something about this pitch is making Myrrh suspicious.

"If it's such a rare and powerful heirloom of your family, then why are you trying to sell it to me?" Myrrh asks.

This is...

A very good question!

If this thing is so amazing, why IS he trying to sell it for so cheap? And to a random person at Trog's no less?

Unless he's trying to get rid of a cursed item that can't simply be thrown away.

A cursed item that must be sold to properly dispose of it.

Myrrh knows a thing or two about curses.

Since, y'know, mummy.

[Septimus Faber]

Ah, well. You see... says the man in the pinstripe suit, I'm down on my luck, in all sorts of ways. I'm unemployable, running out of money, and if I happen to be carrying a magical heirloom and spy someone who is evidently tasteful and eager about such things, what am I to do? I mean, really, what would you do? I need someone to buy it and in my current situation I can hardly afford to be choosy about price. A strange mixture of expressions and emotions is visible on his face as he says this - relief, fear, frustration, despair, joy, apprehensiveness...

[Holy-hunter]

A snarl forms on the mans lips as Morrison unobtrusively enters his mind. (Before he had made it upstairs) He doesn't skip a beat and continues walking.

He believes he understands his message it for what it was, not a malicious threat but a statement of fact. Worse than the threat of extinction was the condescension of the call, even if it was not in the words.

To think he would so easily be undone. And that, that, is what toiled and prodded at his deep vile spiteful pride, his anger swelled silently within him, his mind raced with the urge to turn back and crack this guy in the face and pierce a thumb through an eye!

But he didn't, and his outer demeanour remained calm.
He didn't lack action due to the possible consequence rather the impedance it would pose on his current task.

Instead he let his mind fill with darker viler thoughts as now a desire grew to snap around and decapitate the Rabbit, sitting oblivious and unaware of Morrison's engagement.
He hadn't the implement to do such a task but he let the thought linger in his head, in all its bloody glory and gory detail, he hoped Morrison was still floating around in there somewhere to see it.

He didn't know much about this creature but he believed he had found a weakness,
And his snarling lips briefly grew to a malevolent grin as he disappeared up to the second floor.

[RabbitHoleLost]

It would be unnerving to Rabbit to know entire worlds live on without her knowledge, that exchanges pass and events occur around her and she has no ability to witness such castlings.
Truly, ignorance is bliss.

Instead of the disapproving look Morrison would have received had Rabbit been aware of his contact with Bad Touch, Rabbit simply appears guilty, her eyes dropping to her lap as he daubs at the wound most assuredly issued to him by the death god.
An injury received at her behest.
The necromancer owes him now, though Morrison would never say such a thing outloud, nor, perhaps, even think it. The conventional rules of such, however, demanded that a debt be paid, even by a shifty thing like Rabbit, and whether or not he thinks of it in such a manner, he owns a small part of her.
It's a thought that has no comfort to be found even in the knowledge that Morrison would never abuse the debt.

"Do you think it's unusual, how things have worked out?" Still, her green eyes will not meet his blue, but her gloved hand reaches out towards the orb Morrison offers.

[Rebonack]

Myrrh hmms.

If this were simply a machine of some kind, a device like the ones she had been fawning over a few minutes before, she might take the offer. But the mere fact that she can sense a powerful magical aura about it makes her hesitant.

Buying potent arcane contraptions of unknown purpose from unknown people is hardly a wise investment.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I must decline your gracious offer," Myrrh says at last. "I have many magical baubles in my collection already and I don't have the time to unravel a mystery so deep and primordial as this one. My duties to my Mistress are innumerable and I would do her a disservice to begin slacking."

No one likes a slacker!

"However, I wish you well none the less. Perhaps you will find someone else who knows what your artifact is and how they might make use of it?"

Probably not, though.

This is smelling more and more like a con to Myrrh.

[Raistlin1040]

The glowing white is warm to the touch and seems to tug gently in the direction of Birdie's skull, a soul yearning to be reunited with its body. Once Rabbit has taken it from him, Morrison returns to checking his face. He is unconcerned with the ideas of debts, and truth be told, the idea barely registers with him. Certainly, a kindness paid is appreciated when returned, but a tit-for-tat drawing up of debts, terms, and conditions is not how he conducts business. Morrison brings a finger to his lips, wetting it and running it across the cut to see if still it bleeds.

It does.

It appears to be closing, but much more slowly than a normal wound would be expected to for a being such as Morrison, and he has little doubt that it will leave a faint white scar upon his face for decades, if not centuries, to come. A small price to pay.

"How do you mean?"

[5a Violista]

(If she accepts he will lead her by the hand to his room, if declined say his farewells and hope to see her again)

"Actually," Harley replies, "I had just finished reading it." That is entirely true.

So she also gives a farewell, and then proceeds to pay for the drink she had had earlier.

She doesn't stick around though: it isn't so much that the balance of positive and negative energy by itself is disturbing. Rather, it's that it simultaneously calms the majority of her and removes the only weakness to the small part of her body that is strengthened by negative energy, which she has been trying to fight out of her body. I guess it can be best described as accidentally healing a dying parasite by removing the parasite's taste for its host - including the poisoned flesh of it.

Inadequate similes aside, Harley promptly leaves Trog's Tavern.

[WarKitty]

Outside Trog's

A small black cat wanders by, seeing if there's a taco stand. It's taco tuesdays, after all. She orders a seafood taco and sits outside eating it.

[Earl of Purple]

If Spako looks again, he'll see the symbols are morphing into an alphabet he is familiar with. Wenomir will also note this happening.

In either case, they'll see it seems to be about a subject that would naturally encourage them to read further; there's no supernatural element at work, however.

[Deathkeeper]

Spako nods.
"I guess it is, sir. Does that happen often? I haven't too much experience with such things. I mostly run into people popping up here." says the kobold, turning back to the scroll and looking intently at it, wondering why a spelljammer manual appeared in Trog's.

[Zefir]

Outside Trog's

A small black cat wanders by, seeing if there's a taco stand. It's taco tuesdays, after all. She orders a seafood taco and sits outside eating it.

Outside Trog's

A window opens very slowly as a little green creature only a few inch in size comes out and takes a deep breath of the 'fresh air'.

"Hey you." Mr.C starts in felin the common language of cats. "Why do you stay here?"

[Septimus Faber]

Myrrh hmms.

If this were simply a machine of some kind, a device like the ones she had been fawning over a few minutes before, she might take the offer. But the mere fact that she can sense a powerful magical aura about it makes her hesitant.

Buying potent arcane contraptions of unknown purpose from unknown people is hardly a wise investment.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I must decline your gracious offer," Myrrh says at last. "I have many magical baubles in my collection already and I don't have the time to unravel a mystery so deep and primordial as this one. My duties to my Mistress are innumerable and I would do her a disservice to begin slacking."

No one likes a slacker!

"However, I wish you well none the less. Perhaps you will find someone else who knows what your artifact is and how they might make use of it?"

Probably not, though.

This is smelling more and more like a con to Myrrh.

Aw, c'mon. Hell, look, I'll give it to you free. There's no big mystery to unravel. It does what it does. Just... Take it...
The man in the pinstripe suit drops the device at Myrrh's feet (well, on his feet first, causing him to yelp in pain and hop around a bit) and hurries upstairs to be anywhere other than here.

[Rebonack]

Well.

That pretty much synches it.

That fellow obviously wanted to be rid of the device and so Myrrh really has no desire what so ever to be associated with it. She lights up her horn, pulls out a small tab of sticky notes she had purchased (an amazing invention!) and writes out a little message on one before peeling it off the stack and sticking it to the mystery artifact.

What does the note say, you ask?

Cursed Artifact: Do not touch

She then puts her supplies away, gives a curt little nod, and then begins wandering around the tavern again in search of someone to pester about interesting devices that aren't potentially dangerous magical items.

...hopefully the clockwork thing doesn't explode.

[Morty]

"Fairly often," Wenomir says. "This scroll... it's something about a dual-wielding technique using scimitars. That's a new one, at least. Appreciation for the martial arts is so rare around here."

[Earl of Purple]

The scroll remains where it is, easily readable. Though reading is not a very social activity, apparently.

[Septimus Faber]

The man in the pinstripe suit descends from the upper floor, a little put out. He retrieves the pocket-watch-desklamp device, puts it in his pocket, and shyly heads over to Myrrh.

Look, I'm sorry. It's just, this damn thing. I've got to be rid of it somehow. But, my forcing it upon you was in rather poor taste. Shall we say no more about it?
He is more than a little embarrassed by this point. He's made a complete fool of himself, after all.

[WarKitty]

Outside Trog's

A window opens very slowly as a little green creature only a few inch in size comes out and takes a deep breath of the 'fresh air'.

"Hey you." Mr.C starts in felin the common language of cats. "Why do you stay here?"

The cat blinks slowly. It's comfortable. Nice day out.

[Deathkeeper]

Spako looks up at the tall human.
"Hrm? That's not what it says for me. Maybe it's enchanted to contain what someone wants to know about. Here, let me check."
Spako turns back to the scroll, casting a spell to detect the presence of enchantments as he reads.

[RabbitHoleLost]

The glowing white is warm to the touch and seems to tug gently in the direction of Birdie's skull, a soul yearning to be reunited with its body. Once Rabbit has taken it from him, Morrison returns to checking his face. He is unconcerned with the ideas of debts, and truth be told, the idea barely registers with him. Certainly, a kindness paid is appreciated when returned, but a tit-for-tat drawing up of debts, terms, and conditions is not how he conducts business. Morrison brings a finger to his lips, wetting it and running it across the cut to see if still it bleeds.

It does.

It appears to be closing, but much more slowly than a normal wound would be expected to for a being such as Morrison, and he has little doubt that it will leave a faint white scar upon his face for decades, if not centuries, to come. A small price to pay.

"How do you mean?"

She lets the orb sit in the cup of her palm, scrutinizes it. For all the talk of the value of souls, to know that they simply were...simple was rather a letdown. Would hers look much the same as Birdie's, if taken from her physical form?
All the same, she cradles it gently and keeps it from taking to the skull right away - wouldn't do, without the rest of his form.

"I mean..." What did she mean? Rabbit spent so much time obscuring the truth of her thoughts that to be completely honest with anyone, even Morrison, as freeminded as he had a tendency to be, was a chore.

"By all rights, I should have been one of Nerull's, shouldn't I? Instead of the Gallery of Lights and you or.." An uncomplicated shrug - she was rolling into territory that would likely make her uncomfortable.
Or, more so than the simple act of sharing left her in the first place.

"By all rights, if I fell into anyone's arms, it should have been someone like that-" She gestures over her shoulder, implying Bad Touch, though her nose crinkles in obvious distaste, coupled with her pink tongue peeking out of crimson lips with a "pbbbfftt" sound.
"Instead of a former god of arts, shouldn't I've?"

Rabbit brings Birdie's soul up to eye level, making it seem as if she'd been putting more attention into it than the words she's been speaking all along, as if it were all just casual, disconnected remarks.

"In the end, I'm never really punished for anything I do."

[Morty]

"Oh, one of those," Wenomir says. He's rather blasé about the random encounters of all sorts that happen in Trog's, and everywhere else.

[Rebonack]

Ah good.

At least the shyster has the common courtesy to apologize for that debacle. "Apology excepted," Myrrh replies sufficiently. "And we should say more about it, I think! Why must you be rid of it? Am I right? Is it cursed in some fashion?" the unicorn asks. If it's just a matter of disposing of some malignant artifact, she would be happy to help. Helping people is a very friendly thing to do, after all. But she wasn't too keen on the problem being thrust into her hooves so rudely.

Meanwhile!

Hey look!

It's Rebonack! Not the player, no. The fellow in that neat suit of cobalt blue armor whose fluttering white cape only seems to ever appear when he's striking a dashing, heroic pose.

That's a safety feature, actually.

Capes getting caught in things can be lethal!

Rebonack had convinced Spako to join VIGIL in the first place for the purpose of HEROICS so it should come as little surprise that he would be showing up for this... orientation? too. And he's even got an excuse! "Friends! My most sincere apologies for being late. On my way here I encountered a fair damsel locked away at the top of a tower by a foul witch! I sought to rescue her, but discovered much to my dismay that the tower was in fact nothing more than a mimic of colossal size seeking to ensnare heroes with its vile ruse. But fear not! The beast is most thoroughly vanquished now."

[Septimus Faber]

My name's Varrel, by the way. Yours is... Myrrh, I think? Anyway. This artifact. The pinstripe-suited man takes a deep breath.

Well, it wasn't quite a family heirloom, apart from in the sense that a member of my family gave it to me. We've been con artists for generations, and mostly very good at it. Then, my father died, and my uncle took over the familial business. Things took a turn for the worse almost as soon as he assumed the role. Clients would walk out on us, banks we were holding our profits in would be robbed, we'd fumble coins and reveal shells, and we would drop things on our feet all the [redacted] time. It killed my uncle, I'd swear to it. Certainly he took ill and died not a year after he came to power, and as I was the closest thing to a son he'd ever had, he left what remained of his fortune to me. Including this.

I've always been an independent soul, so small as this windfall was, I used it to strike out on my own. My family practically excommunicated me for it. And of course I did terribly, but what could I do? I couldn't very well go back to my relatives, so I had no choice but to plow on. Pathetically, I might add. By now this was pretty much the only thing I had left apart from the clothes on my back, so I'd more or less pinpointed this as the source of all the trouble. I called in a favour from an old diviner friend of mine, who told me it was a very sophisticated bad luck charm. Yep. That was all there was to it. You could become attuned to it over time and lessen its effects, but when you'd just got it? It was basically a steampunk incarnation of Murphy's Law.

And to top it all off the only way you could get rid of it was to have it willingly taken off you. But with the thing dropping whitewash on your head at every possible opportunity, how were you supposed to do that? Didn't stop me from trying, though.

So, here I am. Story of my life, in a nutshell.

[Earl of Purple]

The scroll is, indeed, magical. Its aura fluctuates randomly through colours and strengths, changing the type of magic used and various other things with no apparent pattern.

[Deathkeeper]

Spako looks up for a moment. "Hello Sir Rebo. I'm trying to figure out this scroll that I found."
Says the kobold, before going back to the scroll, trying to figure out what its purpose and function actually are.