The tavern of Infinity...

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Sorry, Shura.

That's a power that would turn Grazzt's black face green with envy!

[This message has been edited by Rakanishu (edited March 29, 2001).]

 

***Shura - I was just thinking about that myself. It's SAPIRYL in the Silver Monkey, not SHURA. I'll wait until this mistake is corrected until I post my next move. BTW, where are the Holy Pair anyway? They're kinda important to my storyline.

***Also, herf? When did Belisarius and Moeken join with you? I thought you left the Tavern of Infinity after they did.

 

*The 3 of them just got their arses kicked outside the tavern on their way to find you.*

 

***confused? yeah me to, anyway, back to the story***

Hearing the roar from the bar, Duskai decides to act on impulse before things slip out of her control. Removing the ring, she steps in to the light...the dwarf and the thief jump sky high, but soon recover there composure, they are after all professionals.
"I see I have caught your attention, so listen here, by the sounds of it we have little time...I will help as best I can for then you shall have the element of surprise, I doubt our friends know that I am here...for this service I will ask of you only this: I will be wanting you, my dwarven darlin', to make me up one of your canisters, one containing a sleeping gas, the purpose of which shall remain a secret, do this and I will be very grateful..."
Standing close to the stunned dwarf, Duskai lays her hands on the leather straps of the dwarf's armour and showing strength beyond her build lifts him to her level and lays a soft kiss upon his cheek. Lowering him she whispers "It would mean an awful lot to me, I know you will do this simple thing"
Turning away from him she faces Sapiryl.
"So my lord, how were you intending to get out of this unfortunate situation?"

[This message has been edited by Duskai (edited March 29, 2001).]

 

"ummm...my'lady," begins the dwarf, his ruddy complexion barely hiding his blushing "it just so happens... I have, er, one canister to spare....uuuuuuhh ... ye can have it .... err.... free of charge of course. If- if yer needing, um, any more, errr- aahh weapons, me brother Paul an' me have a workshop in the bridge district. ahh ... I'll just, er, mark ...."
"Ratchett, Ratchett, Ratchett," interrupts Sapyril, "Touching as it is to watch your bumbling attempts to hold a coherent conversation with this delightful young lady, I'm afraid we have a more immediate matter to concern ourselves with".
Panic flashes across Ironbeard's face as Sapyril's words jolt him back into bleak reality. "quite right" he mutters, and sets about priming his traps.

[This message has been edited by Ironbeard (edited March 30, 2001).]

[This message has been edited by Ironbeard (edited April 19, 2001).]

 

Duskai waits a moment, glaring at Sapiryl for his rudeness to his charming new friend, he glances around unsure of himself. She understands his worry and snappyness and decides to hurry herself.
"very well, then I shall do what I can"..she says taking a step away.
Turning once again to the dwarf she shakes his hand and vanishes, her voice faintly heard saying:
"I will be there, and when the time is right you shall be glad of it"
The air moves, and the two thieves can sense that she has moved away. Duskai braces herself and enters the bar area, there is a strange feeling to the room, not helped by the aggressive male standing in the middle with a face like thunder, ready to explode. Thinking that one day she would run into trouble being so bold, the ring was simply a lucky find, she darts towards the bar and kneels. As she bends over towards the floor, she notices many patches on the ground, the dwarf had been busy, lucky again to have missed them. Duskai makes a mental note to be more careful...
More waiting, this time her fear was catching her up. Duskai felt hot and uncomfortable, her eyes burning and her legs aching. Waiting again, hoping that she would make it alive to a warm bed this night...


[This message has been edited by Duskai (edited March 31, 2001).]

 

****************
ironbeard, me and bel and moeken have entered the silver monkey, you have trapped the floors, we sw you run up the stairs as we entered, we dont have a mob with us. ive just called for you and sapiryl to come out and fight us, its your call.
****************

 

Amidst a shallow pool of fallen condensation, a heavy crystal mug embraces a thick, dark, red lager.

Indifferent to his surroundings, leaning back in his chair, an enigmatic man subtly observes the tavern through his peripheral vision. A man, whose name is known to few, only the title that he has earned will pass the lips of fellow patrons and barmaids...

The Wise, The Grey

Six feet in height, solid and barrel-chested, he is as lean as a 240-pound man can be. A lion's mane of thick grey hair falls with an aggressive grace to end well below his shoulders, a goatee nearly a foot in length, parted in two braids dangles from his chin. Dancing light, emanating from a nearby oil lamp, accent the boldly handsome features of his chiseled face. A massive, two-handed axe rests against the table, beside him. A deep maroon travel robe conceals all else.

He takes a long drink of the hearty, bittersweet lager and sighs. A narrow, cone-shaped cigarette rests lazily on the table before him. A few strands of a bright, lime green herb can be seen protruding from the wider end. He picks up the 'cigarette' that he had rolled only moments earlier, seeming only to be examining his work. A stout dwarf with a stout ale looks on as the man's eyes intensify. A bright orange ember springs to life at the wide end of his spliff, light tendrils of smoke gracefully race towards the ceiling. A corner of the dwarf's mouth curls up in knowing appreciation of both; the cigarette, and the way the man willed the ember to life.

The Wise, The Grey focuses his eyes now upon the dwarf, whose attention upon him hadn't gone unnoticed within the bounds of his peripheral. With his foot, he slides the chair on the opposite side of the table out and nods to it, inviting the dwarf to sit with him. The dwarf nods back, grabs his stout ale, and traverses the short distance to the chair.

After taking a long pull from his cigarette, he offers it to the dwarf. Hard, callused fingers relieve the first of their burden. The Wise, The Grey grins as the dwarf's eyes glaze and slowly relax. The sweet, dank smoke makes his mouth water.

A tall, leggy barmaid with red hair braided in cornrows approaches the table and stops beside The Wise, The Grey. "Do you gentlemen need another"? She asks in a crisp, melodic tone. The Wise, The Grey firmly, yet gently grasps her shoulder and rubs down the arch of her back, stopping to squeeze the tight flesh at the top of her right ass cheek. In his deep voice he replies, "Certainly, I'd like another Darkling Red, and a...". He turns to the dwarf, speaking his inquiry with his facial expression alone. "Oatmeal Stout", rumbles the dwarf. She pats the hand that still lies on her ass, flashing The Wise, The Grey an impish grin, she walks away to fetch the men their brews...

 

Sol'Kanar, an mischeivously(sp?) grinning elf, saunters up to the table at which The Wise, the Grey is seated. Suddenly, his hands flash to his waist. Where once there were pants, now nothing. "Oops, there go my pants" he says dramatically...

[This message has been edited by Sol'Kanar (edited March 30, 2001).]

 

*** I think part of the problem with the story may be my fault. I've taken my sweet time making my way toward the Silver Monkey. I was unsure how to handle the Belisarius situation because he hasn't posted lately and perhaps I was out of line dragging him along. I had a few good ideas for the story line involving Ironbeard, Sapiryl, Duskai, Shura, the Demon, Sir Belisarius, Herf and the others but now everything seems to be falling apart.

I think that we just have to write what we feel is required and if someone takes offense to improper story development either speak up or just write the story the way you feel it should go. I try not to mould the other characters too much but sometimes it is unavoidable.

One other thing I noticed is that maybe there are too many invincible heroes here. Not everyone can be the winner every time. I'm not speaking of anyone in particular on this matter and I know that I am guilty of trying to be omnipotent as well, but we all have to get our ass whooped once in awhile.

Hey Duskai - don't go yet maybe this story can be saved.....

 

The shouts from Herf ring in Moeken's ears but amazingly no one within the bar has moved. Two men in the corner continue to laugh and tell jokes, a barmaid wipes up a table that already is spotless and the barkeep shouts orders to the kitchen. Sir Belisarius has somehow vanished and Herf has called out a challenge to everyone in the bar. Moeken realizes that he has to do something quickly before all hell breaks loose again. The familiar dwarf had scrambled up the stairs only moments before, surely the young gambler could not be far off.
Tendrils of the cool night air wrap themselves around Moeken as he dissolves into the shadows. With barely a sound the lightfooted Monk makes his way around to the ajoining alley. A member of the town militia lays mumbling into an earthen mug and fails to notice the blur of movement to his side. Moeken steps past the oddly familiar figure and spies a small service door that gives access to the tavern stage area, he is relieved to find it slightly ajar. With practiced precision Moeken grasps the latch and begins to gently pull but something feels wrong. The door does not swing freely and Moeken curses himself for not being more careful. A fine string runs from the door latch and dissappears through a small hole in the wall. Sudden realization washes over Moeken as his gaze snaps back to the drunken militia. That very same man had been telling jokes in the tavern only moments before, it was impossible for him to be in the alley.
'The whole place is trapped', Moeken muses,'My friends are expecting someone.'

A balcony from the second floor extends into the alley and with a quick leap Moeken pulls himself up to the railing. The feel of rough hewn pine in his hands brings back memories of training in the forests of Tethoryl... but with steady resolve Moeken focuses on his task. Voices can be heard coming through the curtains of the tiny guest room, "So my Lord, how do you intend to get out of this unfortunate situation?"
The woman from the tavern of Infinity! Stealing a glance over the window sill Moeken sees three figures standing in the room and quickly pulls his head back. How could he explain their situation to them? They were all in more danger than they realized. The shouts of the battle enraged Herf erupt once again from the bar below. Time was quickly running out and if the evil wasn't stopped the whole land of Faerun would perish. Moeken longed for an easy answer to present itself. Memories of his companion Devra Wolfheart come to mind, back when life was much more simple. Moeken's entire existence had been spent practicing discipline and humbleness but Devra had taught him the flip side of the coin. A young girl from a nearby farm, Devra used to sneak onto the grounds to secretly partake in the ancient arts of weaponless combat. Detection of simple traps, the art of concealment; Devra had filled in the holes that the Master had left open and Moeken passed on some of his knowledge in return.
Yes, Devra would know what to do, it had been years since their last meeting, but Moeken knew he must find her. With firm resolve Moeken backs away from the window and prepares to leap to the alley below. A tiny planter gets caught up in Moeken's feet as he tries to climb the railing and rolls beyond his desperate fingers. A resounding crash echoes from the alley as the planter falls to the cobbles below. The sound of a blade being pulled from it's scabbard announces the monk's discovery. 'Damn', Moeken curses to himself, this isn't going to be pretty....


***anyways, there has been much confusion in the story and it has become a bit disjointed. I think it has been fun so far and there has definately been some good writing going on. May the story continue or end as it will...***

 

Not realizing that he had stumbled in on a tense moment, Sol'Kanar quickly replaces his pants, glancing furtively from side to side. Who is this buffon shouting at nothing in paticlular? Thinking to investigate the situation more deeply before removing his pants agian, he seats himself quickly in a table near the corner.

 

Damn man, what's this "Oops, there goes my pants", shit all about?!? Heh heh, I'd really like to know.

On second thought, maybe I'd be better off if I were left in the dark...

[This message has been edited by The Wise, The Grey (edited March 30, 2001).]

 

[A very good idea, but everyone should stick to their own role. Although appointing some sort of DM could clear out some of the confusion.

Just my 2 coppers.]

 

***Oh well, here goes nothing!

Springing towards the window, Sapiryl rips a dagger from his belt, the peace knot falling away, as though it were never tied. Noticing the height and build of the shape in the window, Sapiryl changes tactics, and drives a fist into the gut region of the figure. Connecting with something, Sapiryl grasps at the persons robes and hauls him into the room. Throwing him over his back and onto the floor, Sapiryl receives a terrible shock as the figure carries him along. Quickly, Ironbeard rushes forward and grapples with the intruder as well. Finally under control, the man goes limp and allows himself to be held. Sapiryl hoists a lamp and stops short.

"Bloody, bloody, bloody hell!"

Sapiryl hauls Ironbeard away, and quickly helps the monk to his feet.

"I'll be back, stay here!"

Sapiryl springs away before any objections could be made, and cracks the door open: "All right!" he yells, "I'm coming out!"

Rushing back, Sapiryl grabs his short sword and hurriedly smoothes his armor.

"Are you coming along?" Sapiryl asks Ironbeard and Moeken, "Just let me know if we get too near your surprises, dwarf."

Opening the door again, Sapiryl strides out, the very image of confidence.

"Ho there, swordsman!" He hollers, "Ah! Wait, don't do anything rash. Take a look around. You begin to notice, yes?"

All around, patrons are producing throwing daggers and weapons. The bartender hefts a heavy crossbow, and the bouncers at the doors draw steel.

"Oh, don't look so disapointed! It's just that I have quite a following among the citizens of this district, and I hold them in high regard. Oh yes, the stairs behind you leads to a...room of entertainment, I wouldn't try to flee down there."

 

The dwarf mutters incomprehensible dwarven curses to himself - he had been expecting a mob to be accompanying herf, but now his many gas traps would only hinder Sapyril's men. Thankfully, he had not been thoughtless enough to neglect to incorporate a master switch in his own room with which he could disarm the lot. Dashing back to the room, he could only pray that noone set any off before he reached the switch. Even without the gas, all was not lost. There were still traps which would be effective against herf, such as the dartgun which had presumably triggered as herf came in the door. Yes, he was sure he'd seen herf slap a "fly" on his neck - the drugged dart should be kicking in just about now....

[This message has been edited by Ironbeard (edited March 30, 2001).]

[This message has been edited by Ironbeard (edited April 19, 2001).]

 

Before he can stop the young thief, Sapiryl is out the door. Moeken turns to Ironbeard, "We must stop your friend, he has no chance against Herf, even with the aid of his friends. I accompanied the dark warrior with the intention of diffusing a potentially lethal situation, but it appears my plans have changed."
Ironbeard's darting eyes pause on Moeken's cheek, "Oh this," Moeken brushes absently at some dried blood on his face, "I ran into some trouble on the way over. Perhaps you have heard of Shura the blademaster, his appearance with the demon was no coincedence, and his association with the warrior downstairs is far from inconsequential; but to the matter at hand. That armour Herf is wearing, it was forged by Lauon herself." Ironbeards thick eyebrows stand on end, "I see that you are not unfamiliar with her name or her work. The dreaded 'Death Mail' cannot be pierced by the weapons we have here and the wearer will be all but immune to poison of any kind." Moeken gazes from his hardened knuckles to the forge hammer clenched in Ironbeard's shaking fists, 'This isn't going to be easy',he whispers, 'I noticed in the tavern that your friend possessed a bow of curious design, I have read about such craftmanship. It may come in handy against the Death Mail.' With renewed concern Moeken jumps to his feet, "Where is the girl? She was here only moments ago."
"But....", the dwarf blurts out.
"She must not fall under the Dark Warrior's blade," Moeken dashes for the door as Ironbeard stands there trembling, "But..."
Moeken glances over his shoulder, "Do not dispair my diminutive friend, there is hope yet. With your friends bow and my distractions we may not be able to stop Herf, but we can sure slow him down a bit..." In a blur Moeken is gone leaving the frightened Dwarf afraid and alone, "But, the bow has been stolen..."

 

Duskai sits with her back to the bar. She is starting to get a little worried. The taller of the two thieves, she really aught to have asked their names, was now in a confrontation with the large warrior type who had been chasing the duo. Reaching for a half empty bottle that lay next to her on the floor, she noticed that her hand was now quite plainly visible.
"Damn limited magic, it must have used up the days charge" she thinks to herself. "why didn't I just stay put, could've blagged myself a drop of the strong stuff, the stuff where you get your eyesight back after a few hours!"
Grasping the bottle, she takes a swig and as she does the bow slides from her shoulder. Putting the bottle down again and picking up the bow Duskai notices the strange runes marked into the wood. Sighing, a slight smile crosses her lips as she thinks the night had not been a total loss. The cold bar felt good against her aching back, but this was not the time to be relaxing. She takes a peek over the edge of the bar, afraid at what she may see...

[This message has been edited by Duskai (edited March 31, 2001).]

 

herf steps forwards, and his foot catches on a tripwire. There is a faint popping sound and then a prolonged hiss as great clouds of cloying, choking gas pour forth from concealed canisters. The gas seeps under the clothes and armour of everyone in the tavern, stinging their skin and eyes.

A small flag pops out of the master switch unit. "Blast!" exclaims the dwarf, pulling the switch a few seconds too late. Sapyril would be REALLY mad at him unless he did something drastic...

[This message has been edited by Ironbeard (edited April 11, 2001).]

[This message has been edited by Ironbeard (edited April 14, 2001).]

[This message has been edited by Ironbeard (edited April 19, 2001).]

 

oooh look at that, please tell me again how this topic got to the top of the pile again?
lol