RP:To Dine Or Not To Dine?
Summary:
Hanging Corpse Tavern
This once-timber tavern has been rebuilt in sturdily vitrified blackstone and imbued with powerful protective magics that prevent occult fire and several other potentially harmful spells being cast within its walls. No effort has been spared to make what might otherwise be a bleak interior comfortable. The bar is made of polished stone with an oaken inlay, the space behind filled with a bustle of attractive barmaids, sundry barrels and a dazzling array of coloured bottles that glint in the light cast by a large wrought-iron candelabrum suspended from the ceiling overhead. Here, the one-eyed Steadman stands, ready to take orders for food or drink. Beyond the bar, stout tables are firmly bolted to the floor, though the high-backed chairs are freestanding. The hearth is a true feature, seeming to be cast from black lava into the shape of a colossal, laughing goblin's head, its maw gaping wide and deep, usually containing a merrily crackling fire. A delicious scent of roasting meats drifts in from the kitchens and a winding staircase leads to rooms upstairs. To the south are set cellar doors, usually kept locked unless a special event is taking place. The walls are hung with thick, richly woven tapestries depicting persons and events in the history of Vailkrin and the Vampiric race. There's also a notice-board near the entrance, where one may leave messages. Unobtrusive but ever-present are the security staff, staunch fighters ever ready to toss troublemakers out.
Larewen was seated within the establishment, her perch of choice being one of a set of upholstered chairs that rested near the hearth. The table between them boasted of a single bottle of bloodwine, a stemmed glass, and a bloodstained tome, which was opened to a page bearing necromantic spelled, symbols, and runes. Here, the elf was at home for lack of a better word, for she'd found comfort in the Hanging Corpse Tavern for far too many years. A hand, free of its usual glove, rose to tuck dark, bistre tresses behind a pointed hear as her eyes roamed over the text before her.
Abram slowly pushes open the weighty blackstone doors of the hanging corpse tavern, and steps in with haste. His eyes dart back to the streets as he closes the door behind him, and it would appear that he’s trying to see if anyone had followed him to the establishment. Grim worry is spelled on his expression, and he makes his way to the bar. Abram is a tall man, whose fitness is hidden largely behind the leather duster he wears. His boots bear spurs that jingle with each step, though there was no sound of a horse upon his arrival. Around his neck, he wears a red handkerchief that loosely dangles down to his chest, though behind it, the hint of stubble that climbs up his skin would suggest days of not meticulously grooming himself. His clothes all bear the appearance of being new, except for the strange belt that he wears around his waist. Two, criss-crossing straps of leather form an “X” right about where the button of his pants lies, and upon those straps, a number of small, strange loops protrude outward. On either hip, the belt holds a scabbard roughly the length of a dagger, but impossibly wide to hold one. Both scabbards are empty. The jingling continues until he reaches the bar, and asks the odd barkeep for a drink. “Firewater, if you’d please.” As he waits to be tended to, he looks about the room, and his eyes fall upon the strange woman in emerald. Her appearance stirred him; she looked like the others in this strange city… Thoughts race behind his eyes, and his lips once again set themselves into a thin line of caution.
Larewen paused in her study of her tome, a finger traced midway across a particular spell that she was committing to memory. The jingle of boot spurs was an odd sound to hear, especially in a city belonging to the dead. His voice, as he made a request of Steadmen, settled within her mind as unfamiliar. It was not often that the living made their appearance within this establishment - at least, not humans that she could recall. His race she deciphered with a hungry flare of her nostrils as she inhaled his scent. She reached across to her glass of wine, curling a finger around its stem as she brought it to her lips, sipped, and then lowerd it, savoring the coppery taste of the blood that was infused within it. Then, the elf turned within her chair, leaning across its arm so that chocolate-hued eyes could settle upon the male that had entered. A dark brow arched upward and then, she spoke, "You smell awfully good to be among the dead, human." Her voice was hauntingly sweet as it carried across the room to where the newcomer stood. Steadmen served up his drink quietly. You will be back in about ten. She's gonna take a shower real quick like.
Abram offers a nod of thanks to the barkeep for his drink, and mulls over the Vampire’s words as he sips the odd-tasting whiskey. Clearly, it’s not made the same here as it is in the first tavern he found… Tossing hesitation to the wind, he tilts his head back with the glass, and drinks down the amber liquid, wincing as the burning alcohol runs across a tongue that’s been cracked with dehydration in the not-so-distant past. Replacing the glass upon the countertop, he turns his attention once more to the woman with the book. His eyes take her in more fully now, and along with her words, he makes a few inward guesses at what she might be. When he speaks, there is gravel in his throat; suggesting a voice not used for conversation in some time, “I wasn’t with knowledge of this road, and where it lead. The hungry eyes of the predators outside allowed me some insight. Though, their hunger betrayed them, and now they lay, dust in the cobbles. I assure you, ma’am, I look for no trouble here. I just want a drink to wash away the remnants of the battle-fire, and I’ll be on my way again.” To himself, he hopes he hadn’t revealed information that would get him in further trouble here…
Larewen had little to nothing to do with the citizens of the city, having taken up her residence in the forests that outskirted it. Because of that, or maybe because the woman simply lacked a caring heart, she seemed unbothered by the notion that Abram had so readily laid waste to those dead that succumbed to their voracious appetite. In fact, the upward tug of her lips belied amusement. "I see," the elf said coolly, her head tilting to the side. "You might want to watch who you admit that feat to." Her tone was lilting as her eyes flicked toward the one-eyed barkeep. Her own glass was reached for once more. "I wouldn't dally long, if I were you. The living are quite the temptation here, and it is only with practiced restraint that I do not seek to drink of you presently." It was a warning, for it had been some time since the elf had had her fill of fresh blood.
Abram narrows his eyes. Absently, his right hand reaches to the empty scabbard on the same hip, only for him to silently curse himself for forgetting the absence of his weapons. Behind his back, on the rear of his belt, there are two more scabbards; these are actually fashioned for weapons of the appropriate size, and within them are tucked two daggers he had purchased within the last day – their presence still foreign to him. Resigned to his lack of weaponry, the man reaches up and removes his hat, revealing a tired face - one that has seen far too much combat, and likely on large scales. He runs his free hand through the black hair that runs down to his neck before replacing the cover. With a sigh, he shakes his head, “I don’t foresee myself taking up camp in this town. I’ll continue on, and in the meantime, I’ll just say that what I have done was in defense of myself. It is never with pleasure nor malice that I have felled my pursuers. I pray thee you continue your practice until I’ve gone away.”
Larewen loosed a chuckle, and it was a deep, throaty one in the wake of his words. His actions did not go unseen, and in the moment that he removed his hat, the elf took a brief moment to tuck away his image within her mind. The grin that continued to spread across her face did not bode well for whatever reason she had to commit the man's appearance to identity, but given the latter of his words, it likely had to do with feeding. He was older, battle-hardened, and in the elf's predatory mind, Abram was likened to an aged wine. His scent supported that notion. When she spoke, her mirth shone through in her words, "A shame, to not take pleasure in it."
Abram finds himself unsettled by the woman’s expression, and she may see a number of thoughts flashing through his mind as he measures her up. This world is strange to him, and thus far, the beings within it have been different in many ways from those he’s encountered in his own when and where. There’s no telling how powerful this Elven Vampire could be. So, he takes the side of caution, and begins stepping back towards the door, “A shame, I’m sure. But one I’d gladly abide by.” It’s clear that he will not turn his back to the Vampire as he jingles his way to the exit.
Larewen straightened herself up in her chair once more, reaching for glass and bloodied tome as Abram made his way toward the exit so cautiously. To say that she was still amused would be an understatement. Fortunately for Abram, she was more concerned with the dark magic she was studying than she was with the idea of drinking his blood. When he came close enough to the exit that he should have need of opening it, a breath of air left her lips and the door would open for him. A kind gesture? From this woman, unlikely. It was, perhaps, a taste of her specialties, and far less unnatural in nature than what she studied presently. "You'll want to head east and follow the bend south, to return to the safer lands of your ilk," she called in farewell.
Abram tucks away her words well, and even moreso, he makes note of her use of magic. Such unnatural abilities never boded well in his own when and where. This is a person he will remember, and perhaps dwell upon for some time… He exits the tavern without word.