Kelmont: Deep-Rooted Conflicts (IC)

[TheQueensGuard]

OOC ~ Dice Roller ~ Character Roster
Crownfield
~ Sunset~
Ten days before the Harvest of Cornaith
As the sun begins to set, the hardworking locals of Crownfield began to make their way to their preferred drinking spot; the Tipsy Bull. Located at the square in the center of town, it was a well-built two story tavern. While it was already a larger building and easy for most to find, a sign hung above its door with a minotaur-like man drinking a mug of ale painted on a piece of wood. While normally only frequented by the locals, to no ones surprise, the building was already crowded with folks as travelers from all walks of life gathered here before the festival.
Outside the front of the establishment, some horses were tied to a post with a single Leonan watching over them. Some people were seated outside at tables on a good-size patio that took up the width of the building and stretched all the way to the road. Some Ratoakens stood off to the side of the building, just off of the patio. Seated in a semi-circle with a small fire where they cooked meat. Three half Orcs listened intently with an older, full-blooded Orc. A pair of Kellians sat on either side of the door, clearly hired bouncers for the establishment.
Inside, a group of Dwarves and Tieflings sat playing cards, drinking and having a laugh. A band of Elves played upon a quickly constructed stage on the far wall of the tavern. A group of Leonans arm wrestled close to the door with a pile of coins in the center of the table. A pair of dark-skinned Goblins sat above on some of the overhanging beams watching the crowd. At the bar was a friendly woman pouring drinks. A bit older, she had orange hair that just started to grey and a scar across her lips.
For most people it was strange seeing so many races in one place. Even stranger for them all to be getting along, though the night was just starting and there was bound to be a brawl or two.

The town itself was starting to wind down, most shops were beginning to close but there were a few traveling merchant carts set up in the square and lining the main road that cut through town. A few called out "Fresh fruit here! Straight from Elineshire trees." or "Fish like you've never tasted! From the Senso Isles, blessed by Maerel herself!" to passing locals as most made their way to their homes or the Tipsy Bull.
~~~
On the edge of the town, things were much quieter. A wooden wall surrounded the town, with guards posted every so often along the tops of the wall. The gates were wide open, welcoming a few carts and horses into the town. A few people rode out of town, likely heading back to their farms. Just outside the eastern gate, some people were stopping at a finer looking inn. The' Drowsy Lamb' hung above an open gate on both of the entrances of the lot, with fences around the rest of it. A stable was just inside the main gate, where a few horses and a cart were stashed. Unlike the Tipsy Bull, no one but a few well-equipped guards stood outside.
Inside was much quieter as well. A few tables were filled as some wealthy merchants or nobles talked, drinking wines and eating various meals. An Elven woman sat at the counter, checking people into rooms or running an order of food into a back room.
​

Celthric Matsen
Tipsy Bull Tavern​

"So you have no rooms?" A slightly dirty, but a well mannered looking man stood at the bar, leaning onto the counter to better hear the bartender over the band, laughter and various conversations going on in the building. "Sorry darling, 'fraid we are booked at the moment. We got some buildings out back being refurbished into some more rooms for the festival, but nothing for tonight." The man let out a sigh and took a look around the room. He knew when he got a look at the building it was a slim chance he was going to sleep on a bed tonight. "Any place else in the town I can stay?" The woman poured a drink for a dwarf seated at the counter, and slid it over to him. "There's the Drowsy Lamb if you have the purse for it." Shaking his head he frowned. He had already been there and didn't want to spend the entirety of his savings to spend the night in the loft of an overpriced building.
"What about work?" He asked, switching gears in the conversation. He might not have a place to sleep, but if anyone knew where to find work it was the local bartenders. "You could check the work board outside the tavern, but from the looks of it-" She motioned to the mace hanging from his hip. "-picking onions and hunting wolves isn't really the type of work you're looking for." Swearing under his breath and slipping four silver coins from his pocket, he placed them on the counter and slid them towards her. "If you hear of any work I might be interested in, send them my way. The name is Matsen. I'll be in town for a few days." The woman gave a nod and smile, pocketing the coins and filling a cup of ale and giving it to him. "I'll keep an ear open for yah' Matsen."
Turning around to get a better look at the bar, Matsen leaned against the counter and sipped from the cup he was given. Hopefully things turned around for him soon, he hadn't found a proper test for his abilities in a few weeks now. For now, enjoy yourself. He thought quietly, his gaze resting on a group of woman around his age. He flashed them a smile, a few of them whispering and laughing with one-another. Maybe he would have a place to sleep tonight.​

 

[Verran]

Grathin Aldromik
Crownfield: Tipsy Bull Tavern


The orc had to duck under the door to enter. Standing at a dominating 8 feet, the greenskin surveyed the room in light humor. As if there was a joke to be had that only he could immediately grasp and he was simply waiting for everyone else to catch up. There was no doubt in his mind that what the joke was would be different for each person in the room, but the orc silently invited everyone to share in it.

Grathin Aldromik's clothes were well-stained with travel. And, indeed, he had been walking most of the day to arrive her precisely this evening. Why this evening in particular was a mystery in and of itself, but Grathin walked with the certainty that he was exactly where he needed to be. His eyes danced in appreciation upon the music players. Having already grinned a greeting as the quad of orc and half-orcs, Grathin noted the numerous ways to obtain a room for the evening. Certainly, his ears told him that a young man had failed to obtain a room. That merely informed him that the traditional method for getting one, coin to the establishment, was out. Others would present themselves and pieces to do so were already falling into place. First things first, however, first things first.

Grathin strode up to the bar and said in a subtle bass, "my good madam, your finest dark beer for myself, those who are generally known as the best collection of music players in town, who that orc outside is, and the name of my fellow patron here," he lastly indicated Matsen before turning to him and continuing, "unless, of course, you'd like to provide it yourself? To help ease the wheels of conversation, I am Grathin Aldromik."

 

[Esper]

Whimsy trotted into town with a hooded cloak on, dark green in colour. The town was bustling with activity over the days. She noted elves. That was good. It was far easier to explain elven oddities than to be the only one in town. She took care in covering, for the iron was a dead give away she was something odder than the standard fae.

The leather gloves she wore went to her elbows, which had the ends of sleeves tucked into them. The knee high travel boots that hugged her were well used, from a time long passed. Elves lived long and kept such things usually. Her story was good, great even. Her travel tunic fell to her mid thigh and a cord cinched at the waist her slender figure.

She loved mortals. They were fun to mess with and entangle in her spells, that is, if she was careful with who she picked. She sat in a corner seat on the outskirt of a crowd and munched on an apple, muttering with a book in her lap. Most would assume she was a girl daydreaming of a good elven man like on the cover of her book.

She picked her target. It was a warrior of human build, boasting his strength. Arrogance and war, things she disdained. "Words deeply cut, ego interwined, bound to war, born to fight. Hmph." Her words met the fair skinned man's moss green eyes before turning to another next to him. Insults were heard and words were exchanged harsh tones, still hushed.

One swung at the other. It did not last long. The boasting one was knocked out cleanly by his compatriot, a testament to the boasters drinking and temper wholly the group of gathered mercenaries conjectured. The amusement was short lived and she found herself disappointed now. She set out to look for a friend or two made in the locale. Perhaps they were in the Bull tavern.

 

[UltraPink]

Anna Capell​

Location: Drowsy Lamb

The escort of House Capell began mid-day. A fresh mildew settled in the air and a warming day set upon the 30 men escorting Lord Frederick, and Lady Anna to Dunnotar castle. They would return from a 2 week visit, discussing matters of land security against the rumored Orc uprising to the west. Lord Frederick had remained on edge after the talks stoked concern of the citizens in central Kel. With their numbers they would be stretched thin to protect the border. House Dunkeld offered aid of 150 men, but the concern remained. Anna had accompanied her father; she was to be prepared for greater responsibility in the household she would marry into and that of a loyal Capell. Anna rode to the middle of chain of men and wagons pulled by warhorses. A pale horse of long silvery-white hair was her steed. A shield latched to the side, her sword to the belt on her waist. The cold air nipped at delicate finger tips; she was made of sturdier hide the weather she could ignore but the stifling tension of the men was pronounced.

It was not the first time she had accompanied her father; she had never entered Crownfield without an escort of at least two guards. It took great convincing of her father to allow Anna the freedom of entering alone. The company of men stopped at a bend in the road, House Capells banner eagerly shuddered in the wind. Twin Stallions of chestnut over a red field of poppies, manes of pure white. Anna passed the banner men and rode up besides her father, long red cloak blanketed the rear of the stallion. Thick gloves reined the straps sharp. She stopped and looked up to him. Anna and Frederick sat proud on their steeds. Locks of blood red hair tied thickly at the neck, Frederick's was shorter and sheared frequently; his beard had grown past his chin, a shade darker than his red hair like his father they did not grey. A man in his 50's looked no older than 30. The recent events have set all on edge. Lord Frederick, a joyful man with a strong wit and eager heart; has been solemn since they began the journey home.

"Father...It is time." Anna announced to her father.

"I know. It would set my heart at ease if you would take two guards with you to Crownfield." He said, he looked his daughter in the eyes.

"Would you say the same to one of your son's?" She replied failing to hide to animosity they have shared over the days.

"Yes." He answered sternly. Anna turned her eyes to the side.

"These are dark times Anna. The threat from the west cannot be ignored. The time for mourning the dead is not now."

"Then we show them. We are not afraid. Rumors do not frighten us. We should not change who we are because of such things."

He smiled "Who raised you to be so stubborn." He kicked off his horse in to a gallop as he headed to the front of the party.

Anna shared his smile and turned her horse sharply toward the hill on her right. The hooves kicked up grass and soil as she watched from a top the hill a stream of House Capell men following their Lord home.


Anna entered Crownfield in full stride. She slowed once past the entrance; passing guards as she did so. Balin's instructions lead her through the streets, passed the stable where she looked to for a moment before continuing on. Citizens of Crownfield looked up to the rider, Anna would bow her head in quiet greeting. She arrived at Gregore's home not far from the Drowsy Lamb. Anna rode up to the old wooden door cracks of age upon it. She dismounted in front heavy boots of steel pounded hard rock below. She took the resin and wrapped them around a nearby post in a tight knot; a quick pat to the ponies neck as it remained, waiting for her return.

An item was taken from the bag on the side of the horse. The Urn of Balin. His ash's resided inside waiting to be returned to family. She walked up to the door and raised a hand. A firm knock resounded inside the occupied home. Then she heard a shuffle of feet approach the door. When it opened an older man appeared. Grey beard, thick brows and simple clothing of dark colours. A noble woman stood before him. His old eyes recognized the crest on the shield.

"Gregore Fairchild?" she asked

"Aye that's me..." he replied

"Gregore Fairchild. I have come to return your brother's ash's. His final request. I'm sorry for your lose." Anna retrieved the potted urn from the wrapped cloth. Gregore took it with hesitant hands.

"He passed peacefully. A month ago. He was a good man. And a greater friend." she told him, a look of surprise and uncertainty passed his brown, tired eyes.

"Did he speak of me?" he asked

Anna thought on this, their spent she knew of his history with the man. "He did more than once. He told me a long time ago. He forgave you for what you had done." she answered a look glassed over his eyes as he held the urn.

"I'll leave you to your thoughts. I am sorry. He will be missed at Dunnotar." Anna bowed her head and mounted the horse.

She pulled the reins softly and left the man to be alone. He closed the door as she rode toward the stable. Anna found the stable, entering from the wide doors and paid for services to care for her horse. She removed the saddle and laid it to the side. All that remained was the shield resting against the door of the small stable her horse now stood in; grazing from the net of straw. A firm stroke down the horses strong side before she left for the Drowsy Lamb.

When Anna entered she took in the sights. Underneath her arm were furs and the satchels from her horse containing goods she preferred not to leave behind in the stable. Anna approached the woman checking in patrons to the tavern. "One room, and bring food anything will do. And wine once I am settled." Anna plucked off the thick gloves and tucked them into the belt about her waist. The saddle bags she had were set on a table as she removed a coin purse to pay for the services to be rendered.

 

[Hrimfaxi]

Eyes fixated on tiny golden cogs inside a well looked after locket. Dýrfinna's eye were so close to it that her lashes brushed the cogs every time she blinked.

"Dýrfinna! Are you done!" a female voice bellowed from the front of a shop. Dýrfinna sighed, she hated being interrupted from her new beauty she was working on. Her long thin fingers making small movements, a tiny ping sound was heard and a minute piece of glass fell from inside the locket.

"You thought you had beaten the great Dýrfinna!" Dýrfinna said as she picked up the tiny glass shard, her large eyes looking back at the locket, "Feeling better my little precious, did you-". "Dýrfinna!" the door slammed open with an elderly woman standing five foot eight wearing as many pieces of jewellery her fine thin body could carry, staring down at Dýrfinna in her work room. Dýrfinna bolted up right with locket slipping from her fingers, she gasps only to reach our her foot to help save it from the demise of colliding with the floor. A soft sigh escapes her lips with she caught it on the top of her left foot. Eyes narrowed and a glare that burned like molten iron darted towards the woman in the doorway "What is wrong with you! I almost lost a precious piece!" her hands now cradling the locket as though it was a new born. "I called out to you five times already. The customer cannot wait much longer for you to fix their locket! Are you done or not?". Dýrfinna rolled her eyes, closing the backing to the locket with great care and setting the panel that rested on the front in place. "It is done, but I could have done so much more, the insides need to be cleaned, and th-" "Dýrfinna they don't care about the inside. They just want it to work.... now give me the locket!" Ursula snatched the locket from Dýrfinna's hands and stormed off. From a distance she yelled out to Dýrfinna once more "Also you told me you had hung up our shop posters at the Tipsy Bull. I went there yesterday and they are not there. Go do it NOW!".

Dýrfinna mimed out Ursula's words and got up from her work bench.
She wasn't a large fan of crowds, however the only positive is traveler's bringing in new metals and trinkets that she could play with. How she loved to make metals shine. Reluctant as she was, Dýrfinna grabbed her sandals her cloak and her mask. The rich dark green cloak falling to allow her shins and feet to be seen. Her mask a dark pine sat comfortably on her face. No one ever talks to Dýrfinna when she is dressed like this, which she doesn't mind. Grabbing her satchels she left with the posters in hand out the back of jeweller store, she didn't want to cop another earful.

The streets were full, so Dýrfinna took the back streets. If she was lucky she might find a poor helpless coin stranded on the ground just waiting for her to pick it up. The Tipsy Bull wasn't too far from where she worked, and the trip sadly did not grace her with any lost or left behind trinkets. Dýrfinna turned a corner and finally was approaching the entrance to the Tipsy Bull, poster in hand to pin onto the work board outside.

 

[Huntress]

Yevelda Locke
Crownfield - Tipsy Bull Tavern
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Mentions: N/A
Interactions: N/A
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Their day had been very exciting. Yevelda didn't often get opportunities to explore towns or villages, and ever since she had been just a babe she had wished to attend The Harvest of Cornaith. Her mother had taught her much of the old god that was worshipped by most farmers, the 'Earth Weaver' and she had heard so much about this festival that she had been beyond ecstatic to finally be allowed to attend. All the Locke's together, neither parent having to come into Crownfield alone for the festivities.

Father had made a joke the morning they left home. 'If Yev is coming along it means I don't need to come back to resupply.' Mother hadn't liked the joke. Yevelda wasn't sure why, she also hadn't quite understood why father thought it was funny. Unphased by it all, the orc had simply been excited to see the town again. Last time she had a chance to come into Crownfield she was a young child, easier to hide and conceal in the crowds.

They had set up their stall in the market square on the first day. Their room was already guaranteed at the Tipsy Bull. Father would bring them fresh meats from his hunting trips, some of them, rare catches, as he would say. Both her parents were acquainted with many citizens of Crownfield. That she had learned from the stories mother used to tell her about her adventures with father.

While manning the booth with Father, Yevelda would have to remain seated, watching the people walk by through the hood of her cloak. But the moment Mother had come by, she was relieved of her seated duties and had the opportunity to explore the town on it's first day of festive activities. They walked and browsed the wares of many merchants throughout Crownfield. Yevelda sticking out like a sore thumb next to her mother. She could feel the uneasy glares, stares and quick glances of others of course. The cloak she wore was only really there to make the curious onlookers ponder for a moment before accepting the blatant signs of what stood beneath the thick, dark blue fabric.

Eventually the women had made their way back to Brengarr. Both arriving just in time to help him shut down and cover their stall. Together they all returned to the Tipsy Bull just before the crowds started to rush in for drinks and rooms. As a family they decided to sit and have dinner together and after a drink or two, as the tavern filled up Lena decided to call it a night, Yevelda chose to stay downstairs just a little longer as Brengarr wished to have a few more drinks. Standing up Yev and Bren left the large table they had occupied as a family and made their way towards a pair of available, stools by the bar.

Walking behind her father, the orc felt a subtle tap against her back. Glancing over her shoulder and taking a step forward to turn around she heard a thunk against the planks on the floor. Looking down she spotted a large man sprawled on the floor, eyes wide in confusion before she looked up through her hood. A band of mercenaries making noise as they looked between the man on the floor and another male gulping back a full tankard of ale. Had her features not been covered, the confusion would've been evident on Yevelda's face. Choosing to ignore the event after seeing that she was at fault for nothing, she joined her father.

Before she had a chance to take the seat next to her father, an older man stumbled over, a shove from him followed as Yevelda chose to simply step aside slightly, closer to her father and only fazed by the cold touch of the foreign man's hand.

"Excuse me sir. But that seat was taken." Brengarr spoke with a subtle huff.

"And by whom was that?" The man's words barely came out coherently.

Bringing his arm up Brengarr prepared to speak and motion towards Yev. The orc quickly bringing her hand up to push his arm down. "It's okay father." She whispered. "I can stand." She moved to Brengarr's right side facing him as he groaned and turned away from the drunken man.

The barmaid approached them with a grin. "What can I get ya two lovlies?" She asked, her eyes shifting from the bel to the orc. Her brows furrowed and her eyes narrowed as she looked at Yevelda. "My darlin' Yev. This is yer daughter isn't it Brengarr?" She asked as she pointed towards the towering figure, but locked eyes with the raven-haired man. He nodded with a smile. "Quite the lass she's become there eh? I bet she's helpful 'round home and when ya need to bring yer wares around huh?" The woman laughed, Brengarr joining with a chuckle as Yevelda simply looked between the two in slight confusion at the joke she didn't quite get. "Take that blasted hood off dearie. Ya got nuthin to hide 'ere. And if any of the drunkards don't like it, they can leave. The Tipsy Bull ain't going to stand for the nonsense of those old fools." She explained as she finished wiping down the second tankard before filling both of them and placing them before the two.

Yevelda looked towards her father as her arms came up to grip at the fabric of her hood. "Go on Yevie. If Edith says so, we can't argue." He grinned and chuckled with a nod of reassurance.

Pulling her hood back and letting it drop, Yevelda instantly found herself hunching forward slightly in worry. Shoulders tense as her head dropped. Red and yellow irises dropping to her hand on the bartop. Clenching her jaw, she looked at the drink before her. Brengarr reaching up and rubbing her back before giving her a pat. "It's okay Yev. This is a place where no one will notice or pay attention. And if they do, they likely won't care and simply carry on with whatever it is they're doing." He chuckled and motioned towards the ale before her. "Try it and let me know what you think." He took his mug in his hand and held it out towards the orc.

Nodding towards her father she did as she was told. Taking the mug in her hand she clanked it against her father's and took a gulp. The taste was strong, the liquid was thick and bitter, a hint of roasted nuts lingering as it somehow hit the back of her throat. Her expression held a hint of distaste although it wasn't quite that bad. Sniffing the drink, she took another, smaller sip and found that the bitterness was not as intense this time around. A chuckle caught her attention as she glanced towards Brengarr.

"Well I'm certainly glad you don't despise ale like your mother. Although it's definitely a little bit of an acquired taste. Although wine typically suits me just as well. Lena is really the picky one." He laughed some more as he looked at his daughter up and down. There was a glint in his eye as he nodded to some internal thought and smiled softly but sadly.

Yevelda nodded to her father's words and smiled as well. The glint in his eye and subtle expression passing by fiery eyes unnoticed.

 

[TheQueensGuard]

Celthric Matsen
Tipsy Bull Tavern
@Verran @Huntress​

Sipping on his ale and surveying which woman he'd be hitting on for the night, Celthric nearly made his choice before the deep voice of an orc spoke beside him. "My good madam, your finest dark beer for myself, those who are generally known as the best collection of music players in town, who that orc outside is, and the name of my fellow patron here." The orc glanced down towards Matsen, "Unless, of course, you'd like to provide it yourself? To help ease the wheels of conversation, I am Grathin Aldromik."

Celthric was a bit taken back by how well spoken and well mannered this Grathin seemed to be. He chuckled and answered with a smile. "Well met Grathin, I am Celthric Matsen, Companion-At-Arms for the Order of the Sun." He extended a hand to the two-feet taller orc. "You sound well spoken for an Orc. Better spoken than most I've encountered at least." Realizing that sounded a bit racy, he quickly added. "No offense of course." The bartender poured a slightly larger mug and slid it across to this Grathin as Celthric spoke, chiming in quickly pointing out to the band playing across the room. "That band of Elves play better than any locals. They normally rent out that space every year for the Harvest. Their leader goes by Gem. She's the one with the violin. As for the Orcs...." She glanced towards the door, then back to Grathin. "Only one I know is the old one. He's Torg, a traveler that helped out the Grelmon Family a few years back. Bit of an imagination and a tad bit abrasive when he's drunk. Likes to tell his far-fetched stories to anyone who will listen, though I'd take them with a grain of salt."
Matsen listened to the barkeep and absorbed the information, just in case anything came up later.

"Ay' Tuskface! How about you go find a seat outside among your kind." A voice called out behind Celthric as a clearly drunk middle-aged man stood along side five others. He pointed it towards Grathin and then to an Orc further down the bar. "And take the she-orc with you. Don't need your kind mudding up the bar." The commotion quieted a few of the surrounding tables, though the band still played at the far end of the tavern with a few others listening. Eyeing the man and stepping forward, Celthric placed a hand on his mace. "I think you better quiet down friend. We're all here to celebrate the festival in peace." The mans eyes flicked towards Celthric, his hand going for a dagger at his belt. " 'Course its one of those Heretics of the Light vouching for the Greenskins." Before either side could act, the bartender yelledup. "Damn it Garner, you and your drunkards get out of my bar." Ignoring her, the drunk spit on the ground and took a step forward towards Celthric. "Don't know why you're serving their kind Edith, seeing as they were the ones to kill your husband."

Answering with a whistle , the guards around the building quickly cut through the crowd and surrounded the six men. Reading the situation and murmuring to themselves, Garner raised his hands and glared at Grathin. "Fine. We'll drink elsewhere." As the guards escorted them out, Celthric relaxed and let out a deep breath. Grabbing his mug and taking a drink, Edith set a pitcher on the bar between Grathin and himself. "Sorry for the commotion. This pitchers on me." Giving a somewhat embarrassed smile before heading off down the bar towards where the 'she-orc' was.
​

​

 

[Esper]

Whimsy heard a better commotion than the one she had caused and did her best to shuffle into the crowded tavern. She wanted to see, no less, but perhaps more if there was amusement to be had. Maybe some friends were inside.

She fastened her leather gloves tight enough that no accidental slip would happen and that she would touch the dreaded iron. She even came with accessories of an all wooden goblet to put her drink in and a skin of wine. With her preparation complete she walked in the door, a gust of wind billowing her cloak some.

She guessed she looked like one of those models painted to look dramatic at sea of only in her mind. She was pretty, but as 'elves' went that was expected. If she wanted attention she would need to try harder than that. "Your muse has arrived", she announced to no one in particular and began to dance to the music, giving a small pulse of excitement coursing through the venue. That should liven things up some.

 

[Verran]

Grathin Aldromik
Crownfield: Tipsy Bull Tavern


"None taken!" Grathin grinned, "I have been well blessed in my life with excellent speaking opportunities. Of the Order of the Sun, you say? Interesting. Most interesting indeed." But before he elaborated as to why, Edith interjected her information. With an uncanny attention, he absorbed everything. He, with reflected how easy it had become to get bedding for the night and wished there was a tad more challenge in the whole affair. After all, merely engaging Torg in stories of his homeland or, after seeing if the elves were biased against his being, conniving them into accepting his skills into their band for the duration, was hardly an engaging tale.

Still though, he mused as he took a hearty swig, the events that lead to this inevitable conclusion may well be worth a tell. But, of course, an orc could not go anywhere in these human lands without attracting some sort of attention. Grathin surveyed the aggressive dullard with mild intent. As if the words were somewhat interesting. And learning that there was yet another orc in the room for free was, indeed, a nice pickup. Grathin cast a glance down the bar to where he indicated. There she was, taller than her peers and looking distinctly out of place. Briefly, the bard wondered as to her story. Not to mention hearing that Edith's late husband was killed by an orc. Likely in a raid. Without doubt, there was far more tales to tell that was gradually gathering into the tavern.

"No need to make such fuss on my account," nodding towards Celthric and his prepping to arm, then continued by way of saluting the madam "but, I'll happily take free pitchers when given!" And he down the rest of his first mug in one gulp before pouring a second. Then an elf paraded into the tavern who was either drunk, self-important, or aiming to cause a stir as they proclaimed themselves a muse and beginning to dance. Well, what effect that would have, would have to be seen later.

But, with all distractions now, finally, dealt with in the immediate, he returned to making pleasant conversation and waiting to make his move. "What brings you, Celthric, to this auspicious festival? Work? Pleasure? Guidance of the sun? Or something else."

 

[Huntress]

Yevelda Locke
Crownfield - Tipsy Bull Tavern
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Mentions: N/A
Interactions: N/A
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"You know Yev, my dear." Brengaar began to speak. "You are now a full-grown woman." Their eyes locked as he smiled with sadness. "Your mother and I did our best to teach you and keep you safe; to help you understand this typically harsh and cruel world we live in." He gulped back the remainder of his ale before sliding the tankard forward, waiting for another. "I can't say for certain if you are ready to face this world but I know there's strength inside you." His eyes never left hers. "This by no means is me telling you that you must leave home," he scoffed "I would much rather have you stay. That way I know you're safe. But what I'm trying to say is-"

"Ay' Tuskface! How about you go find a seat outside among your kind." A voice called out that interrupted Brengarr.

The Bel looked passed Yev, who also turned to look towards the commotion. The middle-aged drunk pointing towards an orc standing just further down, his finger turning towards Yevelda who was trying to shrink her form even further. An impossible task, if she attempted to slouch any further, she may as well sit on the floor. Her jaw clenched as her attention turned away immediately, unnatural eyes looking to her feet.

"And take the she-orc with you. Don't need your kind mudding up the bar."

Yevelda flinched against the man's words, a rough exhale escaping her nose as she stole a glance towards her father. He was tense and glaring at the situation not much further from where they sat. The raven-haired orc was quick to notice the shimmer in his eye as his lip curl back. Swallowing back, she reached out towards him, cupping his cheek and forcing his attention to her. Their eyes locked as he studied her face. She shook her head, a sign that it wasn't worth it. She watched him relax some as the situation carried on just down the bar. "It's okay father. I was planning to make my way up to get some sleep anyway." She explained. "We can finish this conversation tomorrow perhaps?" Her words seemed hopeful as she nodded towards him. "Thank you for the drink father." She dropped her arm and pushed away from the bar. It would be difficult to make it through the crowds without being forceful, but she would try. She'd have to get to the stairs that led up to the rooms somehow. Perhaps what she was would help in clearing a path.

 

[Ariel]

Pelingilwen Naurdineth
Crownfield - The Tipsy Bull Tavern

A stately figure sat at a table in the Tipsy Bull, nursing a glass of wine. Pelingilwen Naurdineth, free citizen of Fynehil and initiate of the Order of the Fiery Dawn, watched the spectacle that played out before her. The tiniest frown furrowed her brow; she had already been decidedly unimpressed by the menu, the ambiance, and the crassness of the clientele - and now a Fae strutting about in the most transparent show of attention-seeking.

The natives of Senso might have had some odd ways - indeed Pell would not claim that she understood them at all - but they had been a cultured people, of refined sensibilities and aesthetics, and even when they had resort to violence, which she'd seen enough of on her journeys there, they managed to do so with a modicum of taste. Even among the lowest of their dregs, there seemed to always be an acknowledgement of certain norms, of lines of propriety that ought not be crossed.

Pell saw little of that here among the Kellians. There was enough here to respect, and even perhaps to like - but it was difficult, because they were so irredeemably vulgar. She could see past her own prejudices, to some degree, and realise that the flame-haired tavern owner kept a tight house. But that felt small compense for the reek of seared meat and leather. As a pyromancer, and a battle-tested one, she knew the stench of burning flesh well enough - and for her it meant only pain and death. The thought of eating that flesh - well, her first few weeks after arriving by ship from the Archipelago had been more difficult for her stomach than being tossed by a typhoon had been. She was mostly inured to it now, but it still made her faintly queasy.

All this, of course, was not to even begin to mention the aroma of the customers.

But she had gone into this quasi-exile in part to learn patience, and so she suppressed her disdain, and sat, and watched, and listened, and tried not to breathe too deeply. She held her glass to her nose. The bouquet of the aggressively tannic wine helped a bit.

 

[Hrimfaxi]

Dýrfinna
Crownfield: The Tipsy Bull Tavern

Dýrfinna watched as people pinned up decorations at neighbouring stores and windows. Their smiles seemed almost brighter than the decorations themselves. "Another year.." Dýrfinna mumbled softly to herself. She had hoped that maybe people would use more metallic based colours for decorations yet it never happened. Though Dýrfinna didn't thoroughly enjoy the vast amount of people who arrive to celebrate and the noise it brings, she did however thrive off the travelers and their treasures they accumulated from their adventures. Though in the past she has made some enemies for pointing out that their prized treasure they sacrificed everything for, wasn't what they thought it was. It wasn't her fault they couldn't see it's lack of value, it was their fault for getting her excited for nothing.

As Dýrfinna got closer to the Tipsy Bull, her eyes wondered over those who wore armour, carried a blade or even wore a piece of jewelry and focusing on the finer detail. She wanted to try working with weaponry or armor, however Ursula refused. She didn't believe in battles and fighting, that the metal used for death was a waste. Yet all Dýrfinna could think about was how to make a blade stronger, shinier, to make it the masterpiece amongst the mess that was battle.

Eyes shimmering under her mask as she daydreams, Dýrfinna finally reaches the work board. Covered in different jobs from Stall set up, to helping heard prized beasts for competition and adventures to seek ingredients or objects. Dýrfinna scans the papers in hopes for something along her line of work. Maybe to help the black smith or fix some jewelry. At bated breath Dýrfinna hopes, yet a deep sigh escapes her lips. "Nothing..." she growled. *One day there will be something* she thought. Something that will push her skills to new limits, to see new designs, new inventions and techniques. Her long fingers reached out, a single hand holding up the poster while the other reached under her coat. Slowly opens the third velvet pouch on her left hip, it was tightly bound to a piece of fabric no wider than an inch and no thicker than a grain of rice. Yet there was shimmer to the hidden fabric belt, it was made by Dýrfinna with the help of a local seamstress. She pulled from the third pouch some metal shards, as though they were chips from a piece of armour that has been pierced and broken. Rubbing a single shared between her index and her thumb, her eyes shimmering softly. The metal almost seemed to melt like it was made of chocolate. Then slowly but surely, as she lifted her index a small spike formed. Gently holding the poster and exposing the top left corner, Dýrfinna then pressed in the spike, then just before she lifted her thumb from the poster, she made a small rubbing motion to great a flat top like a nail. She repeated this another three times until the poster was secured onto the work board.

As she smiled at her handy work, Dýrfinna heard commotion from inside. Her ears beneath her hood picked up, "Orcs?" Dýrfinna whispered raising an eyebrow unsure exactly what was going on. Soon enough disgruntle gentleman came out of the door growling and mumbling a good collection of words no child should hear. Dýrfinna silently leaned against the wall as to drop out of their peripheral vision. She didn't have a great relationship with a few of the locals for her refusal to take off the mask. Also a few miss handled situations involving giving a wife a gift that was meant for a secret lover. Which is another reason Dýrfinna is out the very back of the jewelry shop. Edging slowly to the door, she wanted to see what was going on. Suddenly an elf swooped in before her, Dýrfinna watched her in amazement. She had always liked how elves gave off this shimmering presence, she wondered if the elf could have any pieces she could work on for her. *Maybe a piece for her hair?* Dýrfinna thought to herself as she slowly but surely followed in. Her entrance however was far more discreet, more like a shadow had slipped in than a star.

Emerald orbs scanned the room, once again hoping to spot a metal piece that she could work on or if in a wonderful dream, have.
Dýrfinna spotted a coins in the middle were a few Dwarves playing cards. Pupils dilate as she gazed upon them, gosh she wanted to shine them up so badly. Yet snapping from such a thought, Dýrfinna headed towards the corner of the bar, furthest from everyone so she could watch for anything shiny comes out, or for something that needed to be shines. Nodding at Edith as she headed to her spot. Dýrfinna like Edith, she may have been one of the rare few who got Dýrfinna obsession with metals and the need for them to shine. She even once let Dýrfinna shine her coins she earned from drinks one quiet night.