-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=<* The Blushing Rosalia *>=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

 

    The Blushing Rosalia is a small, fairly nondescript tavern with the requisite two stories--rooms on the top floor, a common room with a fireplace, kitchen, and a couple of small meeting rooms on the ground floor. Neither food nor accommodation is particularly spectacular, but the food is better than what's being served out in the camp and the straw mattresses are better than uneven ground.

 

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-- Contents --=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

 

 Ionus           Broad shouldered, scarred young man with blond hair a 1m   1m

 

 Vasilly         A tall woman who is heavily armed.                    4m   9m

 

 Whirlpool                                                             0s   17h

 

 Thyrson         Northerer. Chiseled features, blonde stereotype.      5s   7m

 

 Rowena          A simply dressed young dwarven woman                  1s   23m

 

 Eira            Tall, lean blonde with chin length hair & dark attire 1m   14m

 

 Ceres           Silver-haired elf, tall and extremely graceful        7m   35m

 

 Laoise          Ash-blonde, green-eyed hafling lass.                  8s   32m

 

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--= Exits -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

 

Myrrish Camp <MC>         

 

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

 

So there's a halfling at the bar. That's not a lead-in to a bad joke, there really is a halfling at the bar. She's blonde. And she's nursing a pint of beer that looks ridiculously oversized against her tiny, tiny hands. And yeah, she's sitting on several pillows to be able to actually lean her elbow on the bar itself. Currently she looks vaguely interested in the picture hung over the rows of bottles behind the bar; it's inevitably an object of interest to newcomers, being as it is hard to determine if the scantily clad, lounging figure is a woman or a singularily peculiar man.

 

So there's a halfling at the bar. That's not a lead-in to a bad joke, there really is a halfling at the bar. She's blonde. And she's nursing a pint of beer that looks ridiculously oversized against her tiny, tiny hands. And yeah, she's sitting on several pillows to be able to actually lean her elbow on the bar itself. Currently she looks vaguely interested in the picture hung over the rows of bottles behind the bar; it's inevitably an object of interest to newcomers, being as it is hard to determine if the scantily clad, lounging figure is a woman or a singularily peculiar man.

 

It's an elf. Rowena seems to have decided this on moment of entry--and frowns at it, two lights of color in her cheeks as she steps up to the bar. And after another look, looks away. The picture is not there, that says, and she folds her hands with deliberation on her homespun skirts, and clears her throat. "Ale, please," she asks. She brings with her her own accompaniments, this being a small, black jar she settles on the bar itself.

 

Thyrson strides into the bar, coat clean, chin up. He's almost smiling, even if its only at the prospect of alcohol.

 

Ceres makes her way in with another bard, the two finishing up a discussion on songs, it would seem. Finishing up because while the one bard peels off to head towards the stage, Ceres heads towards the bar.

 

Eira lurks in a corner of the Rosalia. The meal on her plate ignored, long gone cold. Enough that the sauce on the plate has begun to congeal. Her nose in a book, scribbling notes in the margins. Even her pet isn't eating. Tuuli is curled up, sleeping on her lap.

 

Aleron has arrived.

 

Ionus makes his way into the bar, pausing to rub a sleeve against his forehead as if to scrub away the sweat and dirt but only managing to spread it around a wee bit more. He walks over to the bar and looks to the tender, "Excuse me! Do you have any milk?"

 

Laoise remains steadfastly fascinated with the picture over the bar, to the point that the pint before her is ignored. She's frowning slightly, mouth moving a little as though in a heated argument with herself mentally. She's about to lean over to Rowena to ask her opinion, but catches the determined look, and checks herself.

 

Aleron steps into the bar, his ever-present briefcase gripped in his left hand. It appears to have some weight to it, shifting his walk to be heavy on his right hip. He makes a bee-line for the bar... which could be a wonderful thing, because he doesn't seem to be looking for anyone today!

 

Given who she is, given what she is--the opinion is offered anyway, in the manner of concerned gossip. "I think it's rather tasteless," Rowena says, brushing out her skirts. She can only mean the picture, and the two spots of color show eventually, faint anger. "I can't believe they'd put up something that tacky." That it's a bar or a war zone has no effect. She sniffs anyway, then thanks the bartender quietly when the food does arrive. In a dirty, filthy glass with a bit of crust on it. The crust slowly breaks off, and falls into the ale. ...she looks like she's about to have kittens.

 

The Rosalia is definitely having a busy night. For one, it's wide open and food and drink are flowing. For two, it's a night in which many an enlisted and officer has pressed themselves inside of it. It's just filled to the -brim- with fighting men and, yes, women today. Even a pair of gnomes sitting in the corner. Oddly enough, despite the crushing throngs of people here, the gnomes manage to have a personal bubble of space.

 

Thyrson works his way towards the bar, shouldering slowly in. He's patient enough, but he -is- thirsty.

 

That would be because they are scary. Thankfully, they aren't singing. 

 

Ceres ends up near Rowan and Laoise at the bar, offering a bright smile at one of the inhabitants already there, as she squishes in, to order some sort of drink or another. Does it matter what? It all comes out brown..

 

Jenner has arrived.

 

Hanthantha has arrived.

 

Eira sets the pencil down on her table, turning the page of her book. She glances up as the page turns to notice the room has filled. "Is it the dinner hour already, Tuuli?" The food left over on her plate must be from lunch. Her hand falling to stroke her familiar's belly, while she looks around. She notices Thyrson, raising a hand.

 

As the sun begins to set on the misty evening, a single peal of thunder can be heard. Many of the soldiers present reflexitively wince or duck their heads. Thunder and artillery fire are too close to comfort.

 

Thyrson secures ale, then lifts his hand towards Eira, and starts towards the corner.

 

Amidst all the tempestous revelry, Jenner keeps to himself, at least for the moment. And quietly so... Settled in a corner, book at hand and mug at the other, the mage simply smokes in silent contemplation of things vast and mighty and mystical....     

 

 "... so if I added wings there...." he murmurs, sketching absently within the thick tome. "He'd be able to fly without snapping off anything important...." Spell research. In a bar. Simple.

 

     Pushing the door open slowly, the High Elf, has decided to take refuge within the confines of this place. Seems even the those here for mercenary causes, have decided this is the place too be. A glance around, as the multitude of folks has Han wondering were to possibly sit.. then seems the Gnomes have ample space, for one such as himself, and begins in their direction..

 

Laoise does, indeed, wince slightly at the thunder. She manages not to spill her beer - from which she seems not to have taken a single sip, yet - but her eyes flicker across the room in general before it's established that it is, indeed, merely thunder. "Rain," she mutters. "About time. It's been so hot lately, it'll be good for the fields, at least." Trust a halfling to worry about fields she doesn't even own. She glances over at Rowena, making a murmur of sympathy at the quite possibly ruined ale.

 

Rowena clucks her tongue and nods, seeming to accept the halfling's sympathy as good and just, and at face value. The drink--she eases it away with the care one would use for a tarantula before reaching down to soothe her skirts again, with a small frown before she she notes site of the other Vardaman. "Master Aleron! It's good to see you. I saw you at the sermon earlier. I'd meant to ask you what you thought about it." And after commenting on the painting, she doesn't look at it again. The mage's muttering in the corner earns an odd look, a tap of her finger against the chin. "Well, I hope he doesn't get drink on his book. It's a terrible thing to be reading at the table, you know."

 

Aleron sets his briefcase down in front of him at a bar stool. "Hard cider, please..." he requests of the barkeep. "... oh, and could you refill this?" he says as he draws a flask out of his pack and sets it down on the counter. He slips into a seat and looks about at the bustling throng.

 

Tuuli jumps from the sound, going from lazy to perked up. It scampers up over her shoulder and then down into the pocket on her coat. Eira just shakes her head, motioning to the chair across from her, "What brought you out here, Thyrson?" She invites the sorcerer from Stormgarde to join her.

 

Ceres gets her drink, and then with a thanks and payment, eases out of the bar situation, and heads towards a corner, where hopefully the press is slightly less. Unlikely, but hope springs eternal, much like taxes.

 

Hanthantha has partially disconnected.

 

Aleron turns toward Rowena. "Oh, it was fine... but aren't you a little erm... I do not know what would be the proper word... overly cheerful?" he replies to the Dwarf.

 

Thyrson seats himself in the offered chair. "I do have an interest in this conflict, tenuous as it may be." He nods to Eira. "What brings you to the front?" He glances up at the thunder, frowning.

 

Jenner's particularly corner, refreshingly enough, has a minimum of intruders from among the press. It may have to do with the table carrying the heavy, thick tome... or the fact that a wizard is there. One who might change people into gnomes. "...and then that would finish it," he adds to himself, a quiet chuckle drifting upward. He sets the quill to one side as he leans back gingerly, sighing a great breath of relaxation. "Perfect."

 

Laoise finally dares a sip from the pint she'd, perhaps unwisely, ordered, and immediately regrets it with a grimace. The tankard is pushed away from her, and in a low voice - well, as low as possible while still being heard - confers with the barkeep about the possibility of wine. When -that- arrives, a clay jug slammed unceremoniously down before the halfling and accompanied by a glass not much cleaner than the dwarven priestess', the diminutive blonde merely sighs and resigns herself to her fate with a sloshing of something that's, at least, red.

 

"It was, wasn't it?" Rowena clucks her tongue in sympathy, and frowns at him before looking towards Laoise. "We have a new pastor," she confides in the other woman. "He's...a convert from Blar, taken to drinking," and here it's hard to tell if that comes with sympathy, or...something else. "He spends most of his time draped over some Cienaran's lap." Sniff. "Like half the camp!"

 

     "Do you mind if I join you two?" This is said in near perfect Gnomish, from the High Elf, as he negotiates to sit with them, since hell Gnomes usually blow stuff up, or change people into stuff, better too be already at their table should they have an experiment out. Another glance around the room, and the elf spots a few folks he has seen in towne, some others he hasn't, but keeps towards the gnomes for now..

 

"The guild sent me here. Its always a task getting proper transport back once you are done with a job. At least the mission was interesting." Eira shuts her book, putting it away. She beings to search for a waitress to clear the table, flagging one down. "I discover more and more that I simply do not enjoy the conflict or even the confrontation as much as the problem solving the more I am engaged in this dance they call war."

 

Ceres ends up in a corner with a Tome. Or rather, a Jenner with a book - it may be the same thing, and with that in mind, Ceres moves over to find out. "Would you mind company, good sir?" she asks, adding, "I am not untidy with my drink near reading materials," she offers as a suriety.

 

"Somewhat..." he says as he picks up his briefcase and places it right on the bar in front of him. His flask and a tankard are set down next to it shortly after and sets down coins for them. "Thank you..." he says toward the barkeep... as he undoes the clasps of the briefcase. He cracks it open and peers at a pile of filled tied stacks of paper... and at the people in the room.

 

"Busy?" Another cluck of the tongue, and Rowena glances at the pile of paperwork. "Well, don't let us keep you." Poor Laoise. Recruited by virtue of her gender alone. "...oh. That's that bard, isn't it?" she turns back to the other woman, and points towards Ceres, then seems to realize something. And frowns.

 

Jenner takes a few moments to come to his senses, doing so with a start. "I'd...." He begins, stops, sitting up with a cough as he brushes ink-stained hands together as he stands. "No, not at all. Please, sit! The book will be fine, and the scrolls aren't totally important, and..." Quick prattling stops short as he offers a gesture, indicating one of the rickety chairs nearby. "Please, feel free. I don't think anyone else is claiming a place!"

 

"Well, war does that to a great many people," observes Laoise with a careful air of diplomatic neutrality. "Still, I can't imagine the Ceinarans much appreciate having to take care of -that- in addition to... well... whatever other duties they may have." She pauses, gaze guided by the dwarf's pointing finger, and nods slowly. "I think I heard her singing the other day. Lovely voice."

 

Ionus gathers his mug of milk finally before rtiring from th bar, being somewhat quiet he gravitates toward the corner where he gives a quiet wave towards Thyrson and Eira.

 

And then, of course, where there's thunder? There's rain. The Rosalia rapidly shows that being this close to thee fighting means to have something of leaky roof. Little droplets of water begin to find their way inside and the serving staff is quick to place cups all around to deal with the leaks.

 

Aleron grabs one stack of papers, perhaps only two dozen pages thick, and holds it by the cross-ties in the middle, shutting the briefcase. He then slips off his chair, holding the pile of papers in two hands as he weaves through the crowd, keeping his eyes focused... until he walks up to the halfling. "You are the registered adventurer known as Laoise?"

 

Laoise shows remarkably little sense of self-preservation in the face of a lawyer. She merely aims a rather charming little smile Aleron's way, and nods. "I am she," she replies lightly. "How can I be of service?" Poor thing. Never even learnt that one NEVER offers to be of service to a lawyer.

 

Thyrson considers Eira's comments, and nods towards her. "Reasonable, that. Problem solving at the front? Curious."

 

Ceres starts to sit, "You are most kind, sir. My name is Ceres..." only to look up at the roof. And end up with a drop landing on her nose. "... and I do not believe I need worry about myself. It would seem that Nature wishes to inquire about your reading material as well. Do they have spells upon them to protect from water damage? And if not, need you assistance with storage while it storms?"

 

"She...oh. I suppose I didn't realize she was an elf," poor Rowena. She smooths her hands over her skirts again, and stitches a brave smile into place. And then...almost. Almost she looks embarrassed as the other Vardaman serves a set of papers to the halfling. "I think you might want another drink." Is her suggestion. Then a look at the... "Never mind."

 

"Augh,' go the gnomes. They rapidly move to protect the papers they were working on. Swiftly, even. They cover them up until the serving girls can get something in place to deal with the drips. One gives an apologetic look to Ceres when she gets dripped on. "Sorry about that. Some cannon fire landed close by recently. Did some damage to the roof, 'mongst other things." Thankfully, the Bludgunni forces lost their best gun emplacements not long ago.

 

The plate gone and a cup set in its place to catch the water droplets, Eira just shakes her head, "This reminds me of my grandparents cabin in the short spring.. when the heavy snows began to melt and we'd discover what parts of the roof went bad over the winter." She notices the wave from the young priest, waving him over to join the table. Her attentions back to Thyrson, "Getting out from behind enemy lines without taking on more injuries then I believe we could have handled." She leans into the table, "In fact, I met one of the boogiemen that seems to be trouble for many on the front."

 

That remark draws a wry grin of humour from the mage. "Not at all," Jenner replies, matter-of-factly. "I would be a poor wizard, and a worse adventurer, if I was unprepared for every tiny deluge that poured down." The grin sours as he casts a glance towards the outside. "Even in the middle of a war."     

 

Quick fingers snap as the mage murmurs a summons. "Hruthers!" he calls, with a flicker of sea scents. He nods to the serving girls, as he gestures absently to his work. "Gather that up and store it," he orders, picking the thick tome up himself. "And cord them properly this time!" he adds, glaring at a particular bit of nothing in turn.     

 

With a faint sense of a long-suffering sigh, the Invisible Servant sets to work, suddenly furling the scrolls one at a time.

 

"Arrrgghh!" shouts a man's voice. "Shut up," Vasilly replies, entering the Blushing Rosalia while dragging said man by his scruff. "It's nothing for you to concern yourself with, Tovias," she tells the old man, who has already reached for a dagger and is waving it shakily. She calmly snatches it out of his hand.

 

Aleron says, "Well, I have a delivery for you as a neutral arbitrator from a Mr. Loxar the Invincible. He alleges that you, Laoise, were running down the thoroughfare attempted to run between his legs whilst doing so, and did not fully clear the upper barrier, resulting in contact that led to some necessary medical procedures." He offers the stack of papers toward Laoise. They appear to be a lawsuit.

 

There is a tilt of the head from the elven bard, then a bit of a smile, "I would think that the middle of a war would be the best time to be prepared - if rested well eough, that is."

 

Thyrson glances at the ceiling, and shrugs, then looks down at Eira. "Boogiemen. Do tell."

 

Ionus grins as he pulls out a chair just enough to squeeze between it and the table as he takes a seat. "Boogie men? These men...they like to...boogie? What is that? Is it something the gnomes like to do?"

 

     The leaky roof, is a good enough invitation, so Han sits down, as just as more people enter. Okay this place always has soemthing interesting happening. Glad that is over near the Gnomes this time... and says to them again in near perfect Gnomish"So what are you guys working on? or taking a break from?" The High Elf asks at their table

 

Laoise looks scandalised. SCANDALISED. "Why, I never--!" One tiny fist on hip, the other wagging in the traditional 'you're-in-for-a-WORLD-of-trouble-mister' gesture adopted by annoyed women all over the multiverse, the halfling glares - GLARES! - at Aleron. "I never -touched- the man! And if he's so 'Invincible', how could he be laid low by a mere slip of a halfling?"

 

"Height discrimination," Rowena decides abruptly, after listening. She straightens, and yanks at her braid before turning half aorund in her stool to frown at Laoise. "I'd call that height discrimination. And /you/! Aleron! You know better than to get involved in something like that," the priestess levels a finger at him. Jabs him in the chest. And looks completely satisfied when Laoise starts to snap. In fact, she draws her hand away, and resorts to only murmuring now and again approval. A nod. "You know, she has a point..."

 

"Eshranti Garnak." The names rolls off of Eira's tongue as if she's said it a few times since the meeting, probably to find out more about the Garnaks, "We awoke him in a resting place. He was quite powerful." She smiles placidly at the young priest.

 

GAME: Whirlpool damaged you for -8 points. 32 remaining.

 

Aleron shrugs. "He apparently claims to have witnesses, but refuses to reveal the names of them to me as of yet. I am only a neutral arbitrator. However, he does have medical records. If I may suggest, do bring this forth. I have the sense that he is trying to achieve a settlement without too much public embarassment." He offers the papers still toward Laoise. Of course, by bringing it forth, he gets to arbitrate!

 

Several more individuals make their way into the Rosalia, this time merely heading for the upstairs. They all look travel worn and tired.

 

"I'd wager we can pay him a visit," firmly, to Laoise, and then Rowena turns back around, and levels a glare, a full-on glower at Aleron. "And you're going to take us there, too, right after supper. I'm not having any of this 'neutral arbitrator' nonsense either! He's talking about a slip of a halfling being strong enough to kick him in the nuts just by running into him. The Invincible! Is he so /delicate/?" Well, perhaps in certain...no. Not going there.

 

Thyrson glances over towards the emphatic words, then looks back at Eira. "Eshranti Garnak. That's quite the name, for ... awoke." He pauses. "Oh? That sounds ominous."

 

It gets even *more* packed in here. Roughly a dozen Hobgoblins wearing the colors of the Blar 1st Cavalry regiment make their way into the Rosalia. *Hobgoblins*! Lots of eyes turn and stare. While these ones are supposedly on the side of the Myrrish, they still are skeptically and warily watched by those who have lost friends to their ilk.

 

Ionus turns and looks to th sorceress, "Esss...Essh? How did...this guy?...sleep through all this?"

 

Laoise *hmmphs*! "I wouldn't be surprised if his medical expenses were incurred after unsuccessfully soliciting the ministrations of a lady of negotiable affections," says the halfling, still on the offensive, but calms down somewhat -- enough to actually -accept- the sheaf of papers from the lawyer and leaf through them. She pales, somewhat. "-Crushed-? Now you listen here, mister 'neutral arbitrator'," she says, waving the offending piece of medical information at Aleron, "if I'd hit him with such force as to crush his-- well, as to crush anything, don't you think I'd be in just as bad a shape?"

 

Jenner nods evenly, taking his own seat in turn before he straightens himself upright, shifting in place. "Let's hope it doesn't rain down on us in here," he adds, casting the roof a wary glance in turn. "Too much," he adds, pausing as he turns his eyes towards the door. "So tell me, m'lady," he asks, with forced casualness. "You haven't anything against hobgoblins, have you?"

 

Aleron says, "Well, apparently, it was a chain of events that led to his injury. It caused him to double-over, and there was a crease in his leggings that caused the rotation of the leggings to directly compress the point of injury betwixt the codpiece and legging. His address is in the suit. If you wish to procure my services as an arbitrator presently, it will be two gold for an instance with one silver for every tenth of an hour beyond an hour." A lawyer to the bone.

 

"I have had the honor to hold many a discussion with Master Boshter, on occasion?" Ceres offers, as she turns to watch yet more come in, this time in the form of the aforementioned Hobs.

 

"Gimme my knife," Tovias says to Vasilly. "It's those weird lookin' guys." He holds out his hand, expectantly. Vasilly drops into the chair across from him, kicks up her feet, and crosses her arms. "No. Now drink your tea," she says, as a barmaid puts tea in front of Tovias.

 

The mage nods absently, relaxing as he brings his gaze back to the bard. "In that case, I won't have to warn you of our newcomers." He grins again as he settles back in his chair. The Unseen Servant continues at its task, stuffing the scrolls into their cases before stacking them to one side. "In any case, welcome to the Blushing Rosalia. I am your host, Jenner the Indomitable....Or just Jenner, if it suits." He folds his fingers together before him, studying curiously. "What brings you this way, if I might ask?"

 

Hanthantha thanks the Gnomes, as he begins to rise "Seems I have some research, I need to finish as well" a glance around, making note of the Hobgoblins, as the High Elf dons his hood and heads for the exit..

 

"Awoke. And in a word prevented our strongest from acting." Eira's tone indicates a certain respect for that level and master of magical ability. "Of course, he wasn't the smartest to walk up and try to strike at him without considering what a Garnak is, he could have put our whole party in more serious danger. It was quite.. exhilirating. Sometimes the keenest weapons are words, a lesson I hope the others took with them. We were able through discourse to convince him it was not the proper time for a battle and he consented to allowing us passage."

 

"Well, we're going to have a talk with him tomorrow," Rowena says, firmly. "And you're coming along, master Aleron, just so I don't hit him upside the head a time or two. The Invincible! Imagine! I haven't heard a bigger pack of lies since--well, probably since this morning. If nothing else, we should talk to him about that, and for embarrassing this poor girl. And you--!" Oh, that last sets her off. Angrily. Pause. Breathe. Breathe. "You stood here and embarrassed this poor girl by telling everyone in this room that she ran face-first into someone's...space! ...Well. I have to imagine that has to be embarrassing for anyone!"

 

Hanthantha has disconnected.

 

Thyrson flicks a glance towards hobgoblins, then looks back at Eira. "Interesting. That is good -- what did it cost you?"

 

"Ceres N'ayushi, at your service, good host. As for what brings me this way, until I procure a horse, or an airship, alas, it is my own two feet. As for this corner... I do believe your reading material scared most away - thereby leaving room for those bold and brave to find a seat."

 

Over there, in the corner. In a particularly shadowed corner. A figure with a large, floppy hat lifts his head somewhat muzzily. He'd escaped notice thus far largely because he drowned himself in booze, for the most part, and had his very large, very floppy hat over his features. A few might recognize Engel, another Hobgoblin, but he blinks his eyes somewhat muzzily at the sight of the manyand numerous Hobgoblins that just arrived. "Wait a second," he announces. 

 

 "...those Hobs aren't from Blar.."

 

Vasilly looks up and over at Engel. Her brow arches. "Ok, you can have your knife back," Vasilly says, handing it over to Tovias.

 

Not from...Rowena stops mid-scold (poor, poor Aleron) and turns slowly around to frown at the hobgoblins. She looks flummoxed. Someone just changed the Rules of the World. The Rules of the World...don't change. At least, they're not supposed to. "They're..." she can barely get the words out.

 

Maelstrom has arrived.

 

Aleron says, "Only doing my job... just as you are doing yours. I do not have an address on record for her." He then turns back toward Laoise. "May I suggest finding a consul before confronting him so that you can receive advice to portray your side of events?"

 

Laoise looks every bit as riled up as Rowena, if... well, somewhat less imposing, supporting the dwarf's statements with fierce nods and frowns. There will be a reckoning! Oh yes. 

 

And then... it seems her, as well as everyone else's, attention is drawn towards Engel and his statement, then towards the recently-arrived hobgoblins. Oh... dear.

 

"And here I did think it was my own daunting presence that kept them away." Jenner tips his head as he reaches over to his pipe, brushing fingers along the bowl as he plucks it into his hand. "Horses may be hard to come by, here..." he begins, trailing off as he catches the odd announcement with a glance of curiosity. "Airships might be the same," he begins, glancing more sharply.

 

"Cost? I am certain my name is etched in his memory in the same manner that his is in mine." Eira says with some gravity entering her voice. Her chin lifting she takes in the thickening crowd.

 

Ceres tilts her head towards the corner, nodding absently, "From what I can tell, airships in this vicinity have a poor habit of crashing. Falling off a horse is one thing. Out of the sky....?" she trails off.

 

Thyrson looks up, towards Engel and his statement. "What?" Scowling, he looks towards Engel and demands. "What did you say?"

 

Immediately, one of the Hobgoblins swears in goblin, drawing a sword and saying, "Jigs up, humans! Lay down the blades and you won't get made dead." 

 

Then, just then, a piercing scream erupts from upstairs and then 'We're under attack! To arms! To arms!' Apparently, things have gone south for the attackers in that they're relived, but then, there's a dozen of them and it sounds like more upstairs..

 

Aleron says, "Ah, bloody..." and reaches behind his back, flicking out a shield and rapier. "... why must servicing paperwork be this hazardous every time?"

 

"Oh, -fuck-," swears Laoise, succinctly, and grabs for the jug of wine as she slides off her barstool, neatly sending it flying towards the throng of hobgoblins the moment she hits the floor and reaching in under her cloak to pull out... a small crossbow in dark, polished wood and gleaming metal. It seems the halfling's learned from her earlier battlefield adventure and gone ahead and armed herself more effectively.

 

Okay, so a wine jug isn't the most terrifying of weapons, but hey, it might confuse them a little? Maybe?

 

Thyrson pulls out a wand, and lays a hand on the hilt of his sword. "I'm afraid we can't do that." His eyes burn with latent power.

 

"Ooooh...you think they'd at least wait until after supper," Rowena hurriedly scrambles down from the stool. If she wasn't a dwarf, she'd have fallen on her face, but the race has 'stability,' be it in quotes or otherwise. So she lands flatly, on her two feet and grabs at the barstool to right herself. It isn't the most graceful of landings, as has been said.

 

Vasilly's right hand reaches down, finding one of her blades and drawing it out, slowly. Her left hand mirrors the action. "Go fuck yourself," she tells the hob who just drew a sword.

 

Ionus looks from Engel to the new hobs, apparently all he's heard is 'not from Blar' which he's somehow equated as 'not boshter and therefore not looking to kick me' so he stands up, "Hello!" ANd then it becomes obvious that there's trouble... "Oh..."

 

Jenner's eyes narrow as the world suddenly becomes a much more unfriendly place. "Take cover," he suggests, sliding one hand up his sleeve... Withdrawing a slender, needle-tipped wand from within. "Things have just become more unkind than horses or falling from the skies." He thrusts his pipe into his mouth, a quick ripple of blue smoke swirling up into the air. "Find a safe place, m'lady Ceres!"

 

Eira looks not amused by blades and threats. She simply stands up from the table. Lips pursed tightly. This won't be pretty.

 

"Who has ever heard of a ballad that ended with 'And the heroes then surrendered, with nar a fight'?" Ceres asks in a murmur, getting to her feet to and moving away from the table, not yet going for any of her weapons, "I fear any attempts at this time would not go well, m'lord Jenner.."

 

NOTE: At this point, the scene divided into two parts before rejoining.

Sendor War: The Grand Kidnapping Caper: Group A

Sendor War: The Grand Kidnapping Caper: Group B

 

 

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=<* The Blushing Rosalia *>=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

    The Blushing Rosalia is a small, fairly nondescript tavern with the requisite two stories--rooms on the top floor, a common room with a fireplace, kitchen, and a couple of small meeting rooms on the ground floor. Neither food nor accommodation is particularly spectacular, but the food is better than what's being served out in the camp and the straw mattresses are better than uneven ground.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-- Contents --=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=- 

 

Eventually, the sounds of combat dim and more soldiers are arriving from all directionws, converging on the inn to clean up the mess that has been made. Too, from upstairs, more arrive. A wounded man in Myrrish colors, uniform be decked with medals and signets of rank. A general. He staggers down the stairs with the aid of a bodyguard, accompanied by valiant heroes who helped defend his life. 

 

 "Here," he's cut off by a fit of wheezing, "HERE!" He's stronger now. "All of you who fought today are owed a great debt of thanks!" A myrrish general is here. And he's not alone. Another one follows him down, similarly bedecked. It makes sense, of course. This was a strike at Myrrish leadership, conferencing here near the front lines.

 

Rowena clod-stomps down the staircase, an axe thumping along the stairs behind her, which she holds by the handle. It slips, slips-thumps down the stairs, which she doesn't seem to notice--the conversation has her concern. "I don't know what they think they were doing. ...are there baths around here?" she asks, changing subject midway through. "I keep hoping they'll set up something, but the closest we've had so far is this sheet they hang up and throw mud at you." And a frown at the general. Somehow, it's his fault they have no proper baths.

 

"I do not believe blood comes out of fabric and leather well..." Ceres comments mournfully, as she finishes cleaning off skin with a properly damp cloth, before commenting to Laoise, "I do not normally approve of attacking during negotiations, however, given the circumstances, I can only praise your aim and strength, mistress." To Rowena, "And your skill in the fact of painful circumstances, lady Rowena." Of course, she doesn't say that when the general is speaking. She waits. Until he's done, approperately.

 

Incidentally, for those just coming down here? There's a -massive- device that's torn through the floor. A giant, drill-like carrier or transport of some kind. Now doubt it was making a tunnel of some kind. And succeeded. Only to be, well, stopped here. It's probably how they planned to escape.

 

Laoise is, like most of the ones who stormed upstairs to help out the generals, looking a little worse for wear, but apparently got out of the scrum with nothing much worse than a bloodied nose. She keeps sniffling as though the nosebleed's still bothering her, and a hand's rubbing discreetly at partially-dried blood on her upper lip and chin. "Eh," she says, shrugging lightly at Ceres. "He -did- say some nasty things about halflings. Couldn't very well let that go, could I?"

 

Eira had aided pulling a scorched looking goblin out of the digger. He's got a white scarf tied to a stick in his hand, dangling it limply. Scattered around some live, some dead the non-Blar hobgoblins. "We have captives." She announces for the general.

 

"He said some /terrible/ things," Rowena agrees, eventually reshouldering the axe. She pats its handle comfortingly before looking around the room, and looks a little green around the gills, at that. At the moment, the generals, well...there is at the moment no speech about hygiene or anything else. She rubs at her shoulder.

 

Aleron follows behind the others down the steps, spots of blood covering his hands. "Please tell me this wasn't Valeska again..." he says with eyes wide open.

 

"So I see," replies the general. "They will be questioned. I'm surprised they tried something like this agian. Men, get the prisoners and take them into custody. You know who to give them to." And with that, soldiers do, in fact, begin to take them out of the hands of those who defeated them, manacling them. "Looks like you won't getting prisoners yourselves these days," announces the general. 

 

"I knew we shouldn't have let the Blarites stay here. Already, tehy're using them to try to infiltrate us! Maybe they were even members of their unit!" An adjuct to the general says this with obvious frustration. 

 

General Maz shakes his head, turning towards his adjunct. "We can't spurn help just because of possibilities. But we're going to have to figure something out to prevent any further infiltration." 

 

The Hobgoblin that remained here during the fight, Engel of the Floppy Hat, grunts and says, himself, "I need to get to them. They need to hear about this." 

 

"Dismissed, Engel," says the general to that particular Hob. 

 

He dissapears quickly.

 

Laoise glances up the stairs, where a couple of rather subdued-looking hobs are being led, hands tied, by the generals' remaining bodyguards down into the common room. They got some captives, too! The halfling is flexing her fingers as she pauses at the bottom of the stairs, surveying the damage. It really does look rather appalling. She pales.

 

Aleron sighs as he looks at the large drilling machine in the middle of the room. He reaches behind him into his backpack... for his briefcase. Uh oh.

 

Whatever Ceres was about to say on the matter of horrible things said about halflings, is lost in the flood of thoughts that come to mind at the sight of the device in the floor, and the captive with the little flag. "... Valeska has workers who surrender and tear up the floor?" The hole is eyed some more. "... that is going to take time to repair." The line of captives being led out is watched for a moment, before she shakes her head. "... I am going to go find some water."

 

Thyrson cleans gore from his sword, as he sits in the corner, listening.

 

Eira grabs hold of the goblin's shoulder, "No, you can blame that.." She points at the digger, "on this one." She hands off the injured goblin to soldiers, "We need to find a way to take away the Bludguni wrenches, that thing is a hazard." The digger is indeed rather slipshod in construction, especially after the damage it took.

 

Death, taxes, and... some things are certain in life. A very few of them, but some things are. Rowena clops down the rest of the staircase, and after surveying the damage...brushes her hair back from her face and starts to get to work. It takes her a moment to decide what she's needed more for--to clean up the corpses, or to assist those still living.

 

Laoise, for her part, makes her way over to the bar and finds her glass, which has by some miracle managed to stay on the countertop... and pauses, eyeing the dirty-brown rim around the edge. "Maybe better to go get some -proper- wine," she mutters. Handily, the papers Aleron'd served her earlier seem to have mysteriously scattered and disappeared.

 

Unfortunately, that's what Aleron is reaching for. He reaches around his bag... and grabs another neatly string-bundled pile of papers, and closes his case. He then picks it back up, walks up... and looms behind Laoise. "I make these in triplicate." he says whilst dangling the papers by the string.

 

Sigh. "I thought you might," says Laoise, dejectedly, as she accepts the bundle with the manner of someone thoroughly defeated. "So, uh, your offer about mediating, is that still open? I may have, at least, a character witness." This, with a glance across the room at Rowena. "And I still say my head was nowhere near his... area."

 

Rowena's poor feet. She really should take to wearing shoes--instead, there are bloody footprints where she misses stepping around a puddle of it, and the hem of that dress will never get cleaned. She looks up towards Laoise and smiles, but a blood-covered priestess of Death who walks like a dainty rhinoceros probably isn't...too reassuring?

 

Thyrson sheaths his sword, and sits back. He considers both general and aide, arms folding on his chest.

 

"We shall see..." says Aleron. "His medical records were enough to warrant the initation of the suit, but to prove his case, he needs to find witnesses on his behalf to prove you were specifically at fault... and I am certain a man of his... stature... may be discouraged from letting the word get out too much."

 

Vasilly reaches into her pocket, pulling out a rag to clean blood off her blades. She glares down at the two dead hobgoblin bodies at her feet, likely reliving the bloodshed in her mind. She herself is bleeding from a rather ugly wound, but it seems to be rather low on her priorities. Pausing, she realizes something. "Where in the hell is Tovias?" she mutters to herself.

 

"We need to get you to your physician, and promptly," says the adjunct, who seems to be giving no thought to his won injuries. He takes the general, an older man to be sure, by the arm and begins to lead him out. They're flanked by guards, of course, and then entire camp and this place is now on the highest of high alerts.

 

"Mistress Laoise. If you find yourself in need of my assistance, I also am more than willing to do so.." she call, as only a trained bard can do.

 

Eira reaches into a pocket, pulling out a pale coloured handkerchief. She wipes her hands down after touching the filthy Bludgunni goblin. "Do we need any Altheans?" She asks, looking over at the people who fought with her. Somehow she managed to not even have a piece of hair out of place. Even with the floor upturned, and the tables and chairs askew.

 

Thyrson glances down, seemingly only really noticing a slash on his arm now. "I will be fine."

 

Vasilly glances down at her chest. "Fuck," she murmurs. "Another fucking shirt cut up. Where is that idiot?" She starts to look under tables and chairs. "Shouldn't have given him his knife back." The woman actually looks somewhat concerned about her "employer".

 

"...ahhhhh!!!" A voice screams from the cellar. Oh no!

 

"That would be most appreciated, miss Ceres," says Laoise, giving the bard one of her warmest smiles. "But for now, I think I'm going to take myself... and my newly acquired friend, the lawsuit... off to my tent and get a good bit of sleep. I'm beat." Hopping off the barstool - much too high for her, of course - and landing with nary a sound, she sketches an ironic bow to Aleron, then waves to Rowena and Ceres... and marches out the door, drying nosebleed displayed like a badge of honour. The scream is pointedly - POINTEDLY! - ignored.

 

Vasilly reaches into her boot, pulling out a pistol. "Shit," muttered as she goes jogging toward the cellar door.

 

Laoise has left.

 

Ceres has a somewhat bloody smile, but that doesn't stop her from offering it, then she too is off to get cleaned up, and gain some sort of rest.

 

Ceres has left.

 

The door to the cellar lays in the relatively undisturbed kitchen, where one can head down the short flight of steps into the cellar, where two men are. One is the owner of the Rosalia, who is staring in horror at the other...

 

Eira follows after the sound. Letting those with large pointy objects lead. "That doesn't sound welcoming.."

 

Rowena looks over at the scream, and looks irritated, by the looks of things. She pauses, and slips the coin back into her sleeve from where the corpse's eyes had just been closed. And stands. And turns around. And...scowls. "Ooooh, what now?" 

 

The other is the aforementioned Tovias, Vasilly's employer/charge. He's an old, weathered looking man with a multitude of tattoos and scars. Now, he is sitting on the floor of the cellar, wine bottles surrounding him. Tovias sways back and forth and holding up one of the bottles. Apparently, he slipped in here when his 'bodyguard' engaged in battle. He is singing, slurring the words: "Yo ho ho and a bottle of rrrrrummmm..." 

 

"That's wine, you idiot," Vasilly says as she is halfway down the stairs. She looks like she's trying not to laugh.

 

"... I'm going to SUE!" yells the owner of the Rosalia. Promptly.

 

Aleron meanwhile seems occupied upstairs, writing down notes on the digging machine. This'll be messy...

 

Vasilly blinks at the owner. She looks down at her pistol. Then back at the owner. "What the fuck does that mean?" Then, sticking the pistol back in its place, she trots down to retrieve Tovias, hoisting him over her shoulder. Tovias mutters in response, "Shixteen men on a dead mansh chestsss..."

 

Rowena looks...oh, my. Well. She goes back to her dead people. They don't sing. They also don't you know, well, sue.

 

"...that was my best wines," complains the owner, storming back upstairs with rage. RAGE.