Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG - The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum

piosenniel · 09-07-2004, 03:20 PM

Envinyatar’s post – Fen Sheperdspurse

‘Well, look what just slunk in, would ya.’ Matty Thistleseed nudged his companion at the Pony’s bar, his chin rising just slightly in the direction of the sallow fellow who’d come in through the door. His head ducked quickly back toward his drink and he wrapped his cloak tighter about him as the newcomer’s greasy haired head swiveled toward him.

Fen Sheperdspurse grinned at the man’s discomfort. Or rather his lips twisted into a gruesome imitation of grin – a sort of ghastly rictus caught halfway between a snarl and a sneer. Others of the present inhabitants of the common room looked at him coldly as he passed their tables, on the way to far corner booth. Many of them muttered imprecations at his presence, their hands clutching at their purses in fear they would disappear if Fen’s shadow slid over them in passing. And well they might fear, save for the fact that Fen was feeling flush today, his purse replete with a jumble of silver and copper coins he’d just last night “come into”.

Seated at last in the dim corner booth, Fen thunked his yew would stick twice on the floor to catch a passing server’s attention. One bony finger pushed a silver penny to the edge of the table, his ragged, dirty fingernail tapping insistently on it. The server came close enough to snatch the penny, stepping back quickly to avoid the touch of Fen’s hand. ‘A pint of ale, boy. And one of new baked loaves with a wedge of Archet cheddar.’ He fixed the server with a knowing leer. ‘And none of that with the moldy rind just peeled off. I’m onto your tricks, you hear!’

Fen drew back into the shadows as he waited for his drink and meal. His eyes slid about the room taking in the ‘usuals’ and the more interesting newcomers. A pair of Rangers occupied a table across the room from him. They both sat facing toward the room, their gaze darting here and there as they spoke quietly to each other. Why were they here, he wondered. Seeking someone? Seeking news?

One of the men’s eyes narrowed as he spied the dim figure in the far corner, causing Fen to shift further back into the dark protection of the booth. His hand sought his coin pouch and stuffed it far into the pocket of his breeches. The coins clinked as he did so, and fear sprang up that perhaps the Ranger had heard them. He preferred not to have to explain how they’d come into his possession.

‘Plenty more where those come from,’ his new “acquaintance” had told him.

Fen smirked at the thought of his present employer coming into the Inn for a pint. ‘Serve those goody-goody’s right,’ he snorted.

From out the window, just visible in the gathering dusk, a familiar face intruded upon his thoughts – there was that henpecked Andas Loudewater just coming up the path to the Inn . . . and in the distance behind him was a curious group. He could but barely make them out if he squinted against the lowering sun. Another Ranger, it looked . . . and a man riding near him. And there, much to his disgust, rode four Elves on their fine horses. Fen spit on the ground, his brow beetled, as he calculated just how much he might get for such a horse, should it go ‘missing’ . . .

piosenniel · 09-07-2004, 03:22 PM

Saurreg's post

Andas Loudewater had just reached the front porch of the most popular drinking hole in the whole of Bree when large raindrops started to fall, creating tiny little craters on the much used dirt road. Dark clouds rumbled precariously overhead, blocking out whatever light the setting sun could offer and enveloped the entire evening sky in black velvet from horizon to horizon and as far as the eye could see. Loudewater frowned to himself and sighed deeply as he pulled the hood of the cope off his head, this night would offer nothing but heavy down pour and his creaky joints would pay the dear price.

Damned rheumatism, damned age. What I wouldn’t give to be twenty years younger again.

The grease caked windows of the establishment were illuminated weakly by lit lamps and a sonorous burble could be felt through vibes that shook the loose floorboards of the porch - it was the sing-a-long, happy hour had begun.

The Breeland farmer took a deep breath and readied himself mentally as would an athlete before the race. After a momentary pause, he swung open the door of the Prancing Pony and confronted destiny head on. Rising to the occasion, destiny sprung forward like an uncoiled spring and smashed into Loudewater’s face. The farmer staggered but recovered himself quickly enough; years of patronizing the Prancing Pony had somewhat dwindled the potency its overwhelmingly pungent whiff on him but for the uninitiated, the whole affair of simply entering the tavern could be an insurmountable ordeal. Butterbur had never believed in the concept of proper workplace hygiene and many a newcomers had paid the price. More than often regulars like Loudewater and even old Butterbur himself had heckled at unfamiliar faces contorting in agony followed by the whizzing (they always whiz) and the occasional nausea.

It was all good “clean” harmless fun really. But incidents do happen, those that make simpletons like the good folks of Bree go “hmmm”

Once, an elven wayfarer (dainty and disturbingly pretty in a girly way) tried to enter the Prancing Pony (don’t ask why) and results were somewhat horrific… (For the faerie that is).

Suffice say, that incident was significant enough for Butterbur to go “hmmm” and the next day after the tragic affair, Loudewater saw for the first and only time Butterbur scrubbing the floorboards and opening up the windows to air the place. It was a momentous event that Loudewater rated up there with the likes of the return of the king.

******

Loudewater stepped through the doorway and entered the main serving hall of the tavern. The hospitable warmth radiating from the fireplace felt most comfortable and he permitted himself a wane smile of self-satisfaction. If there was any place he would want to be when a raging storm came along, it would be here.

The Prancing Pony was already packed to the walls when Loudewater entered. Breelanders of different walks of life and trades have already packed the benches and tables and were all bellowing in drunken unison with lusty voices, throats were well lubricated by free-flowing pints and cheap wine. It was “Roll out the Barrels!” a popular hit penned by the famous Susan Delgado and Loudewater found himself almost subconsciously humming along to the tunes of the ever popular folksong.

No one writes such great works anymore, he reflected sadly.

Loudewater’s head swerved upon his scrawny neck as he scrutinized the crowded room looking for some unoccupied spot for himself and perhaps a friend or two to interact with. Amidst the mass of swaying and rocking heads, and raised arms clenching tankards and goblets of spilling beverage, Loudewater’s dull eyes caught sight of an appendage belonging to a familiar face waving frantically in the air. Loudewater grinned at the familiar face, waved back and made his way through to the bar.

09-07-2004, 03:20 PM	#1
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Envinyatar’s post – Fen Sheperdspurse ‘Well, look what just slunk in, would ya.’ Matty Thistleseed nudged his companion at the Pony’s bar, his chin rising just slightly in the direction of the sallow fellow who’d come in through the door. His head ducked quickly back toward his drink and he wrapped his cloak tighter about him as the newcomer’s greasy haired head swiveled toward him. Fen Sheperdspurse grinned at the man’s discomfort. Or rather his lips twisted into a gruesome imitation of grin – a sort of ghastly rictus caught halfway between a snarl and a sneer. Others of the present inhabitants of the common room looked at him coldly as he passed their tables, on the way to far corner booth. Many of them muttered imprecations at his presence, their hands clutching at their purses in fear they would disappear if Fen’s shadow slid over them in passing. And well they might fear, save for the fact that Fen was feeling flush today, his purse replete with a jumble of silver and copper coins he’d just last night “come into”. Seated at last in the dim corner booth, Fen thunked his yew would stick twice on the floor to catch a passing server’s attention. One bony finger pushed a silver penny to the edge of the table, his ragged, dirty fingernail tapping insistently on it. The server came close enough to snatch the penny, stepping back quickly to avoid the touch of Fen’s hand. ‘A pint of ale, boy. And one of new baked loaves with a wedge of Archet cheddar.’ He fixed the server with a knowing leer. ‘And none of that with the moldy rind just peeled off. I’m onto your tricks, you hear!’ Fen drew back into the shadows as he waited for his drink and meal. His eyes slid about the room taking in the ‘usuals’ and the more interesting newcomers. A pair of Rangers occupied a table across the room from him. They both sat facing toward the room, their gaze darting here and there as they spoke quietly to each other. Why were they here, he wondered. Seeking someone? Seeking news? One of the men’s eyes narrowed as he spied the dim figure in the far corner, causing Fen to shift further back into the dark protection of the booth. His hand sought his coin pouch and stuffed it far into the pocket of his breeches. The coins clinked as he did so, and fear sprang up that perhaps the Ranger had heard them. He preferred not to have to explain how they’d come into his possession. ‘Plenty more where those come from,’ his new “acquaintance” had told him. Fen smirked at the thought of his present employer coming into the Inn for a pint. ‘Serve those goody-goody’s right,’ he snorted. From out the window, just visible in the gathering dusk, a familiar face intruded upon his thoughts – there was that henpecked Andas Loudewater just coming up the path to the Inn . . . and in the distance behind him was a curious group. He could but barely make them out if he squinted against the lowering sun. Another Ranger, it looked . . . and a man riding near him. And there, much to his disgust, rode four Elves on their fine horses. Fen spit on the ground, his brow beetled, as he calculated just how much he might get for such a horse, should it go ‘missing’ . . .

09-07-2004, 03:22 PM	#2
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Saurreg's post Andas Loudewater had just reached the front porch of the most popular drinking hole in the whole of Bree when large raindrops started to fall, creating tiny little craters on the much used dirt road. Dark clouds rumbled precariously overhead, blocking out whatever light the setting sun could offer and enveloped the entire evening sky in black velvet from horizon to horizon and as far as the eye could see. Loudewater frowned to himself and sighed deeply as he pulled the hood of the cope off his head, this night would offer nothing but heavy down pour and his creaky joints would pay the dear price. Damned rheumatism, damned age. What I wouldn’t give to be twenty years younger again. The grease caked windows of the establishment were illuminated weakly by lit lamps and a sonorous burble could be felt through vibes that shook the loose floorboards of the porch - it was the sing-a-long, happy hour had begun. The Breeland farmer took a deep breath and readied himself mentally as would an athlete before the race. After a momentary pause, he swung open the door of the Prancing Pony and confronted destiny head on. Rising to the occasion, destiny sprung forward like an uncoiled spring and smashed into Loudewater’s face. The farmer staggered but recovered himself quickly enough; years of patronizing the Prancing Pony had somewhat dwindled the potency its overwhelmingly pungent whiff on him but for the uninitiated, the whole affair of simply entering the tavern could be an insurmountable ordeal. Butterbur had never believed in the concept of proper workplace hygiene and many a newcomers had paid the price. More than often regulars like Loudewater and even old Butterbur himself had heckled at unfamiliar faces contorting in agony followed by the whizzing (they always whiz) and the occasional nausea. It was all good “clean” harmless fun really. But incidents do happen, those that make simpletons like the good folks of Bree go “hmmm” Once, an elven wayfarer (dainty and disturbingly pretty in a girly way) tried to enter the Prancing Pony (don’t ask why) and results were somewhat horrific… (For the faerie that is). Suffice say, that incident was significant enough for Butterbur to go “hmmm” and the next day after the tragic affair, Loudewater saw for the first and only time Butterbur scrubbing the floorboards and opening up the windows to air the place. It was a momentous event that Loudewater rated up there with the likes of the return of the king. ****** Loudewater stepped through the doorway and entered the main serving hall of the tavern. The hospitable warmth radiating from the fireplace felt most comfortable and he permitted himself a wane smile of self-satisfaction. If there was any place he would want to be when a raging storm came along, it would be here. The Prancing Pony was already packed to the walls when Loudewater entered. Breelanders of different walks of life and trades have already packed the benches and tables and were all bellowing in drunken unison with lusty voices, throats were well lubricated by free-flowing pints and cheap wine. It was “Roll out the Barrels!” a popular hit penned by the famous Susan Delgado and Loudewater found himself almost subconsciously humming along to the tunes of the ever popular folksong. No one writes such great works anymore, he reflected sadly. Loudewater’s head swerved upon his scrawny neck as he scrutinized the crowded room looking for some unoccupied spot for himself and perhaps a friend or two to interact with. Amidst the mass of swaying and rocking heads, and raised arms clenching tankards and goblets of spilling beverage, Loudewater’s dull eyes caught sight of an appendage belonging to a familiar face waving frantically in the air. Loudewater grinned at the familiar face, waved back and made his way through to the bar.