maurdakar

Gilneans, Dawn till Dusk. ((Open RP))

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((I would like to test the waters for a Gilnean pre-cataclysm RP. Its cute that the short green ferengi think explosions substitute for comedy and role-playing but I think we all know where the real story is at. Almost all of this will be set pre-cataclysm. Again while we may become worgen, this is a Gilnean role-play to establish our characters for cataclysm. :))

We will have a central hub for us to meet in, a pointedly British pub where we can introduce ourselves, new characters and generally just look fashionably dapper. I would like to go through various “phases” or outings. There was a Gilnean civil revolt we should cover. We may also decide to go out into the woods one night and take a look around for the strange animals we heard the day previous. Our encounters will all lead up to the Gilneas we will play in Cataclysm.

I am totally willing to put a huge amount of effort into this if even only a few people commit, including PMs, artwork that sort of thing. Finally, I will work at the pub, but not own it, anyone else who wants to work at it or play any sort of role in the story at all (including major NPCs of course) please feel free to jump in at any time, as we chronicle the Twisting Nether Gilneas, pre-Cataclysm. :) ))

Rain rapped on the windows of the pub, while the winds twisted through the streets of Duskhaven. Indifferent to all of this, and arguably everything else, was the scarred greying man behind the counter of the pub. He mutely washes out a mug with an old rag and some unclean soap water. His mangy, yet noble appearance was becoming of an ex-military man, but the way he kept scowling, prevented the few patrons present in the pub from asking for second rounds.

There was something about the storm outside, and the distant rolling thunder, that made Arthur, the bartender, grimace. The normally friendly barkeeper stomped around behind his counter a bit before disappearing into the kitchen, then re-emerging only to continue his troubled pacing. He grunted when spoken too, shot dark looks all around and put on a bad show of organizing the liquor loudly. Something about the night was bothering him badly eating away at him like only a dark memory could.

His tantrum was reaching its zenith when finally the pubs door opened, admitting a guest. He immediately turned his back on the newcomer for no reason other than to maintain his dark mood, before he could even get a good look at who it was. Fumbling around with port and sherry bottles he ignored the approaching footsteps as best he could.

((Feel free to be a regular, a previous guest, a well established friend, or even an ex-comrade to Arthur. I would be delighted if you would all shape his character through impromptu role-play :) ))

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Meanwhile, in another part of the tavern, another man stared quite solemnly out the window into the pouring rain. His countenance suggested he was brooding, as did the silent air around him. Like the barkeep, he was focused on the storm, too intent upon its strangeness to give heed to the other patrons of the tavern.

A glass of port lay before him, untouched in his wandering attention. The shadows from the candle at his elbow flickered across his face, the flame of the candle itself dancing as slight breezes floated in the shabby walls of the tavern.

The wind flew in the room as the door opened, cold and forbidding to the patrons sitting in and around the hearth.

“Shut the bloody door!” grumbled a burly lumberjack.

“Aye! S’cold ya know!” echoed his partner.

Clearly, the newcomer was by no means readily accepted by some others in the tavern, as he approached the barkeep slowly. The man at the window turned his bottle-green gaze to the stranger, half-curious to subtly stare, sizing up the stranger as he would an approaching enemy.

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Arthur frowned at the sound of someone approaching, he stayed right where he was, back turned to them, scrubbing out an old dirty mug. He did have the courtesy this night to at least pretend he was working however. “What’ll it be stranger, and before you ask, no you can’t afford any of the dwarf brews or exotic wines we have from the south.”

As a patriot and a good Gilnean, of course Arthur had supported the construction of the Greymane wall, but at the time few had considered the massive barrier would also keep a few nice imports from entering into the kingdom. Since the day the gate was sealed, silk, spices and foreign drinks had become worth their weight in silver. It pained Arthur to think of what he was missing out on in life, even if the wall -had- been the right decision. Gilneans would drink dwarf ale again someday, but that he may not live to see it pained Arthur, and did not sweeten his souring mood.

Thankfully Arthur had always been blessed with some measure of preparedness, and had squirreled away a bottle of Dalaran white under the floorboards of his bed upstairs. This was nothing compared to the bottle of Stormwind Red he had stashed there as well. The drink was made for the coronation of King Lane Wrynn the first and must be worth a small fortune to the right noble by now. Spoils of war he supposed grinning smugly to himself. Thinking about the drinks he had cheered himself up enough to face the customer, and take a proper order as the barkeep.

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As the rain pounded the windows, James couldn’t help but think back to before the wall was constructed. What life was like, compared to this bleak hell. His large hands played around the base of his goblet absently.

“Damn me,” he muttered quietly. “But when does this end?”

Rain near to every goddamned day, accompanied by the heavy smothering blanket of fog that seemed to hide everything Gilnean from the world. Not that the wall didn’t do that already. No one knew the people behind the wall existed, they were the ghosts of nightmares past. Monsters, horrors told to children to frighten them at night.

A smile tugged the corners of his lips, as a brief laugh rumbled from his chest, thinking of that.

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The horse hooves splashed on the cobbled pavement as Velkan Baskerville guided the trotting steed through the town of Duskhaven. The rain bothered him and his mount, and he didn’t want his newly tailored suit to be exposed too long in this godforsaken downpour. He had just returned from an inspection of his family’s latest venture; funding the small tailors in Duskhaven, but the weather of Gilneas was brutal and unpredictable. He had to get out of the rain, or his ensemble would be ruined.

The young Baskerville sighed impatiently as he searched for a reasonable place to stay with no luck. Eventually he came across the lit pub windows. He guided his horse into the neighboring stall, and dismounted. Taking solice under the stables from the weather, he slicked his hair back, and wiped the rain from his trousers and overcoat. Assuring he was presentable enough, he walked into the pub. Many people in the city of Gilneas knew of the Baskervilles, but few in this pimple of a town did. Yet many of them had, at one point or another had purchased some article of clothing that his family had a hand in crafting. They were threadsmen by profession, and they were quite good at it. So it came as no surprise, the son of Terrance Baskerville had to dress according to his family’s stature and standards. “First impressions,” his father would say, “…are everything. We are evaluated by how we carry our person. Do not allow cheap attire spoil that advantage.” While Velkan had grown up under the wealth of his father’s tailoring empire, his father had not had the luxury of gold growing up. Many called Velkan spoiled, others dismissed him, but he was determined nonetheless to prove them wrong and assume control over his family’s business. For now however, it seemed he was forced into waiting out the rain in a musty pub.

He shook his coat off and surveyed the patrons with a diminished imperialistic air about him.

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Arthur eyed James from across the pub, he couldn’t quite see who it was in the dim light, but he felt a strange twinge of familiarity. His attention however was changed when a young man, clearly from the city and dressed in fine cloths entered the pub wordlessly. Arthur watched as the gentleman surveyed the air with that haughty look only nobles could muster. Darius Crowley had been the only noble Arthur had ever particularly like, and as far as the greying veteran was concerned you were either a Crowley or a Godfrey.

“You there, young gentleman. What will it be for you then?” called Arthur to the newcomer. He reached behind his bar and pulled out two tall clean glass mugs, he may not like lords and ladies, but Arthur was no fool. Besides, the kid probably came with silver, everything was better with silver. Putting on his best smile Arthur reminded himself to reserve judgement on other persons until they spoke, Crowley had said that. The Barkeeper gestured the noble over.

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Lord Stephen Lutzch squatted down and gingerly picked up what appeared to be a paw. Or an ear. No, never mind, just another chunk of flesh and fur. Stephen stood at about 6’2, with dark eyes, salt and pepper hair with matching chops and mustache. The woods around him were dense and dark, and the rain wasn’t helping much ether. Standing back up, he tossed the hair-covered chunk back into the pile of shattered bones and meat that used to be a wolf. Brian, that TWIT, had once again mixed Stephen’s specially made exploding rounds in with the conventional munitions.

Stephen looked down at his chest, which of course, was covered in blood. Thankfully, his black poncho had protected his khaki shorts and bush jacket outfit from the spray of gore. His face and pith helmet weren’t as lucky. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he removed his hat and wiped off his face, knowing that the rain would take care of the rest. This was the eleventh time Brain’s incompetence had ruined his hunting trip, and as such, he would be put back to work dusting and doing dirty laundry. Stephen would simply have to find someone ELSE to prepare his hunting gear. He sighed, wondering where he could find such a person.

Confident that the blood had been washed from his face, Stephen put his helmet back on and made his way over to his mechanostrider.

That’s right, Stephen Lutzch owned the only mechanostrider this side of the Thandol span and in Gilneas no less. A marvel of Gnomish technology, it was currently being developed as a new means of transportation in Gnomeregan. Even with his connections, it would have been INCREDIBLY difficult to smuggle a pre-built one into the country, so, instead, only the blueprints were delivered, and Stephen had to build it himself. He had taken to tinkering in much of his spare time, so this was no issue, though many of the parts had to be made from scratch. It wasn’t all bad though, because he spent over a month building the machine, most believed it to have been a making of his own genius. During its construction, Stephen had given the wall his full support, as any truly patriotic Gilnean would have, but the weekly fox hunts didn’t really quench his thirst for adventure, and he found himself yearning to explore the world again.

Stephen shook his head. He had other matters to attend to, such as finding a new gun-caddy. Mounting the chrome bird, Stephen resolved to stop by the local pub, to see if he could find someone else with his passion for the thrill of the hunt.

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Magrayth slipped clean robes over her damp form, her tightly woven locks plastered against her skull. The turn as she pouts is innocent, a hint of the forbidden, and every bit as deadly. "Mistress, our reports have come in from Thandol span.", Whisperfall let a small stack of papers fall to the floor, where they crumbled to ash. Charlie was well aware anything not affixed with the Cabal's emblem would meet the same fate, beings as well...nevertheless he persisted at creating something that would fool her. Should keep him busy while she attended more important matters.

"What is it?" Her impatience clearly visible, beneath her feet, a map of Azeroth, and though she considered every inch of it hers it would take some time to make it a reality.

Whisperfall studied her figure seemingly mesmerized. "The Wall...Greymane's wall, there are reports from the wall..."

"Wall? Greymane? tell me quickly why this is important, and why I should know of such a thing." magrayth tied her hair back with a strip of borean leather. "Wait. you mean the wall near Shadowfang? what sort of beasts are among it to be tamed?"

"Men" Whisperfall scowled, clearly disappointed with the news. "Half Worgen, some sort of inter-planar abomination..."

Magrayth smiled, if these people could leap to planes close to their own, something almost unheard of, and yet here so commonplace, it would open up new avenues. She addressed the room, her slanted eyes forming the daggers in which she used to pin her voice to the far walls of her sanctum. "Find their leadership, tell them that the Cabal will accept them into open arms-"

"-The Alliance already lends it's aid..." Whisperfall swallowed hard. Magrayth turned, the fury of her gaze turning every speck of light between them to darkness. "What. did. you. say?..."

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Angling a dark brow, James pushed out of his chair, somewhat curious about the stranger. He, like all Gilneans, was slightly paranoid about the next person to come along. Would they condemn him for being not who he was, but 'what' he was? Damn Godfrey and his chauvinistic ways-- turning his own people against each other!

He pitched his voice very quietly, praying only the barkeep could hear, "He one of them?.. or us?"

He deposited his goblet lightly on the counter, as he spoke, hopefully giving the idea of requesting merely another glass, instead of answers.

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The noble to whom Arthur was speaking remained silent and motionless however, the newcomer continued to observe the bar with a mild disdain. Putting on his best face Arthur turned to face James again. “He one of them? .. Or us?” whispered the patron. Arthur grimaced, “I dunno, I don’t think he has the right air about him to bin one of Crowley’s boys during the civil…” replied Arthur in a hushed tone.

The aging barkeeper took James’ glass and filled it with modest local brew from the Headlands up to the north west. “What he’s doing in Storm glen I haven’t the foggiest.” muttered Arthur, sliding the refilled mug back to James. “Some nobles ought to stay in the city in my view.” Arthur glanced at the paned glass window where the rain now beat away, like an angry beast. Clearing his throat Arthur spoke up again; “Oi you there! Good sir! Come and have a drink!” He beckoned to Baskerville. Arthur hoped a rare show of Gilnean hospitality could keep a fight from breaking out, a couple characters sitting close to the door were eyeing the gentlemen like he was a prized stuffed pig.

“Ifn things git a bit rough down here, you elp me then. The boy is only a whelp an perhaps not knowing what transpires in the minds of our like.” Arthur pointed to the few shady characters. “It be jus like old times if things get rough right? Like in the civil.” Arthur grinned as best as he could. The last thing he wanted right now was a fight in the bar, especially after it had been refurbished.

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"That's a damned fine question." Muttered James, as he accepted the refilled glass, with a nod of thanks and a silver bit. "A damned fine one indeed." He was quite in agreement. Nobles should often, remain in the city, locked away in their own little worlds of money, naivety, and zealotry. Godfrey especially.

Looking down at himself, he sighed, "Aye. I suppose." The Civil, huh. Bedamned new cravat was about to get destroyed then, along with a moderately well tailored riding coat. He made a note to ask the barkeep about that later. "Least, enough to keep our hides from getting skinned." He shot a look at the few idling near the door, idly wondering if they'd be foolish enough to risk getting them all in chains, or worse.

His eyes narrowed over the glass, as he watched the stranger carefully, calling out, "Aye, don't just stand there, first one's on me." Nodding to Arthur, he motioned for the man to pour something the stranger might agree with. He didn't trust the stranger, not at all. If it's one thing he'd learned from living in Gilneas, it was that appearances weren't always as they seemed. And this noble could either be one of two things; just another noble, caught out in a torrential downpour.. or one of Godfreys' extremists. God keep them all, if he was.

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He crawled out of bed, chains dragging along behind him. He looked out through the window, the only view of civilization he'd had for years. He could've picked the locks on his chains, but the windows were barred, and the door locked and bolted from the outside.

A few children looked up from the street, pointing. He'd given up on screaming, glaring down at them with all the hatred that had grown inside from day one in this accursed place. He knew they could see him, children and townsfolk alike. But the stories that had been spread about his captor were enough to keep citizens away. Besides--who wanted to become involved with "their sort?" Let the rabble be, he was certain.

The wall had went up before his very eyes, in plain fiew from the window. That had sealed it. No one was coming. Even if the acquaintances he'd made over the years could find out where he was, these people would make damned sure they never got close enough to help.

Bloody Gilneans. He hoped they'd all rot.

He heard a sound, his elongated ears twitching. He looked back with a sigh, knowing what awaited.

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The rain spattered down from the sky, and a chill gust of wind sent leaves and other debris scattering across the sidewalk and into the gutter, where it was swept away by the tiny river of rainwater that snaked its way through the streets of the little town.

Delancey was tucked up against the wall, taking shelter beneath the awning of a shop that had long since closed its doors for the evening. She gathered her cloak a bit closer around her shoulders and tipped her face upward, squinting up at the dark clouds overhead. It didn't look like the rain would be letting up anytime soon. She really ought to get home, she knew that. Mother and Father would be waiting.

Her eyes focused on the doorway to the pub across the street, as somebody slipped into the building, making their escape from the bad weather. Maybe just a few minutes wouldn't hurt. She really enjoyed sneaking into the tavern now and then, even though at nineteen years old, she knew she didn't really belong there. But now and then.. she was lucky enough to hear stories about the outside.. Beyond the wall. Her curiosity was insatiable, having spent her entire life stuck within the boundaries of this city. She had wished for the chance to leave for just about as long as she could remember. Not to move away.. just to see. She had heard stories of great cities like Stormwind and Ironforge, over the years. She had heard accounts of great oceans, sprawling hillsides and meadows, and mist shrouded woods. She drank in the mental images like they were the sweetest nectar. Someday, maybe, she could see for herself. If only..

A loud crack of thunder startled her away from her thoughts, and her eyes snapped to the doorway across the street again. The light from inside was sliced off abruptly, as the door closed behind another patron. Delancey tugged her hood up over her head, tucking her hair inside. Then, steeling herself against the brittle chill of the rain, she darted across the street and over to the tavern.

Easing the door open, she peeked inside. There were a fair amount of people inside, already. Arthur, the cranky bartender, was already addressing the man who had just entered before her. Good. Sometimes, he let her stick around. Other times, he'd bark at her to get out. It all depended on his mood. Delancey sidestepped to her left, moving to an empty table against the wall, somewhere between the bar and the door. She sank into the seat and glanced around, taking stock of the people who were already here.

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Velkan finished examining the room and shaking the rain off his suit. If he heard the two mutterings about him, he made no indication. The floor was far from clean, and the coat rack appeared to be in worse shape; with a myriad of various clothing shells adorning its perimeter, he opted to remove his and sling it over his arm. His mouth almost curled into a sneer of distaste, but he maintained control over his facial expressions to hide his disgust. The barkeep asked him a question and he approached the bar. He nodded politely to the gent he came alongside with a tip of his hat before removing it. "I appreciate the hospitality, but it is not necessary," he said as he removed some coin from amongst his trousers. He placed them on the table. He wondered if the individual could actually afford anything beyond ale or lowly spirits, and he didn't want to offend a potential drunkard. He looked to the man behind the counter. "Do you have a port wine and a clean glass to pour it into?” he looked around, and his hands moved to rest atop the bar, but halted inches above it. Rubbing his fingers in thought, they returned to his side as he dismissed the notion of relaxing. The crashing door distracted him briefly as he watched a young looking female newcomer enter the place. Her presence was a reprieve from the odd shoddy patrons, and she stood out like a blade of grass did in a pile of mud. He turned his attention back to the tender.

Velkan normally did not mind seedy bars like this. They reminded him of his brief time with the Ravenholdt thieves as he travelled back to get across the wall and back to his father before they were separated forever. It seemed like ages, and the life he spent working under his father now apparently secreted out of every pore in his body now… the thought disgusted him. His shoulder twinged in pain, an old reminder of what he once was, his face unable to completely hide its irritating effects.

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Even as Velkan Baskerville walked by the three dirty looking men, one of them tilted back his head and drained his mug empty in one sloppy swig, before slamming it down on the table. Arthurs' eyes darted back between the three men and Velkan, clearly wieghing his options. "Do you have a port wine and a clean glass to pour it into?” asked the the gentleman, looking over his shoulder as another figure, familiar to Arthur, slipped into the pub, out of the rain.

"Ya sir one glass port wine, from a small place in the northern headlands." Arthur reached behind the bar and pulled out a clean glass as well as a tidy looking bottle. "What brings you all the way to Stormglen then young sir?" Arthur looked between Velkan and the angry looking men who now stood up from their table and made thier way to the bar. Arthur spotted a Gilnean Flag tattoo on one of thier arms. These were definitly some of Crowleys ex-militia types, and worse, not from any bunch he had run with.

Arthur concentrated on pouring the drink as the men walked up behind the young gentleman, flanking him from either side. One of them dropping a gnarled hand on Velkans right shoulder. "What's all this then?" Wheezed the antagonist. "A lost pidgeon? One of Godfreys many spiritual offspring?"

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Well, hell-o, what do we have here? James thought to himself, as he watched the door to the tavern crack open again, and a slight figure point her head into the tavern. What in the name of bleeding hell was a mouse like that doing in a place like this? Especially now, of all times. He watched her enter the tavern, slipping into the room, and off to an empty seat, mentally chiding her for being out in the godawful weather for starters, and for being in a tavern at such a young age secondly. What was the world coming to, when admirable young women were allowed to run rampant alone at night, and into places of less than honorable repute.

He sighed. Things were definitely going to get ugly, and now they had an audience. Well, he mused, you couldn't help it, when you shut a pack of dogs into one room. Something was bound to happen, but could they at least remember they were half human also?

His eyes narrowed shrewdly as he perused the nobleman critically. Good clothes, money, and hell. An attitude to boot--probably a dandy. Had to be from the city, if not Greymanes' court. If so, why was he in a dilapidated place like Stormglen? What was he looking for, if anything? Political conspirators? The hounds? James almost laughed as he considered the latter of the options.

His attention was drawn back into the bar, as an old voice wheezed, "What's all this, then?"

And then he noticed the tattoo on the antagonists' arm, and knew that his impeccably tailored coat was about to get scuffed.

[[sidenote: James is dressed like this]]

Draining his glass of port, he set it aside, turning on his barstool to face the antagonists with a raised brow. His voice was mild, as he addressed them,

"Now, now, don't you think this a bit much gentlemen, especially with a young lady in attendance?"

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Before the three men had drawn his eye, Velkan shook his head wiping a few droplets from his shoulder. “Business. We see great potential in the seamsters of Stormglen, and I was sent to evaluate how Baskerville Textiles might best assist in their success. I would have headed back tonight had this storm not crept up so suddenly.” As he waited for his drink, Velkan’s lips thinned slightly as he noticed a shadow descend on his backside. His thoughts went immediately to the dagger under his vest, but hasty actions would negate the purpose of entering this seedy bar in the first place; he would ruin his suit. Also he had no idea how drunk or capable the figures were and had he reacted, his suit would be the least of his worries. “Calculate and move,” he remembered Fahrad drill into him.

The grip on his shoulder was firm and balanced. He was fortunate he had chosen inaction. He raised his hands slowly, turning 180 degrees to his left, forcing the arm off his shoulder without direct action. The men’s breaths smelled of alcohol, and he noted the tattoo. Great; trained men who were attempting to drown their problems. This was the last thing he needed. His father had made sure to remain out of the political mongerings of King Greymane and his pompous puppet politicians; still a business enterprise of their size was still entangled in some degree with the dealings of politics. He heard the man he tipped his hat to say “Now, now, don't you think this a bit much gentlemen, especially with a young lady in attendance?” Velkan nodded slightly at the logic of his words.

“Gentlemen, please. Simply because I choose to dress myself in finer wares does not imply my affiliation to any political power. I assure you I am not lost; I am here to get out of the rain, no more. Do not seek trouble where there is none. Now, please allow me to buy the next round of drinks for you and your men.” He tilted his head slightly looking to the barkeep before returning his gaze to the man in the middle of this small posse. While Velkan had kind features, his eyes did not seem to stare directly at the man, but rather past him as he lowered his arms. He was watching the drunken thug’s shoulders and waist. If the man moved in anyway, both body parts would project his intent early, and Velkan would know about it. “If you are so insistent about pursuing this discussion, I am sure we can arrange that outside of this establishment, so as not to… disturb this gentlemen’s other more peaceful patrons…” He stole a glance out of the dirty panes. “It does looks rather nasty out there.”

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Arthurs look of incredulity matched the three ruffians. "What the hell did he just say?" wondered the shortest of the trio.

"He's just trying to confuse us, alright boy your coming outside with us, time you learned why nobels are only welcome in the city." said the man behind Velkan.

Arthur nervously wiped away at a dirty mug. "Now gentlemen I dont think its really neccessary to bait the young gentleman he's just lost now isn't he? He ain't being ver-" Arthur was cut off as the tallest thug grabbed him by his collar from over the bar. "Now you listen here old man, you got alot of nerve sympathizing with Godfr-"

"I was one of Darius' gents thank you, and I'll tell you an-" Arthurs shaky interruption was again cut off as the thug shook him, then pushed him as hard as he could. The old man toppled backwards into his ales and sent a few bottles scattering across the floor some of which broke. Arthur, red in the face, slipped a little in the alchohal spilled. What had he done to deserve this? You can put all your effort into running a respectable bar and still some angry drunk will do his best to shake up what you have.

((I would like to take this opporunity to point out a few things from the first post guys. I would be looking for other roleplayers including you guys to play NPCs in future :) -Also we are gonna phase into other scenes as time passes by))

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Delancey had eased quietly into her chair at the table she'd selected, and mentally winced as she drew the attention of a few people in the tavern. She didn't make eye contact with any of them just yet. Instead, she busied herself by shrugging off her cloak and twisting in her seat to drape it over the back of her chair.

Her attention was quickly pulled back to the bar, however, as the small group gathered and began to exchange words. A faint frown touched her lips as she watched the three thugs do everything in their power to start some trouble. Why people bothered to act in such a way was beyond her. She felt herself growing irritated, as the confrontation began to escalate. Then one of them had grabbed Arthur and gave him a shove, causing the man to stumble and nearly fall.

"That is quite enough!" She snapped, pushing back her chair and marching over to where the group was clustered at the bar. "It's bad enough that you three come in here acting like ruffians when you should be happy to have a dry place to get out of the rain. Between the lot of you, I would hope that you'd manage to scrounge up at least enough maturity and class to allow those of us who would LIKE to have a nice evening some peace and quiet."

Her eyes flashed as she regarded the three trouble makers. It was unlike her to lose her temper like this, let alone speak to anyone in such a way. But the blatant disrespect towards Arthur and the other patrons had infuriated her.

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A steady stream of water dripped from the hood of her cloak as Miss Rebecca Victoria Rhomley made her way to Arthur's pub. A small white and light gray colored fox slinked a step behind her, his ears perked up sharply as another traveler misstepped, and stumbled. The unknown figure caught himself, and with a quick look around to see if any had witnessed his slip, continued on his way. The fox's ears folded back down against his head, his expression clearly showing disapproval of traveling in such weather.

Rebecca paused under the short awning to shake off some of the water caught in the folds of her cloak. The fox looked up at her expectantly and raised a paw, his eyes darting between her and the imagined warmth inside the door. Rebecca grinned and crouched down to tussle his ear. "I bet you regret terrorizing Mr. Tubbywinkle now, don't you, Captain Cotton? Arthur told me if I ever let you in here again, he'd never serve me another ale ever." Capt. Cotton's eyes widened as he gave her his best "Who, me, chase a cat, never!" look. She laughed and shook her head. "Come now, let us find a dry spot in the alley over here."

After seeing her companion safely holed up in an empty crate near by, Rebecca made her way back to the entrance of the pub. She glanced around to see if there was anyone close, and not seeing anyone pulled out a small pocket mirror. Her auburn hair was damp and flattened from the hood of her cloak, but presentable. A bit of lipstick and a quick spritz of perfume and she was ready. She pocketed the mirror and opened the pub's heavy door.

"...have a nice evening and some peace and quiet!" A young woman Rebecca recognized from previous trips through Duskhaven was confronting three rough looking men, with other patrons looking on with interest. Though her eyes were still adjusting to the lighting, she quickly guessed what one fine dressed man standing with three of Crowley's men meant and crossed the room quickly. She caught Arthur's eyes and waited for them to drift to the floor a pace behind her and then back to her. She winked and flashed him a bright smile before linking her arm around the closest aggressor's arm, pulling him around to face her.

"George-y! How good to see you again!" She stood close to him, fluttering her eye-lashes, one hand still on his arm, the other lightly pressed against his chest. She forced a look of complete adoration onto her face while placing one foot between his in such a way that she could have him incapacitated and on the floor if she shifted her weight just slightly.

The thug looked down at her in confusion. "Err, Ma'am, my name's not George..."

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*A young women, with light blond hair, peeking out from underneath the hood, that covered most of her face, slowly made her way into the bar. She slowly walks over to bar, and orders a glass of water. She sits down at the bar, slowly sipping her water. After a few minutes, she quietly gets up, and walks over to a nearby unoccupied table, and slowly sat down by it. She sat there, slowly slipping her drink, as she glanced around at the other patrons, of the club.*

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Right. Evaluate for a textiles business.. And I’m the bloody King of Gilneas, James thought to himself irritably. I suppose though, his story may check out. It is horrid weather for traveling.

He did feel sympathy for Arthur. Poor old chap was only a barkeep after all, and a respectable one at that. All it seemed to take was a noble wandering into town, to stir up the hot blood of the citizens.

"That is quite enough!" Snapped the young lady, snapping his attention immediately to her.

What is she.. Oh. Hell. He resisted the urge to sigh, again. All they really needed was a female getting her nose into a situation that could run afoul very quickly, to make matters worse. That, or make them worse anyways. He watched the play of anger across her face, inwardly knowing that something was bound to happen, and laid another payment for a drink upon the counter for Arthur.

“’Nother port, if you can” he nodded.

As the door open, he almost groaned, muttering quietly, “Bugger, they’re out in full force aren’t they, gents. What’s bringing young women to the tavern tonight?”

“Damn me, but I’d like to know that as well,” came a growled answer at his elbow from a withered older man.

“George-y’s about to find out.”

A round of raucous snickering echoed around at the comment, as ‘George-y’s’ neck went a beet red color.

What’s this one up to? James absently wondered. She wasn’t a meek one, no. He could see that now. Unlike the other, she’d sauntered in, similar to that of a cat. She was most definitely after something, although, she was about to diffuse this situation faster than a dwarf on ale.

“Ye go George-y!” One of the three original thugs snickered, “She’s got ye now!”

Most of the patrons turned their heads once again as the door opened, and a new female entered. The verdict? Innocent, as she found a corner of her own to hide in, and most of the attention drifted back to the fiery female among them.

This time, James did sigh, as he pushed out of his chair, drifting closer to the group of thugs. Best be close, if things got rough, he supposed. Slanting a glance towards Arthur, he checked the old mans’ state, before turning back to the men.

“Well gents. What say we have ourselves a drink? Textiles said he’d buy us one, so why not indulge it?”

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"Err, Ma'am, my name's not George..."

Eyes wide, Rebecca took a half step back, but left her hand on George's chest. "Not my George-y? Well then, I must beg pardon, kind...Sir." Her voice trailed off, a suggestion left hanging. Poor "George" grabbed the rim of his missing cap and made the motions of tipping it towards her. "No, er...problem, er...Miss, My name is Tim."

The door behind her opened up, and she resisted the urge to turn. One of the seated men by the bar stood and moved closer to the cluster. “Well gents. What say we have ourselves a drink? Textiles said he’d buy us one, so why not indulge it?”

"That sounds like a grand idea! Come Tim, let us sit at the bar and have a pint, eh?" She didn't wait for him to respond; she grabbed his arm and dragged him away from his friends. With a discrete lifting of her dark green skirt, she fluidly parked herself atop one of the stools, and dropped the hem of her skirt back down.

"Arthur! A pint of bitter for me and my new friend Tim on Textile's tab, please!"

Arthur huffed in acknowledgement, already pouring drinks for the others taking the dandy up on his offer for a round. He poured two pints and brought them over to Rebecca and Tim. He made a show of swiping his bar rag on the counter before placing the dark ales in front of them. "Where's your little demon, Miss Rhomley?"

"The Captain's out in the cold and damp, Arthur. I could go grab him..." She placed both hands on the bar and made to push off her barstool.

Arthur's face went red and he glared at Rebecca. "No. Absolutely not."

Rebecca shrugged and smiled. "Ah well, I've got jerked venison and some smoked sea bass for you if you'd be up for a trade. I kept the best cuts for you, as usual."

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Vincent looked around the establishment. He had come in to escape the heavy raining, which never seemed to cease in the closed off world of Gilneas.Dressed in a simple black overcoat and shirt, he didn't stand out much. He took a wide-brimmed hat off his head, revealing his face. He was obviously young, though not a child. His skin was very pale, and his long black hair covered most of his face, except for the eyes. When he took his hat off, his eyes were visible for a brief moment, white pupils with the same milky white irises.He kept his head down as he moved carefully to a table in the corner and lowered his head, listening to the sounds of the tavern.

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The young man seemed to be on edge, he had been gathering Herbs in the Blackwald forest, (Forest just north of Stormglen) and as always, the dark foreboding forest had scared the living daylights out of him. Nonetheless, his willingness to go there to collect herbs kept him with a full purse. He heard raised voices as he rode into Stormglen, they were coming from the pub. As he wanted to get out of the rain, he figured he would stop in for a drink and see what all the hub-bub was about.

A few men were having heated words, and one even took to pushing around the bartender, but a fiery young woman diffused the situation quite elegantly, and it seemed the rest were going about their way. He ordered a pint of beer and found a spot by the door, just in case another argument should arise. As he gazed out into the pub, he noticed a few young women. He himself was a fairly tall young man, with jet black hair and steely blue eyes. He was in good shape, but not exactly muscular, high cheekbones and long hair often got him mistaken for someone of higher standing, but his dirty clothes usually dispelled such notions.

As he looked about he wondered if any of these fine ladies would enjoy his company. He saw a man who seemed to be a long-term patron as he had sat very close to the bar and exchanged words with the bartender quite often, though he was now seated with a group of burly men. He walked over and introduced himself, "Hello friends, the names Lochlann." He tipped his hat to the men at the table, "Mind if I have a seat?"

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