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Post by Swampmist on May 2, 2017 22:17:09 GMT
AKA the Obligatory Roleplay Yourself\Your Avatar\Your main OC thread. The tavern lights slowly grow into a warming glow as the shudders over the windows and door whir to life, pulling up to allow the fresh air in. The place is incredibly spacious, with multiple floors and back rooms full of beds, tables, distilleries, training dummies, and other various odds and ends. The bartender, a teen who is quite obviously not old enough yet to drink what he sells, i resting his back against one of the pillars behind the bar, cleaning the dust of what few glasses he hasn't cleaned already, the trilby on his blond-haired head pulled low enough that he could me mistaken for sleeping where it not for the rhythmic movements of his hands. The Tavern of Lor was open for business. Now all that was left were for the patrons to arrive, for better or for worse. But Gods, did The Bartender hope it was for the Better...
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Post by Cryptix on May 2, 2017 23:51:32 GMT
(You have no idea what you have wrought upon yourself boy)
The entire tavern seems to shake as a giant Grolar stomps in. His autocannon is still smoking from whatever he just came from.
"Give me the ARCO special, on the rocks. I'm gonna need it for what I just went through, dogganm sewer gators..."
It is only when he lifts his helmet that you realize that there is a human in there, even if it's mostly machine.
"What's your name kid? Never seen you around here before. I'm Nikolai, though my friends call my Cryptix."
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Post by Swampmist on May 3, 2017 0:20:51 GMT
The bartender smiles as he tips his hat up, grey-blue eyes twinkling with child-like amusement.
"Name's Zane, though most know me as Swampmist. I whipped this place into shape after the old owners left. They were using it as a front for their pirating business, so they fled town after the authorities finally made the connection."
He points his thumb at a door to his left, and begins pulling out the various drinks required to make the ARCO.
"head in there; I've got something of a garage built up for you and your friends to use as a lounge. I'll bring you your drink when it's ready, so feel free to take a load off."
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Post by Cryptix on May 3, 2017 1:03:35 GMT
"Haha, thanks kid! The Wreckers will be pleased there's actually a place where they can sit without destroying a chair. I'll put in a word with Kommander Kharchev about you - while we're around, ain't no one gonna give you trouble, Khadoran's honor."
The man-machine hybrid moved towards the indicated door.
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Post by Swampmist on May 3, 2017 1:48:10 GMT
Zane gives a quick two-finger salute, and with insane speed begins mixing Nikolai's cocktail.
Through the door is a spacious room, so much so that for a moment you think that it can't be where you were a moment ago, though you quickly wave the thought away for the sheer impossibility of it. As Zane described, the room is a mixture between a lounge and a repair garage. Huge booth-like couches ring a center table area, with multiple bars and tables set up at the extremities covered with various tools, cloths, waxes, paints, coal stacks and everything else a warjack could ask for to keep themselves running happy and healthy. The central table has a series of panels and buttons installed, many labelled with pictures that make their purpose quickly obvious: Transforming the large table into one suited for a variety of activities, most involving playing cards, chips (or money, pick your poison,) and other implements of gambling.
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Post by Scrub_of_Menoth on May 3, 2017 3:29:07 GMT
A door leading to the lounge opens, and out steps a rotund man in what looks like the apron of a Protectorate Vassal Mechanik. He is even outfitted with the customary mask of the order, and has a huge Menofix dangling on an iron chain around his neck. Strange, what a Vassal of Menoth is doing inside a tavern far from Sul.
Stranger still, you find, is the instrument he is carrying. At first it looks like a wool mop; a typical sight in any respectable establishment. But at closer look shows a steel cylinder with a hose leading to a charred bell-shaped protrusion on the other end of the mop.
With a start, you realize this madman is using a flamethrower as a cleaning mop. What the f**k?
The man, known as Scrub, chuckles and starts cleaning up after the hulking Grolar that just made its way through the bar.
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Post by Swampmist on May 3, 2017 3:35:57 GMT
Zane drops the now finished ARCO into a small portal on the bar, sending it into the lounge where it lands on the large central table with a small pop. He then chuckles, and holds up a hand for The crub as he passes by the bar.
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Post by Scrub_of_Menoth on May 3, 2017 4:01:41 GMT
Scrub gives Zane a high-five and a nod, all the while continuing to mop floors. Seeing a particularly stubborn stain from an argument between mercs about game tokens, he flips his mop and tries to burn the stain away with a tiny lick of flame.
It doesn't work. He shrugs and moves on.
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Post by macdaddy on May 3, 2017 20:47:23 GMT
Rain starts to patter against the windows of the lounge wind begins to push against the walls from the outside causing small shuddering movements form the hanging lights and glasses. The door swings open with a gust of wind and rain comes through the entryway soaking the welcome mat at near the base of the door almost a full minute passes before a clocked figure walks through the doorway. His dark royal purple cloak is rimmed with thick white fur and his hood is pulled so only his mouth and thick bearded chin are visible. In his right hand is a large wooden staff which appears to be made of some pale sickly looking pine. The upper portion of the staff was wickedly hooked and barbed with Gold plated spikes. Following behind him are two incredibly odd characters, one of witch is a small troll whelp with a blueish white skin tone and an oversized head adorned with a Large Purple fedora with a Bright White and Gold Feather Sticking on the dark ribbon wrapping around the base of the hat. Next to him is a tall dark skinned Tharn woman, in typical tharn leathers her clefted dagger hanging loosley on her hip. Without a word they find a seat at one of the booths in the back corner of the lounge and once they sit the wind and rain ceases...though there is an odd breeze blowing from the direction of the new arrival.
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Post by Swampmist on May 3, 2017 21:28:05 GMT
Zane raises an eyebrow at the new arrivals, and points them at a "door" on the opposite side of the tavern from where Nikolai was currently seated, though door wasn't quite the word. It has a door-shaped opening, but instead was draped in grape vines.
"You guys might find the atmosphere more comfortable in there. Now then, what can I get ya?"
As Zane says this, he glances at Scrub, inclining his head toward the now soaked doormat. Looks like it was gonna be one of those days.
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Post by macdaddy on May 3, 2017 22:39:04 GMT
Intriguingly the whelp jumps upon the table and bombastically calls out "A Bloody Marry for the Lass and a Water for-" he is interrupted by a swift thwop on the head from the Druid. A Voice just bareley audible from across the room, deep and whispy like a breeze, floats to the bar "Forgive the whelp, I had thought training him to talk would make it easier for people to understand what I was saying...and mostly help them not be intimidated. Us blacklads tend to have a shady reputation. The Lady will have the drink the whelp requested and for now I'll just have whatever you recommend. We are fine here for now though my companions grow bored easily so I'm sure we'll explore soon enough" With that the whelp plops back in the seat rubbing his head and the breeze seems to drift softly away from the bar. The Tharn woman rolls her eyes and crosses her legs giving the whelp a glare of annoyance she mutters something to the Druid and gestures to the whelp with her knife, the Druid waves his gloved hand passively shaking his cloaked head and his shoulders rise and fall slowly as what seems to be a sigh is loosed from his lips.
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Post by Scrub_of_Menoth on May 4, 2017 13:27:02 GMT
Scrub greets the new arrivals with a wave and a nod, although he does mutter a bit at having to mop up all this rain.
He turns his flamethrower on the soaking wet welcome mat. It dries, while acquiring some tasteful scorch marks in the process.
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Post by Swampmist on May 4, 2017 16:22:22 GMT
Zane chuckles lightly, and begins whipping up a round of drinks. Seeing that the druid looks especially tired, he adds a touch of caffeine to his drink, then puts the whole round on a platter and drops it into a portal leading right to the center of the new arrivals' table.
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Post by macdaddy on May 4, 2017 17:16:56 GMT
The tharn woman hastily grabs her drink and pulls a odd looking flask from a leather satchel on her hip, she drips a dark red substance into the drink and takes a tip smiling, obviously pleased with the concoction.
The druid shakes his head and grabs his drink taking in a deep sip form his cup and lets out a satisfied breath and relaxes his shoulders. He glances over to the whelp who is struggling to reach the small sippy cup placed on the tray and with a wave of his hand the drink slides into the whelps grasp who gulps the the drink and sits back with a satisfied expression on his oversized face.
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Post by lasciel9k on May 8, 2017 15:23:21 GMT
A slim man, wrapped in a pale white leather cloak and wearing a mishmash of black hide and chain armor, sits quietly in a poorly illuminated corner stall of the bar. His cup now empty, he considers a refill for a good 15 minutes before making his decision. As he walks to the bar, his cloak is kept from his right side by an almost-too-long sword on his hip, apparently a claymore from one of the northern Nyss shards.
"Barkeep! One Rhulic whiskey, and a glass of water please. By the way, place looks nice, MUCH better than the last owners kept it. My name is Lasciel, blessed to meet you." As he looks towards the doorway where the Grolar-man went, he shakes his head. "Tsk, tsk. Some things should be left outside, y'know?" At that moment, sounds of dogs squealing in distress and fighting for their lives erupts from the window near Lasciel's booth. "Speaking of which, I must attend my charges... Be right back!" As he sprints out the door, he begins to pull his claymore from the sinewy belt he wears with his scaled right arm, and his wide-clawed draconic feet scratch the floors. "NO! *clack* DOWN! *crack* BACK! *WHACK* Next time, it won't be the sheath! Sit, or I feed you to Our Lord!" Growls continue as he comes back through the doorway, now slightly dampened by the rainfall even through his clothing. His cataract-riddled eyes seem like those of a weary parent. "Please, sir, make that 2 whiskeys... and by chance a steak. My Lord's children seem a bit hungry."
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