Officer's Lounge (in-character chat)

[reefwood]

I don't have a nifty title or intro, but there was interest in a roleplaying thread, so feel free to chat here with each other or NPCs.

[icnivad]

As the door opens, a tall, thin man stands in the entryway, exquisite black robes hanging loosely around him. Even though there is still daylight coming from the street behind him, he seems to stand in shadows. His skin, pale and smooth, as if soaked in bleach, might make him seem young if you looked no further. His long hair still pitch black on top, but graying heavily above his ears, as if the effects of aging just can't wait to take over all of his head. As heads turn his way the bar hushes as more than a few patrons feel a slight shiver run down their spines when they see his eyes. Cold eyes that seem to stare deep into your soul. Eyes that know you, and are unimpressed. As if however dark and deep your secrets might be, his are darker... and deeper.

As Nimarious walks over to his usual spot at the end of the bar, the young officer sitting in his seat quietly gets up, and moves to a different spot as the bartender starts the drip on a glass of absinthe, Nimarious's regular drink.

Sitting down, Nimarious reaches into his robes, and pulls out a huge leather bound tome, too big to actually fit in there. The iron latches seem to jump open almost before his fingers reach them.

As the absinthe is delivered, Nimarious offers a slight nod to the bartender and seems to dive studiously into his tome as the regular noises of the bar pick back up. Anyone studying the wizard might think him deep in research, but actually surprisingly little of his brain is currently being dedicated to reading, most of his awareness is spent observing the patrons of the room. Magic he can study better in his library; he typically comes here, not to study death, as any might assume who view him, but to observe life.

[Rabbit]

A few moments later the door opens again and a large figure strides into the tavern. His gray-white beard does little to diminish his physical form. He has the frame of a warrior or barbarian and would look completely natural mounted upon a warhorse while wielding a large ax. Instead, he wears the clothes of a field-mage, an arcane caster who specializes in combat. His clothes are freshly cleaned but an array of stitches and patch-work betrays the uniform’s wear-and-tear. A smoldering pipe hangs from his mouth.

The sorcerer crosses the tavern floor purposefully to the bar, “Dwarven Spirits and an ale back.” He says and tosses several coins onto the bar. Sahme silently waits until the drinks are brought before him and nods thanks to the barkeep. Behind the bar hangs a banner of the Nemendor Alliance. Sahme lifts the tiny glass of dwarven spirits, a potent drink, up towards the banner and quietly offers up a prayer/toast, “My sword, in the hand of Gorum...” then downs to drink.

Exhaling through his teeth Sahme turns back to the bar and examines the inhabitants for the first time. A grin crosses his lips. A room full of soldiers, mostly officers, in a tavern of a vanquished city.* It is a good place to be and even more so after his unit’s recent success. The Order of Kem is no more. This pleases Sahme in a base way. Being a member of the Sweetwater Clan the sorcerer knows the pride that comes from such an affiliation and understanding that pride makes the destruction of the order all the more sweet. It will be a devastating blow to the resistance both strategically and against their morale.

Sahme glances over to his side towards Sergeant Major Steerhelm, a member of his unit. The necromancer is the newest member of his unit but proven himself quite valuable. All the dark and vile things of Creation seem to be at his figure tips, and eager to serve him. But who does the necromancer serve?

“Nimarious!” Sahme belts out, “There are certain things that can bring down a tavern. The first are virgin barmaids… very boring. The second, if I recall correctly, are books.”

Sahme steps up to the necromancer less than an arm reach away. His posture is that of a close friend. The necromancer is intimidating, yes, but all the more reason Sahme cannot let Nimarious’ aura appear to bother him.

“Perhaps you’d like to put away the studies for a night and assist me? First, let’s get some of these braggarts into a game of bones and second… I plan to be drunk this night.”


[*I placed us back in Verdas. Thinking we “confiscated” a tavern that has become a bit of an officer’s club for Nemendor. Hope that works for everyone. ]

[michael]

The door crashed open once more; an orc girl stumbled in, clearly one of the local barbarians. Scantly clad in furs, greataxe strapped to her back, she shouted.

"Come, my conqueror! Celebrate your newest victory; buy me more spirits!"

Her conqueror strode in, an unmistakable figure to all in the bar. Over two meters tall and built like a bugbear, with flame-red hair and a bristling beard. Clad in armor, stylized to resemble his deity, none of the men there had seen him out of it. (Though many of the women could say differently.) Brion Shaw had a commander's voice, no question. Made to carry over the din of battle, no amount of tavern noise could drown out his boisterous reply.

"You, and everyone else! Barkeep! A barrel of ale and a barrel of wine, center floor! And hand out mugs!"

As a cheer went up, his eyes scanned the crowd, and found his fellow squad members in the corner. Sahme's trying to get Steerhelm to enjoy himself, again, he smiled. For the time being, Shaw left tonight's companion to her drink. Clapping their backs as he arrived, (much to the chagrin of his pale sergeant) the newly appointed First Lieutenant gave his fellow officers the good news.

"Sweetwater! Steerhelm! We've been given more spoils of war." Shaw tossed the pips onto the bar. "Sergeant Major Steerhelm, and Command Sergeant Major Sweetwater. An unsurprising prize, but a welcome one. And most certainly earned, by both of you! Now I believe I heard mention of Bones as I approached! You're not burying your nose in some dusty tome tonight, Steerhelm, even if I must order you to close it! You celebrate!"

[icnivad]

As Sahme walks up, a slight smile crosses Nimarious' face. Or a sneer. One can never really be sure which one. Maybe both. Either way, it was so subtle, that most would miss it, but the fact remains, that it was there.

"Bones, eh? I suppose I could play a game before returning to my studies. I always enjoy taking your money." Nim replies dryly, but there's that smile again, just below the surface. Nimarious has always had a dislike for Sorcorers, their magic coming naturally, without understanding, or study; but this Sahme Sweetwater character seems alright. Yeah, he is loud, obnoxious, and prone to catch things on fire, but he seems to understand the weave better than most sorcerers. And none can deny the connection he has to it, especially in the realm of invocation, an area that Nimarious has all but forsaken.

"Where shall we..." Nim starts as Brion bursts into the room, retina in tow. An audible sigh escapes Nimarious' lips. So much for studies tonight. Nim has always considered Brion an interesting character study. How could someone so loud, and boisterous be so loved by everyone. Nimarious just couldn't understand it. He did have a powerful attachment to his god, however wasted on goodly magic. Nim couldn't deny that.

"Very well, tonight we party." Nimarious states before diving into a quick spell. One he devised that lets him drink, but
avoid much the affects of alcohol.