The tavern of Infinity...

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Shura, a white-haired man with Kara-Turan features sits nonchantantly at his table. Propping his two swords by its' side, he sips sparingly from his drink. The single candle on the table is almost drowned out by his tattered and volumnious black garments. From a far distance, it seems like he is draped in swirling shadows. His black, bead-like eyes seem to stare into every nook and cranny of the tavern, hard and weathered facial features perpetually tense in anticipation of an attack. He seems to be the earliest to arrive in the tavern.

(ok guys, post a description of your fantasy persona and what (s)he is doing in the Tavern of Infinity, a neutral, multi-planar place where paladins can drink and chat with demons.)

 

A terrifying shadowed creature of human proportions bursts through the tavern door. In the split second it takes for it to cross to Shura's table you can "clearly" see the look of "insanity" in it's eyes, it's mass seems to absorb light but you can make out the horrible weapons it is holding.

It proceeds to slay Shura's chaotic and lawful evil friends, along with several lawful evil and neutral "Paladins" in the blink of an eye. At the same moment a Barghest hanging from the ceiling unnoticed drops down and consumes their essences.

The horror looks at Shura and telepaths: "These people deserve to be eaten by Bargests, but you I spare, for you are not truly evil."

Then the figure collapses to the floor in a puddle of Astral goo and evaporates.

 

Belisarius sits in the corner of the tavern, sipping his ale slowly...A faint hint of gleaming light can be seen in the openings of his cloak, as candlelight dances acrossed his ornately engraved and immaculately polished armor.

His shining silver helm, with golden eagles' wings rest on the table to his right, great shield with the silhouette of a dragon is slung over the chair next to him.

Although outwardly calm, stroking his closely cropped blonde beard, the paladin seems capable of springing into action at a moments notice...The heavy bastard sword and mace hanging from belt; near at hand to deal punishing damage to those who would oppose him.

As the large warrior shifts slightly in his chair, the opening in his cloak reveals a platinum chain holding symbol of his deity - the Silver Lightning Bolt of Heironeous the Invincible. Yet another warning that this is not someone to be trifled with....

He winks at the barmaid, as she drops off the next round of ales for him and his companions: An equally large bald man with Purple Tattoos whispering quietly into his cupped hands, and two rather attractive yet physically disparate female elves...One whose pale skin and bright gold hair seems to shimmer like sunlight in the corner of the room. The other, almost a shadow of the first; her silvery hair and raven skin, reminds Belisarius of a bright moon in a dark winter sky.

Well, that's all I can think up now...Maybe more later...

 

Smiling broadly, Sapiryl hurls the dice down the table. Again a win. The burly bar tender laughs uproariously as Sapiryl presses a coin into his beefy hand and returns to the table. Twin daggers are sheathed behind his back, with peace bonds securing both inside their scabbards. The short bow and quiver next to the table are his, as is the light shortsword. Thieves know better than to attempt a quick snatch, as three fighters at the table have been paid in gold to be Sapiryl's eyes. Besides, they know the look of a master of their own trade.

Scrubbing forefinger and thumb through his close cropped goatee, he appears to be studying the mug in another players hand. Although distorted, the image of the impressive Paladin in silver, warns Sapiryl to be cautious of his win ratio.

Lean and dark, he may be able to master the streets, but an enclosed tavern is quite another matter...

 

Grumbling sourly to himself, a three foot tall figure in a thieves cloak stumps into the bar. He calls for a Clandeggin brewed ale, then turns to address the whole tavern. "Rratchett Irronbearrd, dwarrven Henchineerr.." he begins in his thick Turmish accent, then noticing the number of powrful warriors present quietly turns back to his ale.

 

The quiet gust of wind is unnoticed by the bar patrons, and as if by conjuration Moeken stands at the opening of the Inn. An unassuming figure, no betrayal of his expertise can be found in his simple robes and closely cropped hair. As he moves across the bar, onlookers can only marvel at the irony of his motion. Every step is calculated as if with a greater purpose, but words of poetry and song could not acurately describe his gait.

In an instant he has assessed his surroundings - possible enemies, men to be wary of, drunken fools brimming with mead induced bravery. An arguement over who deserves the attention of a scantily clad bar maid errupts in front of Moeken but with ingrained discipline he quietly moves to a lone table in the corner.

A white -haired man across the bar becomes uncomfortable with the emerging ruckus as the bar maid innocently tries to calm her customers. A seemingly nonchalant young man engaged in a game of dice shifts his attention as a huge warrior of Heironeous the Invincible slowly rises to his feet.

A welt on the barmaids cheek begins to form, as one of the burly men raises his hand for another blow. In a whirlwind of motion the man's hand is held by a vice-like grip. Before the other men can take their first step Moeken has disabled the fool and holds the needle point of his dagger mere inches from his foe's gaping eye. Unaware of his brush with death the fool continues to struggle and draws steel of his own. Sweaty cohorts emerge from the crowd and crudely surround their quarry. Moeken wishes to harm no one, but quickly realizes that only fast, decisive action will diffuse the potential riot. With a blur, Moeken's fingers render the man unconscious and the snap of dry air reports a backwards kick at an incoming assailant. Potential skirmishers quickly fall back as a huge man is held pinned to the wall by Moeken's foot. Several other men are tied up by the other professionals in the crowd and Moeken silently acknowledges the warrior, the white-haired man and the gambler.

The notes of a mandolin errupt into the silence as the men quietly return to their tables.

 

The moon shines through the grimy window and falls upon the calm features of a young woman. She seems out of place in this den of tense and wary fighters. She pays little attention to the air of potential violence that sits amongst the other patrons and does not even blink when every now and then shouts ring out around her.
Though she is not quite of two decades, the glint of her large, dark eyes and the way she stands, suggest that she is not quite as vulnerable as she may first appear.
She pulls the folds of her lightly draped cloak about her as if a cold wind were blowing, the delicate cloth moves over her like black water, there shows a glint of sharp silver on her thigh, protection from those who harbour evil intent.
She turns from the window but once, an ungainly bar maid, flustered and unsteady shuffles by, a brief smile flutters across the lips of the cloaked lady and then she is once again lost in thought.
There is a sadness upon her pail features, her eyes seem to shine in the light that floods in from the quiet night outside, she remains watching...waiting.

 

The tavern door swings open, a tall man of about 7 foot enters the tavern, wearing black fromm head to toe, only his gleaming sword and his face is in stark contrast, his face is ghastly white, a skin so pale it can barely be called skin at all.

The man moves to a table in the center of the room, he sits down setting his sword beside him, we see the blade, it is in a pure black scabbard that looks not like a scabbard but more like nothingness, like a hole to nowhere. the handle of the blade shows a golden heron, inset in the handle is a ruby, perfectly oval and rounded, it is so wide it reaches through the handle and appears at the other side, if you stare closely at the ruby it shimmers for a few seconds, perfectly in time with the mans deep black eyes. As the man glances at the backs of the necks of everyone in the room sizeing them up in turn, they look up in amazement at the feeling of horror that so quickly spread across them seemingly origintaing from the back of their neck.

The mans armour *chinks* as he raises his arm to call over the plump barmaid, the armour is pure black, made of little plates about 3inches squared each. They each interlock without any sign of the substance that joins them.

The man stares at the barmaid as she walks towards another table, watches as she drops they tray of drinks she was carrying.

The man laughs at the womans misfortune. The man pulls a dagger from his belt, it is small and has a hollow tip, he stabs it into the edge of the table and watches as it glows green for a few seconds, the removes it and places it back in his sheath. this will punish her for ignoring me he thinks to himself quietly.

Once again he calls over the barmaid but this time she heeds his call, as she stands waiting for his order she places her hand on the table edge, exactly where the man placed his knife, within seconds she is dead.

The man merely chuckles to himself and calls over another barmaid... hopeing this one will be smarter than the last.

[This message has been edited by herf (edited March 20, 2001).]

 

***This post is not the creation of a character.

Hmm...it's kinda funny, but if everyone in Sorcerer's Place creates a character, this tavern had better be something having to do with infinity.

Not only that, but (as I described myself as a "master") the last unlucky people to post to this thread are going to have to be things like drunkards, or barmaids, or dead barmaids, or dead drunkards.

 

aww...now you've spoilt it

 

We can have a bunch of commoners walking around saying: "Hey ya!" or "Me wife's been getting prickly on me eyes!"

Noobers galore!

 

Heh, I didn't realize that was what the commoners said. I always thought it was, 'Me wife's been getting prickly on my arse!'

My mistake

 

You could be right LM...But yours makes absolutely no sense!!!

I'm pretty sure I got the quote right...At least that's how it sounds to me. Hell - I think I could see myself saying that after being married for 15 or 20 years! LOL!

 

Hmmm, I'll have to listen more closely. 'Prickly on me arse' could mean that she is just being a downright mean ..... lady, yeah that's it. I guess eyes does sound better.

Too funny - on an aside note, I always sing the lyrics to songs incorrectly and it drives my wife mad, heh. BlackthorneTA can attest to this little problem of mine after attempting to quote 'The Princess Bride' from memory. Chances are you are right Sir Bel

 

Shura glares at the man in black armor. They lock stares for a long hard moment before the man is unnerved by the sheer killer instinct present in his eyes. An involuntary shudder courses up the man's spine and he looks away.
Shura walks over to the body of the dead barmaid and closes her eyes with a hand wrapped in white cloth strips. His next action is a blur but the sound of a blade cutting through leather is audible.
The man blinks in surprise a few times before he realises that his money pouch is in one of Shura's hands, the other holding his shorter sword, a wakizashi. Although lacking in allies and magical artifacts and abilities, Shura is unchallenged in swordsmanship throughout many of the planes.
The pouch is tossed over to the Barkeeper.
"Give this to her family."
The man reaches for his sword but is halted by another blur as Shura sheathes his wakizashi in a blinding motion. Better to take this fight to another day, he decides.
"Observe the convenant of peace among the adventurers in the Tavern of Infinity, sir. The next time, I will not intervene." Shura warns, pointing his thumb at the Iron Golem seated in the corner of the tavern.
Wearily, he heads back to his seat. A good rest was needed before he hit the planar roads again with an entire paladin order after him. He sips his drink and watches with renewed interest as more adventurer's enter.....

 

In a dark nook, nearly invisible, the big cowl of his black robe covering his grey haired head, the old sorcerer has carefully looked at the accident. His lone reaction was an imperceptible narrowing of his green shiny eyes as he mentioned the speed of Shuras movements. "Dangerous" he considers, "absolutely dangerous"...

 

The gambler nods satisfactorily at the Kara-Turan swordsman and pauses to view the newer arrivals. Already, he has taken a liking to the sour dwarf buried in his ale. The larger black figure is quite daunting, but oddly, Sapiryl finds himself more worried about the pale woman near the larger window at the back of the room. Checking himself, he assertains that he still has all of his posessions, and ponders his next move. Not exactly a man for hire, he would still accept extra coin. Again, he glances at the woman.

"You always were a sucker for a pretty face," he mutters and turns back to his dice. However, the tension in the room is at a breaking point, and he feels that he should retreat, if not to a room then at least to higher ground.

Placing the dice into the crystal bowl inset into the table, he sees that a skull and a dagger show face up. Shuddering, he gathers his gear and ascends to the second floor balcony, where the soft notes of music float, as musicians compete for the greater audiencs.

 

A young man in the crowded coughs and mutters...

"I saw that...you will not get away with this"

He then turns to the bar to get a stiff drink...thinking dark thoughts...

 

the man in black armour, takes a small leather purse out of one of the spaces beneath his armour and places it on a piece of string where his old purse used to be.
the only thing is, all that was in the old purse was stones, the man chuckles.
the man walks to the bartender, whispers in his ear and drops a few pieces of jink onto the bar, the barteneders eyes open in suprise to see the pieces of coin are made of gold. the bartender points to the nearby stairs and mutters a room number, the man thanks the innkeeper and retreats back to his table, making sure his purse is easily accesible...

after a few hours the man goes to his room, but does not sleep. when it is totally dark outside he creeps out of his room and creeps soundlessly down the corrisor to te room he *knows* is shura's.
quietly he opens the door, steps inside, walks over to the bed and looks at the sleeping shura, after checking that it is the real shura he silently, and making sure not to wake them, turns the sleeping man over and quickly cuts off the index finger of the right hand. the blade is coated with a liquid that makes the injured not feel a thing.

quietly Herf The Forgotten, Master Of The Blade wlaks out of the room knowing that his reputation is still intact and that he is still the best swordsman in the realms.

***(sorry shura but you done it to me!)***