SPOILER: Click to show

The setting is in a bar. You are a traveller. Think of this as a Dungeons and Dragons sort of thing, without the rules, the dice, the character sheets, and the strict classes. Oh, but maybe there are dungeons, and maybe there are dragons! o:

What I need from you is your race and your "type" (magic, stealth, fighter). You should do this in your first post's narration as you're enter the game, so to speak. You can be whatever you want to be, do whatever you want to do~

Keep in mind that, while there are no real rules, the site rules should be followed. Also, I will allow skipping someone in the posting order to keep things flowing in they haven't posted in an acceptable time frame.

The half-elf sat at the bar, hunched back toward the rowdy patrons. Long, dull locks of amber hair spilled out from beneath the dusty hood, shielding the rest of her face from any curious onlookers as she stared intently at the empty tankard grasped within her elegant hands. A slender sword rested on her hip, scabbard adorned with an intricate silver pattern; it stuck out behind her person several more inches than what was considered polite. A second, smaller blade was situated on the opposite hip, faintly outlined by the brown cloak covering the majority of the barstool upon which she sat.

"Barkeep," a hoarse voice intoned, barely above a whisper in the ruckus behind her; the annoying noises were her punishment for sitting at the middle of the bar. "Another pint." In impatience or ensuring that her order had been received, a persistent tap-tap-tapping of the empty tankard followed her request.

SPOILER: Click to show

Human/Female/Rogue-Stealth with experience in rogue-things

A lone figure assuming the role of a wallflower lazily sat against a wooden chair in the furthest corner; her back arched as she sprawled against the furniture, whilst her left worn, darkly-brown, knee-high boot and joining leg laid upon the nearby table. Her right arm ran along the top of the table as her left arm acted as a makeshift pillow, supporting the nape of her neck as she idly lazed within the bar. Framing her strong, slim and seemingly agile body was a semi-tight, black fabric "under amour" of sorts, which ran from the tips of her toes to the collar of her chest, but became sleeveless at the shoulders. While it did reveal the litheness and toned frame slightly, it provided mobility and comfort. Surrounding this article of clothing were light yet durable plates, allowing protection and still preventing a decrease in movement - these were stationed at her chest/abdomen area, and the back of her hands trailing up to the middle of each forearm. Holsters ran along a dark-brown belt at the hip level, but were concealed under the table; containing thief-goods and twin daggers, as her right boot held a knife. At the back of this fabric was a hood, which rested beneath her makeshift pillow, while a bow and holster for arrows hung against the edge of the chair.

The hood revealed a pale, flawless face - full, soft lips to which a smile lingered, rosy cheeks, a small nose, a dainty facial shape and tantalizing eyes; which glimmered a golden-hazel-brown. Her brows, trimmed and kept, resembled the mixture of brown and blonde wavy-long hair, which had a peculiar, yet natural reddish tint to it. These waves rolled along and curled at the ends slightly, reaching past her chest.

Her slender digits drummed against the wooden surface, as her sly gaze surveyed the bar, muttering between her succulent lips, "Hm... What to do..."

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In the middle of the bar sat a rowdy bunch of dwarves that imbibed heartily the tavern's ale. Merrymaking and drinking were the only things they were concerned about, and if one were to eavesdrop, (as it was hard not to do with how raucous they were), they would hear the fond tales of battle and renown, and the mad gibberish of, well, drunken dwarves. But among these fine folk, two of which were stout fighters and one a jovial bard, sat a dwarf covered in a lustrous full plate. He was a fighter as well, and the three dwarves that sat and drank next to him were kith and kin.

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At the far end of the tavern, closest to the door, sat a half-orc. He was tall; when he stood, his head was only a foot, or so from the ceiling. He was made of blocky, powerful muscles and his skin was a dark greenish-grey. He had a large, ape-like brow with a shaggy mane of red hair hanging down to his shoulders. His eyes were set back into his skull, and colored a dark brown. His jaw jutted forward slightly, and from behind his lips peeked two thick, sharp tusks. His nose was broad and flat, and made him look all the more like a brutish beast.

The Half-Orc had a long-bearded axe leaning against the wall behind him; forged from Damascus steel, the axe rippled with black and silver lines. Its blade was a little under a foot wide, and well over that in length. The reverse side of the axe's head was not another blade, but rather swept back into a hard, brutal spike of metal.

The Half-Orc's clothing marked him immediately as a mercenary; his chest was covered by a plate of thick steel armor, and his shoulders were capped by small pauldrons. The plate was battered and scarred, but seemed structurally sound. His arms were bare, save for the leather-and-steel cestus he wore on each hand. The frayed seams of a white cotton shirt could be seen peeking out from under his plate armor. A thick black belt circled his waist, and he wore a pair of brown cotton pants. His boots were made of soft brown leather, oiled and scuffed and running up to his calf. He drank from a tankard, his eyes sweeping about the room. He was looking for someone, but he didn't seem to be able to find the target.

SPOILER: Click to show

Human/Mage/

IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT AS JOHN THE MAGE ENTERED THE BAR. Except it wasn't raining at all. Plus John tended to not pay attention to very obvious things so it was quite possible that it was still the morning. Now some may ask why such a respectable (insert coughing here) mage such as JOHN THE MAGE would be doing entering a bar. And if they asked JOHN THE MAGE would laugh and probably forget the question. Or maybe blow something up. Or he might even answer the question (as unlikely as that was).

But on the off chance that he did answer them he would tell that that his was on a GRAND EPIC QUEST OF MAGNIFICENT JUSTICE. For you see John the mage was the unfortunate victim of a horrifying CRIME OF BADNESS. While he was off doing something (he couldn't remember what exactly but it was undoubtedly something) SOME MEAN PEOPLE STOLE HIS WIZARD ROBES AND HAT. These two items were two of John's most prized possessions (even though they were worthless and he got them from a tailor on sale).

So after silently sobbing into his pillow for half an hour John then embarked on his GRAND EPIC QUEST OF MAGNIFICENT JUSTICE...AND VENGEANCE. And while he was on this GRAND EPIC QUEST John had managed to build up A GREAT AND REPUTABLE REPUTATION (mostly as that guy who randomly started to sob in the middle of a tavern when someone mentioned a hat...on three separate occasions). BUT JOHN HAD A GOOD FEELING ABOUT THIS TAVERN. He would undoubtedly find a clue so he could find this MEAN PEOPLE OF BADNESS and then he would use his magic to DO VERY BAD THINGS TO THEM THAT WOULD MAKE THEM RETHINK THEIR LIVES (for however long they would last).

And so John would have to make do with a grey tunic with some leather armor in place of his robes and hat. Keeping a few knives with him in addition to his HANDY DANDY MAGICAL BOOMSTICK OF MAGIC, John was well prepared for his GRAND EPIC QUEST. BECAUSE ONE CAN'T GO ONTO A GRAND EPIC QUEST WITHOUT WEARING SOMETHING. John was fairy certain there were laws against that sort of thing. Besides John would get cold if he did. AND THAT WOULD BE BAD.

So having entered the bar our hero looked around at the other patrons. There was a few dwarves, a half-orc (who looked like a very nice and respectable gentleman), some mysterious hooded figure at the bar and a lady who had her feet on the table. IT WAS UNDOUBTEDLY THE LADY WHO HAD STOLEN HIS HAT AND ROBES. But John would need proof before he started to warp the fabric of reality in order to cause explosions. Especially after what happened last time.

So after shooting the lady a look that said "I know what you did and I'm watching you" John went up to the bar in order to talk to the barkeeper. Afterall it was a SCIENTIFICALLY PROVEN FACT OF MAGIC that barkeepers knew everything that ever happened or would happen. And thus after taking a seat next to the hooded figure, John asked the barkeeper, "So have I hear that you know something about wizard hats and robs that may have gone...missing." Undoubtedly this barkeeper could direct him to the lady who was OBVIOUSLY part of some sort of DIABOLICAL BLACK MARKET that fenced wizard hats and robes. "Also I'll take a glass of milk." John added. He would need something to drink for his stakeout.

Little did John know that his robes and hat were waiting for him in the other wardrobe which he hadn't bothered to check.

He was a little drunk.

The glass in front of him would not, nay! Refused to! stay in focus. He tried staring at it intently. That made it worse. He tried covering one eye. Twice. Then the other. Then both. At once! Darkness surrounded him! He closed his eyes. That didn't help. Now he was dizzy.

He hiccuped.

To the casual observer, he was but a man. A man who, judging by his garb, would be mildly handy in a fight. He wore a shirt and pants. And a belt. But over those mundane articles of clothing he also wore leather armour! Of the vest-like variety. And vambraces. And boots. And a wicked looking knife. Which is less attire and more armament, but whatever.

To a casual observer, he was but a man. A very drunk, armed and armoured man. With disheveled, wild hair.

He made a grab for his drink, which was wobbling about the table. He missed, lost his balance, and ended up on the floor. As did his drink. The tavern ceiling was slowly rotating around him. He raised one absurdly heavy and awkward fist, straight-ish out in front of him. It swayed gently, in an almost 90 degree angle from the floor. He called out, "Another!"

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SPOILER: Click to show

Warlock/Half-Drow
Name: Ai Bytte d'Tru

Adjusting his robes, the pointy eared fellow ventured down the stairs. His day of 'rest and relaxation' at an end. With a sly grin across his face, he rose his hood up over his head and gave the lower of his robes one last adjustment whilst kicking out each leg and giving it a wiggle. Oh yes, he was limbered up and ready to go for whatever.

He had quite the warm up.

Tossing the owner of the establishment a silver coin and slumped onto a stool at the bar and with a huff and gestured for the man to come closer. "That one is a keeper my friend, keep her in your services and your profits are going to double within the moon's cycle." He flashed another grin and ordered some hot wine.

He needed something to quench his thirst after such busy 'work'.

SPOILER: Click to show

anyone else who wants to participate, feel free to pop on in!

The mission was simple enough: find the defector. He had volunteered to fetch her; he had trained with her, befriended her, fought with her, protected her, and now, he would save her. When he heard she had left the Order, he was devastated, confused, and furious with her. They had worked so hard for this, and she just threw it all away! His devotion drove him, pushed him beyond his limits (she was always better at tracking than he was), and fuelled him until he reached the crossroads.

He had turned south, toward a small village he’d never heard of. Near the end of his expedition, when he was able to discern individual dwellings upon the horizon, a group of highwaymen appeared, interested in the gilded plate he wore. The fight was not spectacular, certainly not for one of his caliber, but someone managed to get that lucky strike and wound him. Resuming his journey, with adrenaline coursing through his veins, he slowly bled into his plate. His mount, a young, untested destrier, carried him toward the village, continuously shying to the right from the scent of blood following it; he foolishly assumed it was worked up over the fight.

A man came around the slight bend, startling the horse. Already panicked from the battle and the blood chasing it, it bolted with a speed unlike that the paladin had ever endured. He lost his seat, suddenly too weak to hold on, and slammed into the packed earth below. His breath came out in ragged gasps as the weight of his plate pressed into his chest. He spotted the man walking over slowly, sliding in and out of focus as he waned toward oblivion. “Please, help...me...”

---

Today is not my day, the middle-managed man behind the bar thought sadly as he wiped the grime about a tankard with an equally grimy rag. There were loud dwarves, drunkenly rambling on about something or other, an equally drunk man flailing on the floor in, the barkeep hoped, ale; at least he good grace, or luck, to not slam the tankard against the ground. Begrudgingly, he poured the man another tankard, signaled for a bar-wench to come and collect, then turned his attention back to the crowd.

There were a few half-breeds, both intimidating in their own right – the half-orc with his massive axe and surly posture, and that infuriating warlock who insisted on bedding not only the wenches plying their trade upstairs, but his beloved wife and daughter. Were he not a coward, he most certainly would poison the greyskin’s wine; instead, he slammed the tankard down the rough surface, not caring that the staining liquid would seep into the grain, and went to the next customer.

The female patrons, at least, had proved less of a nuisance; both kept to themselves, although the pretty one seemed to be watching everyone else, which made him uneasy – he had felt her gaze upon him more than once. The one at the bar, on the other hand, kept her head down and hood up, seemingly trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. All kinds came to his tavern – he had learned over the years to differentiate and decipher the body language of the many races, and it was in his good interest to not intrude on this one.

He chanced another look in her direction, to see if she needed anything; instead, he happened on a particularly jovial man sitting immediately beside he hooded figure. As the barkeep approached, the man asked a rather strange question. Blinking in disbelief for a moment, as he regarded the man, the barkeep shook his head sadly, and sighed. “Can’t say I have, lad. Only thieves ‘round these parts make off with what little coin we have.” He paused a moment, then shook his head. “Don’t think there’s a market for fancy mage garb, least not ‘round here.” With that said, he gave the unfortunate man his warm milk with the cream right on top in a somewhat clean tankard, and went back to the center to handle the line that was forming, accidentally ignoring the woman in the corner.

---

The Man’s smile, shrouded in darkness, widened as he approached the dying paladin. What luck! Just the kind of man he was looking for, made it so much easier. “There there,” he said softly, kneeling down to grasp the dying man’s outstretched hand. He murmured soothing words, weaving the spell as he spoke. Arcane wisps surrounded the clasped hands, unfurling and caressing the man as he drew his last breath. Howling with laughter, the Man stepped back clapped his hands together. “Rise! Rise!”

The dead man rose into the hair, back arched and limbs limp. His head rolled to the side, vacant eyes resting on the Man. The body stiffened before the Man, who grinned and clapped; a fiery explosion of magic surrounded the body before slipping inside it. It lowered to the ground, smoldering. It shuddered once, twice, and a third time before finally rising. He was once handsome, even with the broken nose; now, his skin was a slickly shade of green, his blue eyes black. The gilded mail had been spared any serious damage, though it seemed to emit a slight black aura.

The Man chortled with absolute glee as he circled the risen knight, inspecting his handiwork. He paused behind, as though inspecting a small scuff in the back of the mail. With another grin, the Man pulled a wicked, twisted dagger and a thin slip of parchment from the confines of his black cloak, and drove it into the knight’s spine. “GO NOW!” he demanded. “Deliver it! Destroy them!” He howled with laughter once again as the risen knight slowly shuffled down the road, and toward the village. Oh, what fun this would be!

---

He died. Came back? No. Blood, so much blood. He died? No. Came back. Head hurting. So confused!

He, he remembered. A woman. A, a quest? No. Mission. Capture her!

The fog cleared for but a moment, and with it his sense of purpose came rushing back.
Protect her, save her!
Just a flash, and then it was gone. But it was enough. He remembered.

No, deliver! Destroy!

Door. Can’t open. He kicked it. It opened. Stepped inside.

OH THE SCENTS! THE SWEET SCENTS OF LIVING FLESH!

What?! NO!

Grapple, lose, tackle. The step forward hindered by his own foot. Crash.

---

While waiting, the half-elf’s hands had released the tankard from the vice-like grip. The left hand rested gingerly upon the counter, fingers steadily drumming against the rough counter, while her right snaked into her cloak, reassuring herself that something was still there. She rose her head slightly, enough to glance over her shoulder should she wish, and waited. In anticipation, she lips parted slightly as she moistened them with her tongue. Her eyes settled on the man she had addressed not too long ago, watching him go about his business.

Several minutes passed, and she still hadn’t been served. Well aware of her own hoarseness despite the tankard she’d finished, she assumed that she simply hadn’t been heard over the fracas within the tavern. She opened her mouth to ask again, only to be cut off as a man in travelling garb plopped down beside her. Her jaw snapped shut, sending a mild ringing through her ears, as her entire body stiffened at the gross invasion of her privacy; a moment later, she forced her body to relax–going from an overstrung bowstring to one held at a point of caution– and resumed her original, hunkered down position.

She waited until the barkeep came to serve the newcomer, who was asking in a rather conspiratorial intonation, about a supposed theft of wizardy clothing or some such nonsense; while she did not care to hear of this person’s troubles, troubled as they were and she had her own, her trained ears did so anyway, and she began to wonder if there was any truth to these allegations. The barkeep had heard nothing of this supposed rumor, gave the man his milk, and departed with hardly a glance in her direction. Abruptly, she stood up, scraping the barstool back several inches in her haste, and made to slam her tankard hard against the counter; the connection was simultaneous with the crashing of the door, shards of clay lost amongst the ensuing chaos.

People kicked in doors for a few reasons: First and foremost, it was to make a statement; a grand entrance. Kicking the door in, to these people, meant 'I own this place, and anyone who wants to question it can line up to receive their butt whoopins right the fuck over there.'. These people were troublemakers. So were the other type. The other type were idiots. Graven loved how simple things got when the sun went down. He reached for his heavy axe as the man lurched forward. A low growl rumbled in his throat, deep and primal. The man fell on his face...but Graven didn't change his stance.

There was something wrong about this man; fundamentally, irrevocably wrong. He was a perversion against the natural order, and that corruption ran so very deep that even a halfwit half-orc like Graven could sense it. He took up his axe, standing on the shambling man's left, a few feet away. "Anyone who doesn't want to die, stay back." He meant it too; swinging around that monstrous axe was tough enough without having to worry about hitting innocent by standers. If he cleaved some drunken sod in half, he might feel a twinge of regret later. Maybe.

Unlikely.

He squared his shoulders, took a stance, rose the axe up over his shoulder, and fixed his red eyes on the shambling man in armor. "First, last, and only warning you will receive. Stand up slowly. Draw a weapon, and I'll split your head like a rotten melon." He spoke too soon, realizing the man had a dagger jutting out of his back. "Ugh...or don't." He felt silly now, threatening a dying man with an axe. No one had ever accused Graven of being particularly observant.

[bgcolor=000000]He smirked and took a whiff of his wine, not a fine vintage but it would do. He drank it down all at once and tossed the empty tankard over his shoulder whilst wiping his mouth and chin with a sleeve. And then a crash, shards of clay flying about.

How terribly annoying, a ruckus disrupting his day and what more it was followed by a thud. He shook his hooded head and turned (noting the swordswoman jutting back away from the bar, tense) his gaze to see the orc standing before a downed man. It then warned people to stand back, as if he needed said warning. Orcs, half-breeds or not were savage unintelligent brutes at the best of times, but they did not boast without reason for if one thing they knew was violence. He had once met an orc with a club and while he only knew one word in the common tongue (aside from his crude name), that word described him perfectly. For all he did was smash.

Regardless of any of that, upon craning his neck to see what was the fuss he noted a man, caked in his own blood and shit, obvious signs that this one was already dead. In the Warlock's profession, and yes it was a profession, one could tell when magic was afoot by a simple look, and this corpse was being manipulated but such forces. The choice on how to deal with such a threat was evident.

Extending a single finger, he pointed at the dead man. The Warlock's eyes would glow a golden orange as the lines upon his outstretched hand followed suit, the very blood in his veins boiling causing him pain. Focusing his pain he triggered his spell causing flames to leap up around the knifed man. They would scour the man's entire frame as they leapt up tickling the ceiling with their wicked bite before dying down slightly (a foot or so above the corpse now). The flames would die away soon on their own in most cases, however this was a bar. The chances of him causing a chain reaction with spilled drink here or there was quite possible, did he care? Not really.

Once his spell had been cast, he would turn on his stool back toward the barkeep and gesture toward the tense one. "Get this one a drink will ya." He grumbled, the pain in his arm subsiding.

To the warlock's immense displeasure, his spell had the opposite effect: the shambling man appeared to absorb the magic flames cast upon him, looking no worse for it. He seemed to be looking better, truth be told; his gilded mail, marking his status as a Paladin of The Order, glowed in a pulsating manner, his skin took on a less grey hue.

If the Man was to have it his way, his thrall would obliterate the offender in the most blunt of ways: send his magic back at him tenfold. Alas, the thrall was still reeling from its fall, thus far unable to rise, and therefore unable to do so. Lucky, as that Orcling would rend him in two the moment he tried to stand. Or unlucky, if you were the Orcling; the magic absorbed from the halfbreed would've unleashed on him.

Funny how things worked that way, eh? Hehehe....

Nodding in response to the barkeeper's answer, John let loose a "Hmmmmm" FOR IN THIS CASE A HMMMMMM WAS NECESSARY. Obviously the thief was crafty if she was even able to fool the bartender. BUT JOHN WOULD EXPOSE HER FOUL CRIMES AND BRING THIS HORRID MARKET TO THE LIGHT. Where he would then smash it into pieces with explosive magic. BUT FIRST HE WOULD HAVE TO FIND OUT WHERE THE MARKET WAS SO HE COULD CONDUCT HIS DARING RESCUE. Perhaps this could be accomplished by finding allies. He could even let the thief into the group as a reverse mole. THIS WAS A PERFECT PLAN.

Having received his milk, John was just about to take a sip of it and allow himself the small amount of relaxation that it would bring WHEN SUDDENLY THE PERSON NEXT TO HIM SLAMMED HER TANKARD DOWN ON THE GROUND AND STARTLED JOHN. Quickly moving his arms up in suprise this caused the entire glass of milk to fly out and cover the area around him in milk. Staring at the empty glass with sad puppy eyed expression, John was on the verge of sobbing. "My...my milk." John sadly said as he continued to stare at the empty glass.

Plus there was also a magical zombie that had just kicked the door down, was just hit by magical flames sent by another patron and then it absorbed the magic which was now building up to send out a pulse of energy if John's theory on what would happen was correct. BUT NONE OF THAT WAS AS IMPORTANT AS THE TRAGEDY THAT JOHN HAD JUST SUFFERED DUE TO THE LOSS OF HIS MILK.

Continuing to stare at his glass even as all of this happened, it would take more than a magical zombie sending out a magical pulse (most likely) in order to distract John from this tragedy. WHOEVER SAID THAT IT WAS NO USE CRYING OVER SPILLED MILK DIDN'T KNOW WHAT THEY WERE TALKING ABOUT.

An eavesdropper she was, along with a trouble-making thief; thankfully slipping away from detection before the general public could put a vague description of the culprit. So, she stared rather eerily at the patrons of the tavern, occasionally switching 'channels' akin to a radio station – opting to engage in selective hearing rather than typical noise and avert her gaze with each 'flicker' of the station. What she couldn't decipher through hearing, she attempted to decode through lips and respective gestures. The group of dwarves was obviously of the first to be heard, telling tales of glory and merriment; followed by commoner discussion, so then the woman decided to scan the room.

Upon her 'search', Curnain came to the realization of the awkward Half-Orc in the room, playing the role of the 'elephant', at least, in her mind. Whereas she was quick and nimble, he was a strong force to be reckoned with, and so her conclusion leaned toward leaving him alone. As she began considering her 'options', Curnain removed her appendage from off the table and back down underneath it; catching a dirty look from an ordinarily dressed man. "What was that for?" She mused, seemingly indifferent about the situation, since she didn't want to reveal any sort of nature that would make her look suspicious.

Although she was doing a rather good job with the way she stared distrustfully and suspiciously…

Looking back to the other patrons, there was an average drunkard, who had too much to drink, a drow-elf of sorts who descended from the upstairs, and a cloaked figure at the counter. She could care less that the barkeep had forgotten her; after all, she was after the loot and treasures of an 'incapacitated' drunk, at least in the future. Well, it seemed at that right moment, that things would be going as well as she anticipated, until load 'clanking and crashing' could be heard.

Between the cloaked figure and the kicked-in door, Curnain didn't provide much of a reaction, being that those closer to the ongoing situation contributed more than enough action to address the 'conflict'. The orc had sworn to cleave the unnatural man's skull into two, while the warlock did some pointless stuff, in her opinion. Regardless, she watched, wondering if this was perhaps an unintended show, or if things were about to become serious, even enough to consider fleeing. Either way, her body tried to shield itself with the wooden table in front of her; and perhaps in a motion or two, it'd be semi-flipped to further protect her being.

Seems like it was an intriguing day here at this bar.

You could leave it to the dwarves to not show any concern about any of the recent progressions. They were so absorbed in their ramblings that they paid no mind; in fact, the bard in the group began to sing even louder, and in a loud voice another of the dwarves ordered for more ale. Aye, it was of no concern indeed. Unless, of course, if they didn't receive their drinks.

Then would there be a problem.

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Today really was not his day. First, rowdy patrons - that he could handle - but now, things were kicking down his door and falling all over the place.... In his frustration and exasperation, the barkeep had a fleeting moment of concern for the man wallowing in ale on the floor -- the last thing he needed was to clean up the bloodstains from a squashed man. Assuming that both he and his bar lived through this.

Due to this preoccupation, the exasperated man behind the counter did not manage to get the dwarves their next round, nor the milk man, nor did he grant an eye to the female elf; upon the door-kicking and man-falling, the barmaids scuttled away like the vermin they were, leaving him alone to deal with this mess. Ignoring the patrons and the chaos before him, the barkeep went along the back of the bar, looking for his special weapon; if anything, the stick was more of a security blanket than actual weapon, as he'd never managed to make it work. Sometimes, life gives you lemons, and you never get a chance to make some lemonade before a dead man comes tumbling into your bar.

---

Face hurting. Chest hurting. Back burning.

He tried to push himself up. Failed. Arms not working.

Head fogging. Fight it, fight it!

The Dead Man gave a great shudder as the would-be flames wracked his body before he absorbed the magics behind the spell. The magics energized him, giving him the much-needed strength to find purchase on the slick ground. His armor creaked and groaned as he tried to push himself up, joints popping with the extra effort. Finally, he made it to his knees, body slanted to one side like, as though he had suffered an apoplexy. His head rose, black eyes locking on the bodies ahead of him, predator on prey.

A thick, black liquid oozed from around the blade in the Dead Man's back, emitting a purulent odor. It seeped down the contours of the plated mail, collecting in pits and valleys and bubbling. Once enough of the liquid had coalesced, the real fun would begin. For now, however, it was content to gently ooze from its carrier, feeding off what emotions the Dead Man still possessed, and those of which he had evoked.

Fighting desperately against gravity, the Dead Man gave a low moan. He caught sight of the cloak, one like the one he had worn lifetimes? ago. Was this her? The woman he'd been searching for, to bring back home? He opened his mouth to call out to her, but nothing came out.

A second attempt, again met with no success. He grew panicked, mind reeling back into Chaos. A low growl resonated from within, rising up and bubbling through the thick clot of death within his collapsing throat; it came out as a forlorn wail before sharply dropping in pitch until it reached that of the groan of the undead. His last thought before succumbing to the darkness seeping from his wounds was of her, her name dying on his dead lips.

Aiiiiiraaaaaaaannnn

---

Again, her attempt at gaining the man's attention was lost due to a greater circumstance. Perhaps this was a sign, a direct interference from the Gods above, to stop with the squalor and return to the Order. Perhaps it was an unlucky coincidence. Either way, it was unwelcome, and her frustration had reached its peak.

She turned as the shambling man came to a halt on the floor. Her cowl slipped off as she rotated, body naturally rising to the power and poise she had so desperately been trying to hide. The dull amber hair cascaded down to her shoulders in gentle ringlets; subconsciously her hands went to smooth it back from her face to behind her tipped ears to ensure her field of vision was at its maximum. A fresh scar curved along the contour of her left cheek, an apparent partner to the faint one across her right eyebrow; both eyes had been blackened, her lip had split, but the fire burning in her mismatched eyes had not been dampened.

Her dominant hand came to a rest upon the hilt of the sword on her hip while the other hung loosely at her side, empty of its lost shield. The brown cloak, now swept aside by her posturing, revealed the same plate as that decorating the dead man, had any onlooker managed a glance before he collided with the ground. Polished steel provided the neutral backdrop for the gilded sun-and-shield emblem of the Order, still shining through the battlestains.

As did the mage beside her, the half-elf sensed the magic from afar. She sensed two separate sources of magic, one directly in front of her, and the other from somewhere behind. As she was about to chance a glance over her shoulder to pinpoint the source, she caught sight of the dagger embedded in the dead man's back; her eyes widened in recognition of the craftsmanship. To most, the blackened blade of legend was exactly that, a legend. The stories surrounding it had all vanished, save the most outlandish ones that parents use as empty threats.

For the Order, the legend was very real, the threats dangerous. And now it was here, right in front of her eyes.

She sensed the magic building from the caster behind her, and chancing the risk of turning her back on the thrall, she turned around and opened her mouth to scream at him; she was too late, the man had fired. "You idiot," she hissed, voice unable to go much higher than the breathless wisps passing her lips. "Do you know what you've done?!" With all the blood rushing to her ears, she missed his comment regarding the drink, and upon only seeing the cast-off wave, assumed that he didn't care in the slightest.

She swore, an action unbecoming of her faction, and returned her attention to the thrall struggling to its feet. Something about it was familiar, but she couldn't place it; the armor was certainly expensive, so it must've been a lord or a knight while living. It wasn't old enough to have mastered the use of its limbs, so it had to have died outside of the village not long ago. The Necromancer would have been close by, then; no one, sane or otherwise, would leave such a powerful weapon in the incapable body of a thrall.

She was formulating her plan when it reached the sitting position. Her eyes snapped to it, hand loosening the blade from its scabbard in preparation for an attack. Its mouth opened and closed, soundlessly attempting to speak. It was then she saw the nose, that specific shape of its nose....

Then it groaned, a hopeless, human sound. A sound not unlike that of her own name. Airan.

"No...."

JOHN WAS STILL STARING AT HIS SPILLED GLASS OF MILK AND TRYING NOT TO SOB. It was a difficult task, BUT JOHN WAS TOUGH AND WOULDN'T BURST INTO TEARS (again). Noticing that the bartender seemed to flee the scene, John was saddened even more. HOW WOULD HE GET HIS MILK NOW.

But soon all of that EMOTIONALLY SCARRING SADNESS turned into annoyance at THE EVILDOER OF EVILNESS who had kicked in the door and caused him to spill his glass of milk. JOHN WOULD DEFEAT THIS EVIL MILK SPILLING FOE AND AVENGE THE LOSS OF HIS MILK. It's all he could do now. It might not bring the milk back BUT IT WOULD MAKE JOHN FEEL BETTER.

Plus now that he could actually see the magic absorbing zombie, John noticed the knife on it's back before the zombie went onto it's knees. THAT KNIFE WOULD BE GREAT FOR CUTTING BUTTER. Plus it was apparently magical (and bad smelling). BUT THAT JUST ADDED FLAVOR TO THE BUTTER. "I have dibs on that knife. I needed a new butterknife." John announced to everyone at the bar as he came up with a DARING PLAN OF ATTACK.

It was obvious that the zombie was able to absorb magic using its EVIL MAGIC ABSORBING ZOMBIENESS. So John would have to fight using the only way he knew how. WITH MAGIC. Taking out one of his smaller knives, John would utter a few words of EXTREME POWER AND MAGICNESS. Words that could SHAKE THE VERY FOUNDATION OF THE UNIVERSE. "Klaatu Barada Nikto." John said as the knife levitated out of his hand and shot towards the zombie's head.

While the zombie could absorb magic, John figured that merely using magic to propel an object extremely fast (such as what he was doing) would still be effective versus the creature given that the knife itself wasn't magical at all. Or John would have been figuring that but he was too busy figuring out a MUCH MORE IMPORTANT QUESTION. "Was it Nikto? It might have been Necktie. Or Niknak."

Graven moved out of the way as the magic lanced past his shoulder and into the shambling man. Great, now he had to deal with SPELLCASTERS too. He growled and shot an ugly look over his shoulder, directed right at the warlock...of course, all his looks were ugly, but this one was downright mean. He turned back to the man, only to see a magically charged knife go whizzing by. This was just getting better and better by the minute.

The man was up again, and looking...a bit more hale and hearty than he had been moments before. The thing ate magic? Well, that wasn't a problem. Graven didn't use magic. Magic was too complex, too prone to go awry. It had its uses, but Graven preferred to keep things simple. Graven's way was very, very simple.

"GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWG!!!!!!!!!!"

The prelude to a massive power swing. He brought his axe sweeping over his head, and then brought it crashing down with the full potential force of nearly his entire upper body. The swing could have cleaved a middling maple tree in half. What it would do to an armored Zombie if it connected fully? Who knew for sure? All Graven knew was that he was bringing the sharp edge of that axe right down towards the zombie's left shoulder, angled so that if it hit it would sheer through its body, starting where the shoulder and the neck met, and following through to the opposite hip. It would be quite an impressive feat...if it hit.

Things went from bad to worse in a matter of moments. Any trained mind, or one taught to painstakingly analyze everything before acting, would have recognized the dangers of a being that absorbed magic cast upon it – what goes in must come out. Unfortunately, that being happened to be the undead thrall of a necromancer, and anything undead had a tendency to invoke the more...primal instincts of a sentient race.

An unfortunate justification for the weapons flying toward the thrall trying to right itself upon the slicked floor.

The flying dagger, propelled by magic, struck the thrall in its chest, catching halfway through the thickness of the plate; the armor had been designed to protect the wearer from such direct attacks. The strike from the axeman, on the other hand, would have been considered a success: it cleaved clean through the shoulder and onward, meeting no resistance. Until it reached the blade in the thrall's back.

The blade, wicked as it was, had not only drawn the magic from the warlock's attack, but also the magic behind the flying dagger (it had veered off-course due to pull of the blade); this property was a defense mechanism, designed to protect the weapon from any attempt at destruction, intentional or otherwise. The moment its position within the dead man shifted, it unleashed the stolen energy in a single, violent burst.

Pieces of the dead man would drop to the soiled floors with a sickening plop. The burst of power, nonfatal even to those standing in immediate proximity to the source, carried smaller chunks of flesh as it rocked through the dingy tavern; candles within the lanterns extinguished, intact tankards shattered, unsecured bits of furniture disassembled or disintegrated, while larger items suffered an unceremonious dislodging and toppled over.

Eheheheheh...oopsie~

There were very few moments in a man's life when he was grateful to be unable to stand, lying on the floor of a very dirty tavern in the spilled beer, general detritus of the road, and other unfavourable things.

There was a lot of noise. Well, a lot more noise. People shouting, doors being kicked in. Things like that. It made his head hurt. He briefly considered getting up, to investigate the source of the noise, but thought better of it when he couldn't convince his legs how to function. He stared at the ceiling, content in the knowledge that whatever was happening was happening over there, and was of no concern of his.

And then something exploded. Something fleshy. Ew. Bits of it landed around him. He reached up for his drink as he considered the strange turn of events, only to discover that it was no longer there. In fact, neither was his table. Or his chair. Huh.

And as he lay there, staring at the ceiling, he was grateful that he was already lying on the flat of his back.

[bgcolor=000000]Well things could be worse. Sure his initial attack didn't work and he felt a chill down his spine a moment ago (as he had turned back around to face the bar so the look from the orc would be missed). But now he was wet. And, as luck would have it, on the other side of the bar he was once sitting at.

Confused. Yes, that would be a good way of putting it. He blinked up at the ceiling which he was now looking at, tiny bits of the dead man either sticking to it or falling down from it in a gory mess. Sitting himself up, he groaned, far more than tiny bit sore, understandably considering he was just sent ass over tea kettle. Looking at his robes, he noted the bits of man on his sleeves, plus what could only be described as a pus like substance dripping from them.

"I think.. I need a stronger drink.... Barkeep!"

Graven, it seemed, was forever doomed to find himself covered in unholy amounts of stinking gore. He stood there, a mountain of axe-carrying muscle, splattered from head to foot in thick, stinking blood and guts. A length of small intestine hung off his right shoulder, something immensely unpleasant dripping out of it. He heard the warlock say something about a stronger drink, blinked, and shook himself like a great dog. Things flew off of him in every direction, an he turned to the barkeep a bit cleaner than he had before. "Ditto on that...make mine a double."

The half-elf executed a remarkable will the moment her companion exploded; as bits and pieces of her lifelong friend rained down upon the tavern, she stood stoic, facing the reality before her. Memories of their time together replayed through her mind as the last chunks of flesh smacked against the wooden floors, tears unbidden welling in her eyes. Knees buckling, she sank to the floor, armor creaking as she finally broke.

[note: gonna do the rest in my next post; feel free to post in the interim o:]

Apparently John's BURNING RAGE at the loss of his milk fueled his spell even more than he thought it had. For instead of a standard flying knife that would pin this IRREDEEMABLE VILLIAN to the wall with the magic of physics and kinetic energy, John had created a SUPERSPELL OF SUPER PROPORTIONS. For it had caused the zombie to blow up into small chunks. But then again John was that good of a mage (not really).

However the force of the explosion had sent poor John over the bar and up against the wall. Reorienting himself John glanced to the side and what would he find. The answer of course was...HIS NEW BUTTERKNIFE. Which was stuck in the wall a few inches from his head. Taking the knife out of the wall and wiping it off on a nearby bar rag, John put the knife into his newly available sheath (it fit somewhat well) and stood up. HE WAS READY TO USE THIS NEWFOUND CLUE TO FIND THE EVIL THEIVES MARKET WHERE HIS HAT AND CLOAK WERE.

However that was when he noticed the person who had COMPLETELY DESTROYED poor John's prized RANDOM GLASS OF MILK. By all rights he should have been angry with her for such a HORRIFIC CRIME AGAINST MILK. But instead he felt bad for the person for she had fallen to her knees in grief. One would think that she had just learned that one of her closest friends had just been murdered, raised as a zombie then murdered a second time (with explosions) right in front of her. But John knew that was not the case (what were the odds of something like that anyway). For John knew the true reason she was so sad. She undoubtedly felt so guilty about spilling John's milk that she had suffered a breakdown due to the guilt. BUT JOHN WOULD ASSURE HER THAT EVERYTHING WAS OK.

Going up to the guilt ridden paladin, John gave her an encouraging pat on the back and said, "Don't worry, there is no need to blame youself." Undoubtedly these AMAZING WORDS OF WISDOM would help the paladin find peace with her HORRIFYING CRIME.

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SPOILER: Click to show

Race: Dark Elf(Drow.) Sex:Male. Class:Mercenary captain. (Stealth/warrior.)Name: Dinafin Tul Vandree. Attire: Two intricate silver gilded and sheathed scimitars; enchanted with haste spells, black leather knee high boots with enchanted chainmail inside, black leather pants with a knee length black leather and chainmail fauld and belt, matchingly so a black leather and chainmail tunic and vest, blackened mail and mithril elbow length gauntlets, and a black leather fedora, with a pithy purple long feather; enchanted with a heaven enchantment, making him or any wearer, immune to mind reading and delving.

As his centuries of living above the surface made him accustomed to human stench and bars, seeming to almost enjoy their meals and drinks, his true passion was feeding on the sorrow contained within.

He soon entered the bar, his tall, black leather with chainmail clad body, stood at the door frame. Viewing out and unto the customers here on this night, spotting only one that cought his interest; The only other Drow here. He shifted forward as his black leather fedora complete with a pithy purple feather bobbed slightly, his pectoral length white hair shifting slightly, as he approached the other drow, the two scimitars at his side in their intricate silver sheathes shined softly.

As he got close enough, he would say ominously to his kin, "Another Drow? Fancy meeting a kinsman here. Barkeep! A bottle of your best Viruvian bloodwine.", his wicked smile, that bared his pearly white teeth and pointed canines, common to his kind, flashed bravely as his amethyst eyes shined, reaching into his armors left inner breast pocket to toss the Barkeep a small satchel of silver. What parts of ebony skin showed were flawless and appearingly soft, and like most elven kind, he was beautiful to look at.

The new arrival would find his mood about to take a turn for the worse for several reasons: firstly, the care with which he took to ensure his person was as impeccable as possible would be threatened as bits of gut and gore would adhere to his attire as he strode through the length of the tavern to approach the half-elf at the bar, via boot or gravity; secondly, the barkeep was nowhere to be found - moments after the dead man had exploded into that chunky mess, he found the now-considerably dulled edge of the blade used by the mage embedded in the wall beside his face. The coward's knees buckled under his weight as he passed out, hidden from view, rendering all patrons requiring a refill dry for the remainder of the evening. Thirdly, those sane enough to realize danger had fled as soon as he, the drow, crossed the threshold, leaving little for him to feed off. For now, the rogue, a single dwarf, the mages at the bar, a fortunate man wallowing in filth on the floor, the half-orc, and the paladin were all that remained, some better off than others.

John, who had incurred the majority of the misfortune for the evening by picking up his new toy, soon approached the half-elf in mourning; the blade at his side would emit a low humming noise, as though it still underwent the after-effects of the recent expulsion. In truth, it did require a period in which it could recharge itself, but by sheer chance it happened to come across another mage. Soon, it would begin anew. Now, it had to wait.

Airan made no sound, no motion as the drow passed her by, other than the involuntary cringe as he stepped on what remained of the dead man's hand. The metallic thunking of a ring under foot caught her attention, however, and as the elf passed through the carnage, she reached out and gingerly removed the ring; it was a badge of office, the very same one she had fled from. She sat in her defeated pose, downcast eyes starring aimlessly at the ring in her cupped hands.

The immediate threat had been forgotten as she mourned. As John the mage approached and offered his condolences by a pat on the back, the half-elf started violently; her body reacted reflexively, jerking to its feet, while her more dominant hand reached for the blade sheathed upon her hip as she turned to face the threat. She caught herself before fully drawing the blade, puffy eyes glaring at the mage as he spoke. About to chastise him for his action, as she had grown up in a way that contact amongst strangers was forbidden, her eye caught sign of the hilt in his sheath as he shifted. “You!” she exclaimed, voice coming out in a ragged hiss, “What have you done?!”

AND THEN DRIZZT ANOTHER PERSON ENTERED THE BAR. Where he was then pelted with small bits of zombie as he walked into the bar. But other than taking notice of his existence, John soon ignored the drow for he wasn't part of any insidious wizard hat and robe black markets (most likely). BUT IF HE WAS THEN JOHN WOULD STOP HIS VILE SCHEME DEAD IN ITS TRACKS (pun intended).

However John was occupied by the half elf who was about to stab him. Not flinching the face of this DEADLY DEALER OF DEATH who was about to stab him, John instead widened his eyes. But it wasn't the widened eyes of fear. Instead it was the widened eyes of LASER BEAMS OF DEATH. But then she decided to not stab him (always a nice thing) so John wasn't forced to use his LASER BEAMS OF DEATH TO BRING DEATH TO THIS DEADLY DEALER OF DEATH.

"Yes?" John asked before hearing the rest of Airan's statement. "Well first I was born. Then I was raised from infancy to being a child and was sent to a mage academy. There I accomplished many things such as good grades, head librarian, winner of the magic fair for three years in a row. It would have been longer but that cursed Steve sabotaged my project. But i did win the next year with a newly made curse. Won the fair a few more times. After that I think I did a few other things but i'll need a moment to think of them." John said in response to Airan's question. Assuming she wasn't too grief stricken at seeing her childhood friend blown to pieces just a few minutes ago, she would notice that John's answer had no hint of sarcasm or defiance to it. Instead it was an honest and sincere (though incomplete for the moment) answer to her question.

Were her anger not the driving force behind her actions, the half-elf would have taken a step back, blinked, and slowly turn her head side to side before moving on. However, as anger was safer than both fear and the vulnerability from mourning, she was in a confrontational frame of mind. Her finger, inches from the hilt of her blade, extended outward and jabbed at the mage's chest. "This is no time for games!" she all but wheezed, voice breaking under the stress of the situation combined with her own exhaustion.

Both hands jerked upward, almost as though she was about to throttle the unsuspecting mage, but instead they grasped her own cranium. Mumbling silently, her face contorted through the pains of anguish and anger. Shortly, once the rage had subsided, the mismatched eyes opened and regarded the mage with a frightening clarity. "What you have," she croaked, aware of the number of ears in the vicinity, "is a blade of untold destruction. It's true name has been lost for the ages, but you may know of it as the Blade of Woe." From here, she had to choose her words carefully, both to conserve her voice and not cause undue fear; fortunately, the legend of the black blade had nearly faded into legend, but some rural settlements such as this still held onto outlandish beliefs and legends. With her luck lately, Airan would be unsurprised if the remaining locals, were any left, gasped in collective fear at the mere mention of the name.

"Do you know what you've just done to yourself?"

[bgcolor=000000]Really? That's what this guy noticed out of everything going on? Another Drow? Not the gore spread out across the room from an exploded man? Hell, Ai had drippings from the guy still on him and it's his pointed ears the guy noticed? Some people.

He opened his mouth to speak when those pointed ears, which were so good for ease dropping (even when unintentional) picked up something he did not expect. Hopping over the bar, which he had been knocked behind, the Warlock all but forgot his 'kin' and pushed his way past him to the mage and um.. Yeah he wasn't sure of her profession, but she did have nice ears too.

"Well will you look at that.." It might not be too much of a surprise for one whom dabbled in what most believed to be the dark arts to be familiar with such a thing, however he had never seen it with his own eyes before, only pictures in dusty old books and stories. "I thought it to have been lost to time.." He thought aloud, not even realizing he had done it. His eyes were wide with wonder and a small amount of terror, if what he remembered was right this mage had just made himself a scapegoat, to a most interesting endevour.

"Very, very interesting."

From the back door entered another participant, a satyr. He was not used to the like of nourishment that this particular establishment served. As such, he had spent the last half hour evacuating his internals. Whilst he had recovered somewhat, he was somewhat groggy, and thus lumbered through the door, his crossbow and bolts on his back, a pair of wooden tonfas on his hips.

His condition was not helped by the scene in the bar. The stench of blood and flesh invaded his nostrils. Leaning on the door frame, he somehow found more vomit within himself to contribute to the aroma of the room.

Thinking about some of his other various accomplishments, John was about to begin to list them off when he was viciously poked by the mean lady. Looking hurt at this HORRIBLE AND CRUEL ATTACK UPON HIS PERSON, John's brow then furrowed when she made a statement about playing games. Was blowing up zombies now a game? If so then maybe John was the winner.

But before John could ask this QUESTION OF THE AGES, Airan then said a very curious thing. He currently had the blade of woe. HOW DID SHE KNOW ABOUT THAT REPORT JOHN HAD TO WRITE ON THE CURSED BLADE. The blade created by a mad king from the misery and blood of his own subjects. Someone who could have done the job with only a fourth of the woe if he actually knew how to allocate his resources properly.

That was when the answer hit him. THIS WOMAN WAS A STALKER. Okay all John had to do was keep a cool head. If he didn't tip off the crazy lady then she wouldn't skin him alive. JOHN COULD DO THIS. "Your a stalker. Thats how you knew about my report on the blade of woe." John stated in a fearful tone at the crazy lady. IT TURNED OUT THAT JOHN COULDN'T DO IT. But maybe she wouldn't skin him alive. Right?

In order to insure this wouldn't happen, John then carefully sidestepped around so the drow with no concept of personal space was between him and Airan. THIS HUMAN DROW SHIELD WOULD PROTECT JOHN.