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  1. - Top - End - #451
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
    5a Violista's Avatar

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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Harley tells herself to not get in an arm-wrestling contest with Zee. Or give a reason to get thrown out, in case she also doubles as the bouncer.

    "No, no shoggoths," Harley says, before explaining why she wanted to go there: "It's just a free, independent state where they care less about who you are or where you come from, and more about how well you can fire a gun or survive the night." Because for half the year, the night is really long down there.

    Pretty much, it sounds like Harley's version of Antartica is slightly different than most people's.

    "And they're bad at keeping records. If nobody saw you for a week, nobody would come looking for you. Felt like that sort of quiet life would be alright." So, nope, doesn't really sound like scientists. Scientists are usually better at keeping records.
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  2. - Top - End - #452
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Zee pretty much doubles as everything right now.

    Barmaid. Sometimes waiter when NPC are feeling lazy. Cook. Bouncer. Manager.

    Maybe some day Trog will return and hire someone else, but for now Zee is the only particularly active person here.

    "That's disappointing," Zee replies.

    What could possibly be disappointing about Antarctica NOT being infested with amorphous, protean horrors?

    "It's really cold down there. And... there really isn't much. Except ice. And rocks. And penguins of varying sizes. How are people surviving, exactly?"

    That seems like a pretty great question to Zee.

    Especially if the people living there are being forced to fight off stuff that goes bump in the night in addition to doing battle with the harsh elements?

    Maybe it isn't quite as far south in the world Harley is from?
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  3. - Top - End - #453
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    It's not that it's not "as far south", mostly, because continental drift is still small enough at those scales that it wouldn't make a huge difference; it's more along the lines of global warming over a long period of time, and sticking near the northernmost coasts, and good enough technology. Fun fact! There's lots of interesting maps and data scientists have put out.

    Also fun fact: I'm not sure if there's currently any word for the biome those parts of Antarctica will become at that point. It's too warm to be a tundra, too dark in many parts to really form a boreal forest, and "polar" implies something a bit colder than it will be after that much warming. "Cold desert"? "Warm tundra"? "Less-cold Polar"? "Boreal desert"? Not really sure. I like Boreal Desert, but Boreal comes from the god of the North Wind in Greek, so maybe it would be named after the south wind. Notus? Notus => Notul? Notul Desert and Notul Tundra? Notus stood for the warmth of summer, though, so maybe it's not that accurate because it's still relatively cold. Warmer than a tundra or a polar climate, though, so maybe it's still okay.

    Actually, turns out there's actual words that mean it: austral, and meridional. Austral means "of the southern hemisphere" and one of the definitions of meridional is "in the south"

    "Not really sure, I never did get there. Magic, probably? Or space heaters for the colder nights? Stocking a lot of their farming crops away for the winter? Kinda like bears do." Harley gives a few suggestions. "Next time I'm there, I'll ask them. It's not as bad as you're imagining, probably: as long as you stay near the coasts the climate is only notul climates like meridional tundra and austral-polar desert."

    ...Regardless, the name of those climates is one of those words that translates poorly, simply because they don't exist in our modern world.

    And the harsh living conditions contribute to one of the reasons why Harley thought her neighbors would avoid bothering her.
    Last edited by 5a Violista; 2018-11-25 at 02:25 AM.
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  4. - Top - End - #454
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    "Space heaters sound about right..." Zee reasons.

    They must have some really great power generation to keep that sort of operation up and running.

    Modular thorium reactors would probably do it. Small, low maintenance, dense power source. And lots of energy!

    Unless they found some way to make fusion small, that would do it too. Or maybe something even more exotic.

    "It's always kind of weird hearing about different Earths," Zee muses. "Like, you hear someone talking about something that sounds familiar, but as soon as you get to talking you find out that the planet is ruled by lizard aliens from the dark side of the moon or whatever. I'm still amazed that the Nexus ever manages to have several people from the same version of the same world. I guess that's easier when it's the sort of place you can just walk from."

    It makes Zee wonder, though.

    If she could just walk back to her home world, would she want to?

    She had friends in the country she had immigrated to. She had kept in contact with a few of her friends back in Nineveh. But... it's been a decade, hasn't it? More or less? Everyone would assume that she's well and truly dead. And she is, sort of. Isn't she? The mortal body doesn't exactly survive to process of being recast from terrestrial to empyrean. It could be neat, though, to visit. Maybe just once?

    "Did you leave anyone behind where you came from? People you actually liked?"
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  5. - Top - End - #455
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    On the topic of different Earths, Harley agrees that it feels weird. "I've done some research and found some strange trends, like a lot of the older fiction and books tend to be the same across a lot of the Earths, and that the dominant language is frequently the same one."

    However, she adds: "It did take me a while to get used to hearing everyone speak some backwater isolationist language, or largely only children being afraid of the dark and nobody's afraid of mirrors." She stares at her glass of milk as if it's alcohol and she's a drunkard, thinking back on the good old days.

    In an attempt to avoid answering the final question, she continues talking on a tangential line. "Checked out a few history books from other Earths. A lot of them seemed very different, they always either stop or quickly talk about colonizing other planets in space." This is just things she's noticed. "If any of them even could be applied to where I came from, I wouldn't know because it's all ancient history to me. Some see like they come from fiction books. Only a few names seem recognizable, like continents and a few countries. Is my home world even like any of the others? Does it show up in some household story that I just haven't found in the library yet? Or does it just have a few superficial names and shapes and has nothing else in common?" All this philosophical musing is obviously directed at giving time to decide whether or not to answer the final question.

    Still treating the milk like it's alcohol, she takes another drink and continues."Mother and my sister are probably still around. I don't care for them, though. One is too controlling and the other only cares about herself. Honestly, I'd be okay if I never saw them again." Fact: One of them is the reason why she has the scar that nobody can see because it's covered by makeup.

    "I'm pretty old," she adds, even though as a human she doesn't really look that old at all, "so nearly everyone I've ever befriended had already died or went senile before I left, anyway." She finishes off the milk.

    She still technically hasn't directly answered that last question. Maybe she must think she answered it? Why else would she avoid directly answering such a simple question? Maybe she didn't want to just outright say "Dead except for people I don't like" and figured answering indirectly would be better.
    Must be a sore spot for her.
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  6. - Top - End - #456
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    "You know, I actually noticed that bit about older stuff, too. Gods especially," Zee replies with a knowing nod. "Like the ancient Egyptian pantheon? There are some people who worship them on the world my husband is from, and that place isn't even called Earth. Same set of gods and goddesses. It's weird. My bet is that really powerful roles sorta echo through the Dreamheart. Lets them pop up in lots of different places. That would explain why they seem so wide-spread. Common history is probably just because different instances of the Eternal Game are using similar parameters. Not sure if anyone is totally sure how that thing actually works."

    That might get a blank look.

    "Umm... the Eternal Game is what folks back home call the multiverse, basically. Different universes, different instances. Not all possible universes can actually support life, so I guess it kinda makes sense that the ones were sapient people exist are going to have some notable similarities."

    Good save, Zee!

    You didn't make it sound like you're actually some kind of awful celestial dragon monster.

    "And the Dreamheart is... do you have any stories back where you're from about the universe arising from primordial chaos? Sorta just popping out of a sea of infinite formless creative potential? That's basically what the Dreamheart is. Except a real thing," Zee says, then immediately regrets it. "But not a real thing? Because it isn't real. It has the potential to be real things. But it isn't a thing. Because it's formless. If that makes any sense."

    It really doesn't make a lot of sense.

    Not making sense is a pretty important attribute of the Dreamheart.

    "Oh! The world I was from had sent some probes to Mars, if that counts. Hehe... that makes Mars a planet totally populated by alien robots!" Zee laughs. "But it sounds like your home world isn't in a state of synchronicity with most of the other Earths. That happens, but it doesn't seem SUPER common. There are a couple people I've met here in the Nexus from worlds that would be considered 'the future' compared to where I'm from. One of them was even forty thousand years in the future! The future sounded pretty dark and grim there, though."

    Then comes the talk of relatives.

    "Yeah, I guess that's one of the downsides of living a lot longer than most of the people you meet," Zee replies with a bit of a frown. "But! Look on the bright side! That must means it's a good idea for you to make lots of new friends as you go!"

    That's an awfully bright take on a typically dark subject.
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  7. - Top - End - #457
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    "Okay."

    Harley blinks. Blank look, trying to figure out what is being meant.

    "That kind-of makes sense." Which part? I dunno. Some of it probably made some sort of sense. Maybe a lot of it. "I've read some books that are somewhat similar to that."

    Speaking of books and Mars..."I've also read some books about Mars. They were mostly romances, so I'm not sure how historically accurate they were, but Mars always seemed pretty exciting in them." Romance is, in fact, her favorite genre. In AMEN, she had a bookcase full of them, until Watchtower attacked and destroyed the bookcase.

    Harley's drink is gone, so she has no choice other to try to eat more fish (and rice, but the rice is mostly gone now) or eat the brownie.

    In order to keep her cover, she tries the fish again, this time with a lot of sauce.

    "I've met a bunch of friends here," she says. She considers whether she should say them or not. On the one hand, it would (probably) demonstrate that she's telling the truth that she met new friends. On the other hand, pretty much all of them (actually, all of them) are either former AMENites, current members, or otherwise associated with it.

    She ends up deciding to list a few, most of which haven't been seen in AMEN in a while. "Like, Magtok, and a certain eldritch being, and Stu, among others." She doesn't give any more details for the second one, though, because that would be a dead giveaway.

    "So it's been pretty fine."
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  8. - Top - End - #458
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    "Okay!" Zee agrees.

    She isn't totally sure what she's okaying about, but that's fine. Sometimes you don't know what you're saying okay to.

    "It's great to hear you've made new friends! I know Magtok pretty well. Or Magtoks, I guess. There are and or were a whole bunch of him. Did you know that?" Zee asks. "I think I saw at least four of them at the Thanksmas party. Lesse... the angle looking one," she ticks off a finger. "The grumpy one with the brass face," she ticks of a second finger. "The one that's a wizard," there's finger number three. "And the one that isn't a wizard!"

    That...

    Could count for basically any Magtok that isn't Needs Food Badly.

    "I gave some candy canes to non-wizard Magtok. He was pretty surprised that I wasn't dead, which I guess makes sense."

    Her living, ambulatory nature IS pretty shocking.

    "I know lots of eldritch beings, too! There's one who hangs around at Trog's sometimes and creates Random Encounters," Zee recounts. "I usually throw cans of condensed soup at him until he goes away."

    A wise course of action when fae are concerned.

    "And... I think I met someone named Stu once... Isn't he an angry flower is a suit of powered armor?"

    Uh oh.

    Zee is apparently aware of at least two out of those three people.
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  9. - Top - End - #459
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Thud!

    There's a rather pathetic sound as someone unsuccessfully kicks the door, intending to send it flying open, but clearly failing miserably. A small voice from the other side mutters irritably to herself, "Grr! Curse this feeble form! I swear, when I've regained my powers I'll- MINION! Help me kick the door in!"

    With a slightly heavier thud, the door sympathetically creaks open, a far way off from being sent rattling on its hinges. "Hah! Take that, door!" The voice's owner crows triumphantly as she strides into the tavern. She looks, well, like a villain who's stepped out of a bad anime, dressed in a rather unsubtle outfit of red and black. Her "arms" are pairs of tentacles coiled tightly together at the shoulder before separating out into two separate limbs a little further down, two of which are curled around a pink and orange coral staff that curls round into some sort of intricate symbol at the top. Her scaly body is a deep sea blue in colour with patches of turquoise and seaweed green, with just a touch of coral-y pink here and there, such as on her cheeks, giving her the appearance of a faint blush. She has six bright, glowing yellow eyes, four arranged in a diamond pattern on her face and two further round more or less directly over her temples, visible gills on her neck and a round mouth through which several rows of interlocking sharp pointy teeth are visible.

    She surveys the tavern, "arms" folded, letting out what is probably supposed to be an intimidating chuckle but it just doesn't work coming from someone who looks like they just stepped off-set from a saturday morning kids' tv show. She turns dramatically, raising a tentacle to gesture theatrically at the tavern, "MORTALS! I demand tribu-" Riiiiiiip! In the course of turning, she appears to have caused one of a number of spiny fins on her legs to tear straight through her thigh-high stockings. "Damn it, not agaiiin!" She whines petulantly, trying to adjust her stocking and revealing that there's several more tears in it in the process. "Ugh, nevermind, that totally ruined the moment." She glances behind her, reaching up with an arm-tentacle to adjust the bob of shorter tentacle-hair on her head, "Minion! Get us some drinks! We'll demand tribute later." She huffs and stomps over to a table to await her minion-provided drink.
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  10. - Top - End - #460
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    Ex Profundo Adscendere!

    "Of course, milady" a quiet yet businesslike voice answers as a slim figure steps out from behind the theatrics-inclined tentacular maiden. Wordlessly the petite woman steps up to the counter and snatches two towering mugs of beer from a bartender, her silvery skin reflecting dully in the light. While her color palette isn't nearly as ostentatious as the one she serves, the minion looks just as fitting in an anime or saturday morning cartoon; dressed in a bedraggled maid's attire and carrying a wooden push-broom and balancing on her simple high heels like she still hasn't entirely mastered wearing them, the girl is all blacks and whites if you ignore her pigmentation. She too has gills, but her eyes are less otherworldly, simply bronze-irised with black sclera.

    Placing them on the table, the woman stands beside her lady with her hands folded in front of her lap, waiting for permission to sit as her fishlike tail sways a little idly behind her. The pose puts on display the natural pattern of three black bands around her upper arms, narrow fins extending from her forearms.
    "Are we living a life that is safe from harm? Of course not, we never are. But that's not the right question. The question is: are we living a life that is worth the harm?"
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  11. - Top - End - #461
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    The tentacle-armed lady sits herself down and puts her feet up on the table, crossing her red ankle-high boots over as she leans back, tilting her chair to a precarious angle. She eyes the two mugs (with roughly 3/6 eyes) as they're placed on the table, while another eye glances at her ever-patient minion.

    There's a very real temptation to just drink both of the mugs herself. Her loyal minion wouldn't mind that much. And she doesn't reeally need the ale, does she? She's not a great and powerful kraken! Maybe she can't even handle her booze? Wait, has she ever let her minion have a drink of ale before?

    No, no, it'd be a bit too mean to drink both mugs herself. So instead she flicks two tentacles out, tops her mug up to the brim from the other, then pulls the full one over to her. "Oh. Yes. Um, excellent work, minion! You may sit. Enjoy. You've done excellent work today." It wasn't often she praised her minion quite so much, but she had to do something every now and then to keep morale up. "Oh, but don't drink too much. Let me know if it starts to make you feel loopy, okay?"
    Before you criticise someone, walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticise them, you'll be a mile away and you'll have their shoes.

  12. - Top - End - #462
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Harley shakes her head, saying, "I didn't go to the Thanksmas party," she says.

    But! Her plan seemed to have worked! By listing Stu last, Zee ended up asking about Stu who she could've known by being hit on, instead of which particular eldritch being was the second!

    ...Actually, she's not sure if it actually helped or not, but either way it ended up with a positive situation.

    As she answers the question, she glances over at the new people who just entered. The door being kicked and someone asking for tribute is kind-of hard to ignore.

    "The Stu I know is a flower in a power suit, yes, but he's not particularly angry. Pretty friendly, actually. Watched a couple of TV shows with him." Baywatch, I believe.
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  13. - Top - End - #463
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Spoiler: Zee's Suite on the Second Floor
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    Zee trudges into her suite, still clad in her pajamas, still wearing her fuzzy slipper socks. They're both an absolute mess. So is she. She had been exhausted before this day had even started. And now? Well... it's been an all week sort of day, to be sure.

    With Karaglen draped over her shoulders like a tiny, scaly sack of potatoes, Zee shuffles over to her bed and gently sets the wyrmling down. Then she braces hands against the bed and tries lifting one leg up onto it.

    Said leg doesn't appear to appreciate moving that far, so it doesn't.

    She tries a few more times, gives an exasperated sign, and then just flops face-first onto the bed with her feet still firmly planted on the floor.

    "I'll just... rest my eyes like this... for a little bit," she announces as she promptly falls asleep.

    No sooner is she out, Zee unfurls. It's like watching a fiddlehead branching out into a fern. Except instead of a fiddlehead it's a human woman and instead of a fern it's an unconscious seraph. Her haunches and tail are spread out across the floor. Her chest, neck, and head are curled up on top of the bed that apparently has the good sense to be the right size to accommodate her. Her wings lay partly unfurled all akimbo, making for a pretty great makeshift tent if one is small enough to fit under there. She breaths deep and steady, pinpricks of starlight escaping between the gaps between her scales. Little bits of crystal growth begin creeping up the walls, painting scintillating fractals on the otherwise drab wood.

    Almost without a doubt, Zee is going to be unconscious until the next morning.


    Meanwhile!

    Zee apparently hands off two large ales! She's pretty okay with that. Kind of disappointed the squid people didn't pick something more exotic, but she can cope.

    "I'm Zee. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?" she calls after the servant squid person.

    Then she smiles back at Harley. "I've never been much for TV," she muses. "There's so much crazy stuff to see in the Nexus, I feel like I'm missing out if I'm not out there doing something. Or in here doing something. Trog's can be pretty exciting."

    Like when squid people kick the door in!

    Thankfully the door is well acquainted with this sort of abuse.
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  14. - Top - End - #464
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Since Harley's done with all the food she liked eating (she just finished the second brownie), it seems like the conversation was winding down, and, more importantly, Harley is reminded that her conversation partner is also the person in charge of the bar and the food and everything else, she decides it's about time she left.

    "Could I have a to-go container for this so I can finish it later? Thanks," she says, gesturing at the rest of the fish.

    She's pretending like she's going to eat it, but, honestly, she's going to dump the box on the first homeless veteran or starving orphan that crosses her path. There's plenty of those everywhere, especially in Riverside at the moment. There's a bunch of things she's still got to get done in that city.

    After asking for that, she says, "It can get pretty exciting around, but sometimes a nice, quiet night is fine."
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  15. - Top - End - #465
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    "Sure, I'll get a little box for you," Zee replies brightly as she gathers a little cardboard clamshell box and offers it to Harley. "It was fun talking to you. I hope you'll stop by again."

    And then?

    Harley says the Q-Word.

    Zee immediately freezes, reaching behind her apron to grab one of her tonfa in expectation of swarms of black tentacles to erupt out of the floorboards from the basement!

    .
    ..
    ...

    But nobody came.

    She blinks.

    Slowly relaxes.

    Then mutters, "Huh. Is it gone? Quiet?"

    Nothing.

    "Quiet."

    Still nothing.

    "It sure is quiet at Trog's today!"

    And then suddenly a giant mass of nope, still nothing.

    "I'm not sure whether I should be relieved or disappointed," Zee laughs.
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  16. - Top - End - #466
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Harley grabs the clamshell box and starts packing the food away in the box.

    "Thanks!" she says, smiling and still looking down so she doesn't notice Zee's frozen look. "I also thought it was pretty-"

    At that point, she notices Zee's odd actions. Quiet? What does that have to do with...?

    "What."

    She looks around for...nothing, apparently.

    "Anyway." Harley quickly finishes packing the food away and picks it up. "You can tell me what that's about the next time I come," she says, simultaneously commenting on what's not happening and also promising to come back later.

    "Bye." She walks towards the door, remembering to keep an eye out for any veterans or orphans.
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  17. - Top - End - #467
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Quote Originally Posted by Arkhosia View Post
    Ex Profundo Adscendere!

    "Of course, milady" a quiet yet businesslike voice answers as a slim figure steps out from behind the theatrics-inclined tentacular maiden. Wordlessly the petite woman steps up to the counter and snatches two towering mugs of beer from a bartender, her silvery skin reflecting dully in the light. While her color palette isn't nearly as ostentatious as the one she serves, the minion looks just as fitting in an anime or saturday morning cartoon; dressed in a bedraggled maid's attire and carrying a wooden push-broom and balancing on her simple high heels like she still hasn't entirely mastered wearing them, the girl is all blacks and whites if you ignore her pigmentation. She too has gills, but her eyes are less otherworldly, simply bronze-irised with black sclera.

    Placing them on the table, the woman stands beside her lady with her hands folded in front of her lap, waiting for permission to sit as her fishlike tail sways a little idly behind her. The pose puts on display the natural pattern of three black bands around her upper arms, narrow fins extending from her forearms.
    Quote Originally Posted by Gnrlshrimp View Post
    The tentacle-armed lady sits herself down and puts her feet up on the table, crossing her red ankle-high boots over as she leans back, tilting her chair to a precarious angle. She eyes the two mugs (with roughly 3/6 eyes) as they're placed on the table, while another eye glances at her ever-patient minion.

    There's a very real temptation to just drink both of the mugs herself. Her loyal minion wouldn't mind that much. And she doesn't reeally need the ale, does she? She's not a great and powerful kraken! Maybe she can't even handle her booze? Wait, has she ever let her minion have a drink of ale before?

    No, no, it'd be a bit too mean to drink both mugs herself. So instead she flicks two tentacles out, tops her mug up to the brim from the other, then pulls the full one over to her. "Oh. Yes. Um, excellent work, minion! You may sit. Enjoy. You've done excellent work today." It wasn't often she praised her minion quite so much, but she had to do something every now and then to keep morale up. "Oh, but don't drink too much. Let me know if it starts to make you feel loopy, okay?"
    Freaky Fish Folk

    "Eh'hem." The voice sounds dull. If monochrome had an accent this would be from the next county over. But it tried to be as assertive as possible, even though this was like blowing the world's most unassuming bicycle horn in an attempt to ward off an oncoming semi-truck.

    Its owner, by contrast is quite... average. Brown, limp hair cut with the standard, noncommittal "I don't know, short back and sides I guess." of the thoroughbred awkward young adult hangs around a pale, slightly worried face with eyes that don't even have the courtesy to be dull brown. Instead they're an even darker, duller green that evades the memory as soon as you're done looking at them. The man looks like he hasn't shaved in days because he doesn't often need to, patchy hairs growing in long in some places and nonexistently elsewhere, and an odd mix of lighter, coppery colors and his normal brown. His eyes are downcast as he fishes around in a messenger bag, the strap mended with a combination of staples and packing tape.

    "I heard you asking for tributes earlier and well, I'd bought these for my mom earlier as a surprise, but I can always get more and well you look like you've had a bad day so here." And with that, the youngish looking, scruffy fellow pulls out a box of assorted Kit-Kots, the receipt still stuck to the shrink wrap by static or possibly something sticky. Right there on the label the aquatic terror-lady and her faithful silvery servant can see they'd been marked down, and came from the imports store a few blocks away.

    "They come from foreign parts, and they've got all kinds of strange flavors only I don't know what's which because it's all in strange lingo." Eldritch sigils and mystic runes cover the packaging in many different forms, all repeating the same paragraph but none decipherable by mortal eyes. There is a picture of a sad looking cartoon child with a Ø surrounding it and a 0-3 just beside it in the bottom left corner. Other than that, the pictures are all bright, cheerful pictures of ingredients, probably even things that might be in these fancy chocolate bars.

    "Oh but don't eat the purple ones that glow a bit wobbly like and hurt your eyes to look at. They put hair on your chest, there's a class action lawsuit for it and everything and I wouldn't want to see that happen to nice folk like yourself." Especially since people of the piscine persuasion shouldn't have much in the way of body hair. The nondescript man fidgets a bit, having spoken more in the last four minutes than he'd ever done with his barber and visibly hoping that he hadn't offended.
    Julie, everyone's nth favorite succubus, by Gulaghar.
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    For anyone in plots run by me, know that I always tailor solutions to those in the plot. The answer may not be obvious, but it's there, and doable by the displayed abilities of the present characters. If you need help or hints, I'll try to be available to provide them.

  18. - Top - End - #468
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    Beholder

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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Spoiler: Zee's Suite On The Second Floor
    Show
    A good handful of hours later, after her body is good and recuperated, Karaglen awakens with a sleepy stretch and tiny, squeaky yawn.
    After a few moments of lazily lying under the shade of her mother's wing, she squirms enough to poke her head free enough to behold the room around her.

    Which appears to be a bit different now. Or perhaps vastly different?


    Meanwhile, downstairs.
    Something terrible stirs in the rafters.

    A flash of white cotton that disappears into the shadows, moving over the tables.
    Pattering, of tiny feet scurrying across the wooden beams.
    "Fear and creativity are conjoined twins."
    Absentee Spirit

  19. - Top - End - #469
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Zee is eyeing the fluffy skittering things with some degree of cation. It's a predatory sort of cation, though. Like a lion staring down a wildebeest. The sort of caution that says, 'I know you're dangerous, but I'm going to ruin your day as soon as I get the chance'.

    That plush that showed up a few hours ago (days ago? It's hard to tell sometimes) was a harbinger.

    A herald.

    A... um... messenger of doom?

    There are probably other good words for it, but Zee's drawing a blank right now.

    Yes, she does her own narration, shut up.

    But if she does her own narration, shouldn't it be in first person like a hard boiled noir private eye? And if she's going to do that she really needs a hat.

    Would being a dame preclude her from being a hard boiled private eye? Has that gender role been deconstructed sufficiently? Maybe she could be a hard boiled dame? No wait, she doesn't actually have to be any of these things. She can just narrate for herself in the first person instead. AHEM! It was a lonely Thursday morning, the grey drizzling sky as depressing as Cosmos' expression. Things got more colorful when those squid dames showed up, kicking doors and shouting for tribute. I knew they would settle down quick, that was just the nature of things these days. Especially when that stranger with the knockoff Kit Kats stepped in. I'd keep an eye on them, since that was my Job.

    ...by this time Zee has thoroughly distracted herself from the potentially murderous plush animals, focused far too much on trying to wear a sufficiently hard-boiled expression.
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  20. - Top - End - #470
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
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    Hey, You Got Your Chocolate On My Seafolk!

    The fishwoman responds with a shallow bow and an affirmative "hm", taking a seat as permitted. She shifts around uncomfortably as she tries to find the best manner in which she can reconcile the conflict between the design of the chair and how her piscine tail naturally rests, before sighing and settling with sitting near the edge and letting it curl to the side and across her lap.

    "Understood, Milady." With a thankful look breaking through that austere facade, the maid leans down as she lifts the rather heavy mug to her lips. The taste surprises her a little and she pulls back slightly, frowning... but, her lady had given her this generous gift, and it would be deeply disrespectful for her to show dissatisfaction with it! And so, she begins to take deep sips, slowly acclimating to the taste. As the man steps forward with tribute, her black-schlera'd eyes watch him and the proffered chocolate intently, attempting to sense any attempts at subversion or other nefarious schemery afoot. But there doesn't seem to be any, and so she relaxes a little, awaiting her lady's lead.
    "Are we living a life that is safe from harm? Of course not, we never are. But that's not the right question. The question is: are we living a life that is worth the harm?"
    ~Welcome to Night Vale

    Spoiler: Quotes from Friends <3
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    Quote Originally Posted by SliiArhem
    Arkh I may be slightly delirious but I don't think that would make sense even if I was coherent.

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  21. - Top - End - #471
    Ogre in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Interrupting the conversation within, a tall figure slowly, cautiously pushes the door open, weathered hand lingering upon the wood far longer than is necessary. The man, curiously, glances down at his hand as the door opens wide, gliding a few fingers across the wood before wincing slightly as a splinter pierces his flesh.

    For longer than is comfortable, the man stares at the splinter before promptly removing it, tossing it to the ground.

    --

    Wavy locks of well-groomed, light blonde hair cascade down over the man's attractive, angled face, flowing over his broad, angular shoulders, while comfortingly deep, multicolored eyes peer out at the world around him; a luscious chocolate brown as well as a bright, iron-gray. His unusual, beige skin is perfect and unblemished, suggesting a combination of ethnicities, with darkened areas around the eyes which cause his heterochromatic orbs to stand out. The man, likely no more than twenty-five, possesses bold cheekbones which frame his face, as well as full, glossy lips set into a frown.

    The mysterious figure is dressed in what appears to be a slightly ragged gray suit which clings tightly to his form, layered below a dark leather trenchcoat, all worn and battered, as if only recently taken from another. Finally, a black cloak crafted of some similar material falls over his shoulders, it's clasp hidden beneath a dark red scarf, the same shade as his gloves, visible as they hang out of the pockets of his coat.

    Without gesturing or speaking, the figure steps forward to the bar, turning his head to the side in an almost curious sort of fashion.

    --

    A moment or so passes as the man proceeds to stare directly towards the barkeep.
    Last edited by Hattish Thing; 2018-12-01 at 12:58 AM.

  22. - Top - End - #472
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    Rebonack's Avatar

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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    The barkeep appears to be missing at the moment.

    "I know there's a box of hats down here somewhere..." comes a voice from behind the counter, betraying the barkeep's presence. A scant few moments later, a woman emerges, her hair disheveled enough to prompter her to brush a few stray black strands out of her face. The woman is, in a word, unremarkable. Slightly tan complexion, black hair, athletic build. Nothing about her seems particularly unusual. She's dressed in a wholly uninteresting, if slightly modern, outfit consisting mostly of browns and olive greens with a Trog's Tavern apron draped over it.

    And as soon as she spies the newcomer?

    She smiles brightly.

    "Well, howdy! Welcome to Trog's Tavern!" she calls out without an ounce of forced enthusiasm. "I'm Zee. What can I do for you today?"

    Zee is hoping it'll be something nice.

    Like getting food or a drink or maybe a room.

    That's as opposed to something bad, like getting attacked for no readily apparent reason.
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  23. - Top - End - #473
    Halfling in the Playground
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    "Aha! See? I knew we'd find tribute here!" The box is taken triumphantly and placed on the table with a flourish, one tentacle expertly removing the shrink-wrap in the process and depositing it somewhere on the floor behind them. "A wise choice, mortal! Suzie never forgets those who are loyal to her!" Oh, hey, we have a name now! Suzie folds her tentacles imperiously and looks down at this young man who- okay look, she's trying to make it look like she's looking down at him, but she's not particularly tall and they took one of the low tables instead of-

    "Minion! Why didn't you think to grab one of those high tables with the stools? Go claim it at once! And take the tribute! And my drink!" Really, why didn't her sweet, loyal, devoted minion think of that before she had to prompt her? Oh well. Enough with that distraction, she still has to deal with this mortal man! The young (with all the tentacles and scales it's kind of hard to tell? But she looks quite young, at least) krakengirl smirks, her mouth proving remarkably stretchy as it shifts from its default closed o-shape, a slight clicking of teeth shifting within in order to accomplish this simple facial expression. "I shall heed your warning, mortal. You have done well. I could use more loyal followers by my side. What do you say?"
    Before you criticise someone, walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticise them, you'll be a mile away and you'll have their shoes.

  24. - Top - End - #474
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Zee has been cleaning the counter and waiting on the NPCs who don't suffer from that weird affliction that PCs do. Zee honestly isn't sure exactly why the distinction matters, but it's something that she's noticed before. She's sure the fellow with the striking appearance will respond to her eventually. It's always just a matter of being patient.

    A beep sounds from the kitchen, causing the barmaid to perk up.

    "OH! The brownies!" she exclaims before scurrying off through the double doors-

    -moments before she walks in through the front door of the tavern with a sleeping bronze wyrmling draped over her shoulder. The baby dragon is, in a word, adorable. And very unconscious. Humming to herself, she heads behind the counter with the little dragon and sets him down on the fuzziest platform the cat tree has to offer, thankfully one that's easily within her reach. The wyrmling mumbles and stirs a bit, but he doesn't wake up just yet. That task finished, Zee ducks her head into the kitchen for a moment before coming out with a tray of fresh out of the oven brownies to set on the cooling rack behind the counter.

    The tavern is filled with the scent of chocolate, baked apple, and cinnamon.

    Mumbling, sniffing, the little dragons starts to stir again.

    "...mmm you smell nice..."
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  25. - Top - End - #475
    Orc in the Playground
     
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    There's a smash as the window breaks in a shower of glass and wood. In the centre of the shower of broken glass is a little dragon, about the size of a beagle. Its scales are square and slightly ridged, its wings more like a pterasaur's than a bat's, with an extended little finger and a cluster of fingers halfway along the wing. It has four legs and a pair of horns resembling stepped pyramids. Its scales are metallic silver with a multicoloured iridescence.

    The little dragon's failing flight path continues through the window and into a table of elves and dwarfs having a drinking competition, seeing who gets drunker on beverages made by the other. Oddly, the elves seem better at holding the dwarf mead than the dwarfs are at holding elf wines. The dwarfs are very giggly, whilst the elves have gotten into an argument over whose ears are pointier. Of course, the addition of a dog-sized dragon interrupts the drunken revelry, which the dwarfs find hilarious and the elves find a little bewildering. "Uh... Hi! Mum wants me to learn huntering. That was my first go! Did I do good?"
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  26. - Top - End - #476
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Once the woman appears, the figure continues to stare directly into her own eyes, an almost vacant and confused expression upon his face. A moment passes before the young man slowly drags his eyes elsewhere, mouth slightly agape. Carefully, the man places a hand upon the counter, mimicking the actions of others across the room, attempting to form some sort of smile.

    Eventually, his lips align, spreading slightly to expose bright white teeth, tongue raised slightly for some unknown reason.

    --

    The smile itself, while mechanically accurate, likely feels slightly off to the barkeep, for the man's heterochromatic eyes hardly seem focused, entirely unemotional as they stare off past her shoulder. A painful moment passes wherein the unusual figure appears to attempt to speak, opening and closing his mouth slightly, strands of spit dribbling here and there from within his mouth.

    Eventually, a whispered sentence is uttered forth by the man, his voice hoarse and strange, the words pronounced quite terribly.

    "Like stars 'yond blacken'd root, I ha'st found myself adrift. This place, it is not as seems. Wither hath I found myself?"

    "Surfeit as I am of this confusion, I implore thee, provide the illumination I seek."
    Last edited by Hattish Thing; 2018-12-02 at 12:38 AM.

  27. - Top - End - #477
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Just outside the tavern

    Juliana was having a pretty normal day, riding her motorcycle, when suddenly!

    "No, not right now," she says as she winces. Pain. Blurry vision, temporarily. "Please let me stop first." Random high-pitched sounds. Who knows what else. She suddenly has to hit the breaks: she can't ride like this! She'd hit something, or worse.

    Actually, that's pretty much exactly what happens as she slows: she tried to slow too quickly and the wheel slipped on the road, causing it to spin out on the ground. Let's add a road rash to the symptoms.

    Leaving her ride there for now, she hops off and waits for her vision to return to normal for long enough to look at the buildings nearby.

    Shoeshop...an abandoned building...a community garden...cake store...bridal store...ah! A tavern! They always have music and silly bards doing things for money!


    Entering Trog's

    A woman wearing a riding jacket and a motorcycle helmet enters. She's using the doorframe and wall as support, is limping, and is clutching her stomach. And she's got a road rash on a leg, from the crash.

    In her head, all the talking sounds amplified - like it's too loud and hard to distinguish from any other sound.

    She looks around the tavern, as if she's trying to find something...
    Favorite sports:
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  28. - Top - End - #478
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Zee carefully cuts the brownies into little squares and piles them atop a plate, which in turn is set atop the little glass cake stand that looms tall and proud behind the counter in all of its cheap, glassy glory.

    There has rarely, if ever, been an actual cake on the cake stand.

    Usually it's whatever Zee has baked recently. Often brownies. Sometimes cookies. Occasionally more exotic confections. Zee has been branching out a bit, lately.

    She takes one of the fresh out of the oven brownies and waves it under the little bronze wyrmling's nose. First he stars sniffing at it. Then his little scaly eyelids open, shortly followed by his nictitating membrane sliding back as his eyes roll forward. He blinks several times, trying to focus, and quickly realizes that there's delicious smelling food in front of him. He reacts to this in the only reasonable fashion, namely by eating it. "Oh gosh that's so good..." he mutters, chocolate smeared all over his lips. He raises his little head and finds himself gazing up into the face of his mother. Because... of course that's his mother. Who else would she be? But didn't mom die? No, that can't be right, because mother is right here. There was someone else who really loved him who died, though. They died to stop the faeries from getting him. Nymmurah. He'll always remember her. She was such a nice dragon. But mother didn't get there fast enough, and Nymmurah didn't make it.

    It makes Navanaxinermis kind of sad, thinking about it. But... that's how bronze dragons are. They don't go looking for death, but they'll lay down their lives to save others. Because that's the right thing to do. Navvy thinks about that, and it makes him sad, but also kind of happy, knowing that Nymmurah is getting rewarded for her selflessness by Lord Bahamut right now. He blinks away a little tear, then licks his lips and looks around.

    "Where are we, mom?" he asks. Look at all these neat people! There are so many of them!

    "Trog's tavern," mother replies with that wonderful smile of hers. "My room's up on the second floor. We'll be living here for now. Why don't you go play with that other wyrmling who's about to crash through the window?"

    "What?" Navvy replies, confused, moments before a little bismuth dragon smashes through one of the windows and crash-lands into a table. Navvy gives a little roar that definitely wasn't an adorable squeak of surprise. He glances at the other dragon. Then at mother, who just smiles mysteriously at him. Then he gives his wings a little shrug, hops off the carpet-covered cat tree, and trots over to the table the new wyrmling is standing on. "What sorta thing were you huntering at?" Navvy asks curiously as he stands up on his hind legs and places his paws on the edge of the table. "Because if you were huntering at tables then that sure was a swell pounce."

    The dwarves and elves at the table may feel consternation toward this development.

    Meanwhile!

    Zee feels nothing particularly weird regarding the newcomer's smile.

    It's anatomically accurate.

    What else is there?

    "You're in Trog's Tavern, specifically," Zee replies brightly. "And the City of Inside, a bit less specifically. And the Nexus, if we're talking really non-specific. Congratulations! You've tripped into the grease trap of reality! Or the crossroads of all possible worlds. Or a really awful giant crossover fanfic with five times the references and half the coherence." She plucks up a confection with a napkin and holds it out toward the newcomer. "Would you like a welcome brownie?"

    He should accept.

    Zee's brownies are great.

    Then Zee kind of... leans to one side a bit, peering around the newcomer at ANOTHER newcomer limping in through the door.

    "Hmm... Sir?" she asks. "Do you mind if I help that woman not die? It should only take a minute."

    Unfortunately for Juliana there doesn't appear to be any music, live or otherwise, going on at the moment.
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  29. - Top - End - #479
    Troll in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    Another newcomer enters the tavern.
    Wow, it sure is busy tonight.
    Timidly pushing open the door is a young lizardfolk, looking to be about 11 years old. He has mottled green scales and a bright orange crest on his head. He wears canvas trousers held up by a rope belt. Hanging from the belt is an unusual weapon. It appears to be a thighbone from a large creature, probably a humanoid, with a number of square, iron nails pounded through the wide end to make a makeshift spiked club. It seems somewhat comically large on the young fellow. To the first person who seems willing to listen, he speaks in a draconic tongue. <E-e-excuse me? Have you seen my dad? I-I think he came this way.>
    Awesome avatar (Kothar, paladin of Tlacua) by Linkele!

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  30. - Top - End - #480
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    Default Re: Trog's Tavern CLIII

    "I saw this other dragon with really shiny scalies, so I thought I'd hunterise it and be friendy. But it broked into all these little pieces of warm ice and wood and I can't see it anywheres. Just me an' yous. Oh! Hi! I's Zosteranithaximine, Who's you?" Zoster pounced at his reflection, not realising it was his reflection. He's not encountered glass or a mirror before. He wags his tail idly, thumping it against the table and spilling a dwarf's flagon of elf-wine.

    The dwarfs find Zoster's awkward speech patterns hilarious, and fall about laughing, and their opinions of Navvy's old-fashioned diction is much the same. One of the elves reaches down to try and pat Navvy's head, whilst another throws a punch at his neighbour for having pointier ears.
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