Just One Drink - submission by LauraMars

[Adhira]

It was dawn on Ocandra, the 210th day of the Descending Sun,
In the Year of Lirathu's Slumber, year 11 of the 22nd Age.

s (gaze directed at her feet)
The Main Room of the Red's Retreat [N, S, W]
   The walls of this tavern are painted in the bright hues of the desert,
dusky ochres change shade as they move up the wall to become the vibrant
reds of Krath's touch, while the muted silver of Lirathu's light provides a
more subtle edging at floor and ceiling.  A large, curving bar dominates the
northern edge of the room, dark baobab wood carved with images of Templars
and soldiers advancing on a retreating pack of gith.  Above the bar, placed
squarely in the middle hangs the skull of a gith, a hole punched through its
forehead.  Cylini floorboards have been scrubbed and polished to a gleaming
finish and a variety of tables are scattered about the room.  To the west a
large archway leads through to a smaller antechamber and a doorway to the
south leads into a small store.
A wall here is designated as a message board.
The tall figure in a voluminous, amber-edged black windcloak is standing here.
The towering, ebon-haired man is sitting at a boxy wooden bar.
The lanky, ebon-haired man is sitting at a boxy wooden bar.
A half-giant soldier is standing here.
A human soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
A tall, amber-eyed woman serves drinks from behind a curved baobab bar.
The small, dark-haired man sits drinking at a table in the corner.
A husky dwarf sits on a stone-seated stool at the bar.

Feeling daring, you think:
     "Just one drink...somewhere I have less worry about being thrown up on."

The tall figure in a voluminous, amber-edged black windcloak weaves his way through the crowd, moving over to a boxy wooden bar.

The tall figure in a voluminous, amber-edged black windcloak sits at a boxy wooden bar.

The milky, pock-scarred man lowers the hood of his voluminous, amber-edged black windcloak.

Returning his glance, the milky, pock-scarred man looks at the towering, ebon-haired man.

As she steps through the arch, you look down at the milky, pock-scarred man.
Greasy pitch-colored hair spills from a central part atop of this man's
head cascading down to either side.  The hair spills past his shoulder
blades where it curls slightly, before abruptly ending at the middle of his
back.  Cloudy, teal in black eyes look out into the world from a pock
adorned face.  The face is marred with the tell-tale sign of early life acne
that has now been conquered.  A sloped, non-descript nose sits between high
cheekbones and extends out just slightly to allow for the nostrils.  His
sinewy form is wrapped in a dull alabaster tinge that shows little scarring
or weathering from the elements.  Toned and lean, his wiry form ripples with
taut muscle right beneath his milky skin.  His legs are lean though
powerfully formed, carrying his body with ease. 
The milky, pock-scarred man is in excellent condition.

The milky, pock-scarred man is using:
<on face>                a pair of polished ivory sunslits
<around neck>            a stiff, black-leather gorget
<slung across back>      a wyvern-hilted obsidian bastard sword
<across back>            a gigantic, mekillot-hide backpack
<on arms>                a pair of tooled brown leather sleeves
<around right wrist>     a wyvern-engraved, plated bracer
<around left wrist>      a wyvern-engraved, plated bracer
<on hands>               a pair of black, duskhorn-leather gloves
<around body>            a voluminous, amber-edged black windcloak
<on legs>                a pair of chitin-plated, tooled brown leather leggings
<on feet>                a pair of knee-high, tooled brown leather boots

He is carrying:
nothing obvious

l tables
The obsidian-tressed Allanaki soldier has arrived from the south.
At 1) a broad table of scarred agafari wood are:
      some empty seats.
At 2) a wobbly baobab table are:
      a few empty seats.
At 3) a boxy wooden bar are:
      the lanky, ebon-haired man, the towering, ebon-haired man,
      the milky, pock-scarred man, and some empty seats.
At 4) a round, blue-painted table are:
      a few empty seats.

The towering, ebon-haired man dips his head politely and smiles to the milky, pock-scarred man.

Quietly weaving through the sparse morning crowds, which move away from her, you sit at a boxy wooden bar, claiming a stool at the end.

list
the tall, amber-eyed woman has the following goods to trade:
01) a basket of Kuraci raptor nuggets for 163 obsidian coins, many are available.
02) a bowl of gith-eye soup for 91 obsidian coins, many are available.
03) a large stuffed and fried gourd blossom for 130 obsidian coins, many are available.
04) a liquid sack of kumiss for 88 obsidian coins, many are available.
05) a miniature barrel of ale for 13 obsidian coins, many are available.
06) a plate of tender chalton meat in whisky sauce for 91 obsidian coins, many are available.
07) a squat bulbous gourd of agvat for 44 obsidian coins, many are available.
08) a steak and kidney pie for 75 obsidian coins, many are available.
09) a strip of tough dried meat for 15 obsidian coins, many are available.

l me
    Speckled over the arms, shoulders, and face of this young woman is a
lively constellation of red-brown freckles, most visible upon the bridge of
her nose and her cheekbones than anywhere else.  Her eyes are a deep brown
hue, her nose is small, and her lips are the same color as her skin - a deep
and ruddy tan.  Above these impish features is a tumbled mass of curly
auburn hair, which falls over her shoulders and descends to her lower back.
She is short, and though she is not quite emaciated, she is still very thin.
    Her abundant red ringlets appear to have been recently washed and
combed, the voluminous coils forming a waist-length ponytail at the back
of her head with the aid of a glossy ribbon, neatly tied into a bow.
The freckled, curly-haired woman is in excellent condition.

<in hair>                a glossy black ribbon
<around neck>            a scented, colorful sandcloth scarf
<about throat>           a dull black gem
<slung across back>      a wicked-edged, bone scimitar
<around right wrist>     a rune-marked pouch on a leather cord
<hands>                  several small, discolored burn scars
<on right index finger>  a spider-etched clay ring
<on left index finger>   a grey stone ring
<around body>            a hooded, black and azure aba
<on legs>                a leather-corded sandcloth skirt
<on feet>                a pair of jade-buttoned boots

An exasperated sigh falls from the milky, pock-scarred man's lips, as he shifts his gaze to look directly at you.

Swinging her legs as they dangle above the tavern floor, the freckled, curly-haired woman piles up some coins on the bartop, waiting patiently for the tall, amber-eyed woman's attention.

The milky, pock-scarred man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "This where ya supposed to be, 'gick?"

You think:
     "...That didn't take long. But what were you expecting, really?"

With a narrowed gaze, the milky, pock-scarred man looks at you.

At your table, you say in sirihish, turning a mildly surprised glance towards the milky, pock-scarred man, as the tall, amber-eyed woman walks by, completely ignoring her:
     "Please excuse - it is me you speak to?"

At your table, the milky, pock-scarred man says in southern-accented sirihish, his gaze continuing to play over you:
     "Ya ever been in th' arena?"

The milky, pock-scarred man stands up from a boxy wooden bar.

The milky, pock-scarred man slides off his stool, and slowly saunters along the bar - taking a seat next to you.

Shooting a glance at the tall, amber-eyed woman and adding a few more coins to the pile, you say, in sirihish:
     "...No."

The milky, pock-scarred man sits at a boxy wooden bar.

At your table, the milky, pock-scarred man says in southern-accented sirihish, the words falling out in a low but audible rasp:
     "No? Oh, you's from th' sands too. Mmm? I kin 'ear it in ya words an' smell it on ya breath."

Finally, the tall, amber-eyed woman turns to the freckled, curly-haired woman at the sound of additional, clinking obsidian coins.

You give the tall, amber-eyed woman 13 obsidian coins for a miniature barrel.

Shoving the additional bribe over, you give the tall, amber-eyed woman 3 coins.

Leaning in towards you, the milky, pock-scarred man whispers to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Ya ever fucked while a beasts are fightin' all arounds ya? "

At your table, the milky, pock-scarred man says in southern-accented sirihish, his gaze playing over your form:
     "Ya real pretty, 'gick. Yous wants to go an' see th' arena wit me?"

The freckled, curly-haired woman flinches her red head slightly away from the milky, pock-scarred man's whispering mouth, wrapping her fingers around your miniature barrel.

Feeling your breath come more quickly, you think:
     "Don't show weakness."

The lanky, ebon-haired man quirks his brow as he glances back and forth from the milky, pock-scarred man to you.

At your table, the milky, pock-scarred man says in southern-accented sirihish, while walking a pair of fingers along the edge of a boxy wooden bar:
     "Yous 'ear 'bout th' abominations up in th' 'gick quarter? Th' ones who got caught in th' riots?"

At your table, you say in sirihish, wetting her lips with the liquid within your miniature barrel, each word carefully enunciated, though still infected with a foreign lilt:
     "Perhaps I am lucky enough to be seeing you fight there, one day."

(The freckled, curly-haired woman's fingers tremble very slightly.)

At your table, the milky, pock-scarred man says in southern-accented sirihish, the words falling out on the fringes of a hushed whisper:
     "I saws one o' th' witches git trompled ta death. Ya evers see someone after a hundred or so hungry an' angry dicks stomp all over 'em?"

At your table, you say in sirihish, not really looking fully at the milky, pock-scarred man, her lips compressing into a thin line:
     "Yes."

At your table, the milky, pock-scarred man says in southern-accented sirihish, as his head tilts to the side:
     "So wheres you come from, sand witch? Yous git caught out there in th' wastes?"

The lanky, ebon-haired man laughs uncontrollably for a long while at the milky, pock-scarred man's comment, his hand repeatedly smacking the bar top.

The milky, pock-scarred man's gaze continues to flicker over you.

The lanky, ebon-haired man begins to wipe the tears from his eyes as he continues to laugh, his face turning red, as he struggles to gasp for breath.

Feeling a spark of anger, you think:
     "Yes, laugh. It's very funny."

At your table, you say in sirihish, tucking a stray ringlet of red hair back into her ponytail, answering the milky, pock-scarred man in  monosyllables:
     "No."

At your table, the milky, pock-scarred man says in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Yous thinks it okay for a tribal 'gick to come in 'ere an' sit wit th' likes of me?"

Taking another resolute swallow, you sip from your miniature barrel.
This tastes like ordinary ale.

You think:
     "Better if I go."

At your table, you say in sirihish, casting a glance at the liquid remaining within your miniature barrel, abandoning it on the bartop:
     "Please excuse. I am not wishing to disturb."

You put your miniature barrel onto a boxy wooden bar.

The savage, brown-haired man has arrived from the north, stepping tiredly into the tavern, rubbing his eyes with the sides of his hands.

The milky, pock-scarred man's gaze narrows as it continues to hold on you.

Offering a nod to those gathered, the savage, brown-haired man sits at a boxy wooden bar.

Gesturing to the miniature barrel, the lanky, ebon-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Don't leave your contaminated filth laying around. Someone might drink it."

You feel the insult dig deep, coming from him.

At your table, you say in sirihish, with a flick of her dark gaze to the lanky, ebon-haired man, as she icily grabs the barrel she had just abandoned:
     "Thank you for the necklace you are giving me, after the war. I am treasuring it in my heart."

At your table, the milky, pock-scarred man says in southern-accented sirihish, attention shifting towards the savage, brown-haired man:
     "Kerr, this probably th' fuckin' abomination tha' attacked you out in th' sands."

You get your miniature barrel from a boxy wooden bar.
It is very light, and about half full.

Narrowing his gaze, the savage, brown-haired man looks at you.

With a shake of his head, the milky, pock-scarred man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Bad enough ya gots to deal wit 'em in th' Gaj. Fuckin' comin' in 'ere an' sittin down wit us at th' bar when we tryin' to enjoy a little drink."

Upending it over the ale-sticky floor, you discard your miniature barrel, ignoring the milky, pock-scarred man and the savage, brown-haired man to stare at the lanky, ebon-haired man instead.

At your table, the savage, brown-haired man says in southern-accented sirihish, looking over to the milky, pock-scarred man:
     "Yer sure bouts that, seems a little green if yeh asks meh."

You think:
     "He should know better. He was there."

At your table, the milky, pock-scarred man says in southern-accented sirihish, with a shrug of his shoulders towards the savage, brown-haired man:
     "She be a sand witch. Who knows? Probably cursed th' stool she just sat on."

You feel furiously unhappy.

You think:
     "Fine."

With a motion towards a recently vacated stool, the milky, pock-scarred man says to the tall, amber-eyed woman, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Yous probably wants to burn that."

The lanky, ebon-haired man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "You kept that?"

At your table, the savage, brown-haired man says in southern-accented sirihish, with a grin and a nod:
     "Yeah probably, fek."

At your table, you say in sirihish, as she continues to ignore the milky, pock-scarred man's inflammatory words, still looking towards the lanky, ebon-haired man:
     "Yes."

The towering, ebon-haired man looks at the lanky, ebon-haired man.

Tilting his head to the side, the lanky, ebon-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Heh, who would have thought."

You look up at the lanky, ebon-haired man.
Here before you, stands a fairly tall and lanky man.  He has angular
features, with a pointed stubbled chin, and high cheek bones that protrude
slightly from his face.  His nose points slightly to the right, as if from
being broken sometime in the past.  Short ebon hair rests in a tangled mess
upon his head.  He has thin slits for eyes, which upon closer examination
are multi-colored, one being hazel, the other turquoise.  The tanned skin
upon his body hugs tightly to him, seemingly little to no fat upon him,
allowing for a display of his well defined muscles.  Unnaturally long and
calloused digits extend out of each hand, showing a life of hardship.
Lastly, he has more than a few scars covering his body and face.  The most
notable one streaking from the right cheek, down to the tip of his chin. 
His hair is currently neatly brushed, and slicked back, further accentuating his angular features.
The lanky, ebon-haired man is in excellent condition.

The lanky, ebon-haired man is using:
<face>                   a long, jagged-looking scar
<in left ear>            a small opal earstud
<in right ear>           a small opal earstud
<around neck>            a stiff, black-leather gorget
<about throat>           a moonstone-set obsidian pendant
<across back>            a yellow-embroidered canvas backpack
<on torso>               a new black, bone-plated jerkin
<on arms>                a pair of studded sleeves
<around right wrist>     a shell-plated leather wristguard
<around left wrist>      a shell-plated leather wristguard
<on hands>               a pair of chitin-banded gauntlets
<as belt>                a pouched purple leather belt
<hung from belt>         an obsidian-tipped spear
<hung from belt>         a green-lined bone longsword
<around body>            a deep hooded, sandy brown longcloak
<about waist>            a shell-plated leather codpiece
<on legs>                a pair of bone-studded leather breeches
<around right ankle>     a leather-strapped green glow-crystal
<around left ankle>      a green and purple silk bandana
<on feet>                a pair of chalton leather boots

He is carrying:
nothing obvious

The savage, brown-haired man watches you closely, his eyes narrowed.

The slight, dark-haired teen has arrived from the west.

Curiously, the lanky, ebon-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Pull it out, let me see it."

Her feet dragging a little, the slight, dark-haired teen steps out from the antechamber, her eyes closed as she yawns into her fist.  After lowering it, she looks about blearily.

At your table, you say in sirihish, folding her hands in her lap, very carefully not looking anywhere but at the lanky, ebon-haired man:
     "It is not here."

The slight, dark-haired teen takes a moment to stretch, and then steps up to a boxy wooden bar.

Sliding into a seat, the slight, dark-haired teen sits at a boxy wooden bar.

[Adhira]

The slight, dark-haired teen removes a pair of bone sunslits.
Tucking them away, the slight, dark-haired teen puts her pair of bone sunslits into her leather swordbelt.

With a tilt of his head, the milky, pock-scarred man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Yous goin' ta fuckin' leave or not?"

Pursing his lips, the lanky, ebon-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Aye, probably cause you threw it away."

The milky, pock-scarred man stands up from a boxy wooden bar.

At your table, you say in sirihish, archly, to the lanky, ebon-haired man, still completely ignoring the milky, pock-scarred man:
     "It is not so, but perhaps you are wishing this, now. I keep it in the quarters of Oash."

Her eyes gradually opening more, the slight, dark-haired teen looks up at the milky, pock-scarred man.

His gaze continuing to peer at you, the milky, pock-scarred man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Yous 'ad enough warnin', witch."

The milky, pock-scarred man stalks up to you and reaches down, grabbing for you.
The milky, pock-scarred man grabs your shoulder roughly.
The milky, pock-scarred man is trying to brawl with you, you need to stand up if you want to participate.

The words falling out with a harsh snarl, the milky, pock-scarred man exclaims, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Up!"

The slight, dark-haired teen blinks, her amber eyes shifting to you, and then moving away just as quickly.

You stand up from a boxy wooden bar.
With a yelp, as she is dragged off her stool, you sit down.

You feel rattled.

The lanky, ebon-haired man stands up from a boxy wooden bar.

Pointing towards the northern doorway, the milky, pock-scarred man exclaims to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Git th' fuck out!"

Tapping on his shoulder, the lanky, ebon-haired man says to the milky, pock-scarred man, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Here, I'll handle this."

The savage, brown-haired man watches the milky, pock-scarred man and you with interest.

The blue-haired, half-giant soldier has arrived from the south.

A hand gripping the bar's edge to assist, you stand up, gaze now fastened fully on the milky, pock-scarred man.

As he seems to regain his composure, the milky, pock-scarred man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Fine."

Turning to look at the lanky, ebon-haired man, the milky, pock-scarred man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Escort 'er out o' here."

Beckoning with a hand, the lanky, ebon-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "I suggest you come with me, else things ain' going to get any prettier for ya."

Shifting her gaze over, the slight, dark-haired teen looks up at the lanky, ebon-haired man.

The milky, pock-scarred man turns back to a boxy wooden bar, before easing himself back onto his stool.

The milky, pock-scarred man sits at a boxy wooden bar.

You feel too angry to leave without saying something.

Her cheeks pale as salt beneath her tan, dark gaze snapping with rage, you say to the milky, pock-scarred man, in sirihish:
     "Stupid, ignorant man. I break no law."

The milky, pock-scarred man stands up from a boxy wooden bar.

The milky, pock-scarred man asks, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Oh?"

The milky, pock-scarred man lands a solid punch into your gut.
You grunt and stagger back a step.

At a boxy wooden bar, the savage, brown-haired man speaks, eyeing the lanky, ebon-haired man.

The slight, dark-haired teen crosses her arms loosely in front of her and leans in close to a boxy wooden bar, tensing up a little when you speaks.

With a soft snarl, the milky, pock-scarred man exclaims, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Tha' feel like ya did somethin' wrong?!"

The lanky, ebon-haired man asks the savage, brown-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "What's that?"

The freckled, curly-haired woman doubles up over the milky, pock-scarred man's fist, the air rushing from her lungs.

With a smile, the savage, brown-haired man asks the lanky, ebon-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Ah nothing. Being a little nice no?"

Panting, the freckled, curly-haired woman staggers backwards, banging into some chairs around a broad table of scarred agafari wood.

The lanky, ebon-haired man crosses his arms over his chest, clear amusement etched on his features as he watches the milky, pock-scarred man.

The milky, pock-scarred man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Yous want to feel it 'gain - ya cursed fuckin' slit."

Shaking his head, the lanky, ebon-haired man says to the savage, brown-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Nah, just curious about something."

The milky, pock-scarred man makes his way around a broad table of scarred agafari wood, following after your staggering form.

The milky, pock-scarred man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Tha' feel good?"

Sliding down from her seat, the slight, dark-haired teen stands up from a boxy wooden bar.

With a slow shrug, the savage, brown-haired man says to the lanky, ebon-haired man, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Alright."

As he walks up to you, the milky, pock-scarred man exclaims, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Git!"

The milky, pock-scarred man lands a solid punch into your gut.
You grunt and stagger back a step.

You feel the air escape your lungs.

With fury in her gaze, you look up at the milky, pock-scarred man.

The slight, dark-haired teen moves along a boxy wooden bar and slips her hands into her pockets, heading quietly for the northern archway.

The freckled, curly-haired woman clatters into another table, the heads of patrons everywhere in the bar turning with interest to the altercation.

The milky, pock-scarred man's gaze seethes with rage as he walks around you.

The milky, pock-scarred man asks, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Yous some heretic?! Yous work wit th' Northern spies, bitch?"

Words spitting from his mouth, the milky, pock-scarred man asks, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Th' tribals faughts wit th' north, mmm? Yous fight wit 'em?"

The milky, pock-scarred man slams the back of his fist across your face in a loud backhand.
You grunt and shake your head momentarily.

The savage, brown-haired man cocks his head to the side with the milky, pock-scarred man's words, his fingers curling to fists at his sides.

Head snapping back at the blow and returning slowly, knuckles tight as she grips the back of a chair, for balance, panting for every stolen breath, you say to the milky, pock-scarred man, in sirihish:
     "I. Fucking. Fought on your side. Go to the krath damned hellpits, you son of a gortok."

The milky, pock-scarred man's chest rises and falls with an easy rhythm, his narrowed gaze fixed on you.

You feel furious.

The milky, pock-scarred man exclaims, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Wha? Whats you say?!"

You feel afraid.

The milky, pock-scarred man steps in and drives an elbow hard into your ribs.
You grunt softly, swaying on your feet as you struggle to breathe.

With a small sigh, the lanky, ebon-haired man says to the milky, pock-scarred man, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Unfortunately for you, she is right. I was there."

The towering, ebon-haired man  leans against a boxy wooden bar, emerald eyes watching the conflict coldly.

Staggering back from him as she is stalked across the bar, her face white, save for a line of blood which trickles down her cheek, the product of his hand, you say to the milky, pock-scarred man, in sirihish:
     "I am fighting for this city, for you, you stupid man, so you are not dying to a northern sword."

You feel your ribs throbbing.

As he turns to look down at you, the milky, pock-scarred man asks, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Yous want more?"

Cringing back behind her hands, flat palms outward, to stay any further assaults, you say to the milky, pock-scarred man, in sirihish:
     "Leave me alone. I will go."

Turning to regards the lanky, ebon-haired man, the milky, pock-scarred man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Git 'er out of 'ere."

Ducking her head down, the slight, dark-haired teen hurries along to the plaza.

The slight, dark-haired teen walks north.

Dark eyes nearly black in her rage-white face, the freckled, curly-haired woman snaps her mouth shut and crosses the bar to the lanky, ebon-haired man.

The milky, pock-scarred man head dips a brief nod, as he turns from you - walking over to a boxy wooden bar.

The milky, pock-scarred man sits at a boxy wooden bar.

You feel fury and frustration and the pain of her beating throbbing in every portion of her body.

[Adhira]

Grasping your shoulder, the lanky, ebon-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "You idiot, come with me. Everyone knows I don't hold no love for you gemmed, and if I'm trying to help, you should think on it."

You now follow the lanky, ebon-haired man.

At a boxy wooden bar, the milky, pock-scarred man speaks, returning to his stool.

The freckled, curly-haired woman attempts to fix her disheveled curls with a shaking hand and follows after the lanky, ebon-haired man, her back straight, sending one last angry glare at the milky, pock-scarred man's back.

With a nod, the lanky, ebon-haired man says to the milky, pock-scarred man, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "I know. We always do, they just don't listen."

The golden-brown-haired young woman has arrived from the south.

The lanky, ebon-haired man walks north.
You follow the lanky, ebon-haired man, and walk north.

A Small, Dusty Plaza [N, E, S]
   Crowds choke this plaza, stirring up thick dust and fine, silty sand
into the air, already thick with the odors of the lives conducted here.  The
ground underfoot is simple, hardpacked dirt, worn smooth with footsteps, but
with an occasional jagged crack or pile of offal that keeps the traveller's
step wary.  Slightly taller buildings surround this plaza, many of them
featuring balconies fluttering with the laundry which has been hung out to
air in the fierce sun. 
The lanky, ebon-haired man is standing here.
The very tall figure in a weathered, dust-colored longcloak is sitting here.
A clay-stained human potter sits here on a woven mat of grass.
A lithe, obsidian-eyed woman lounges near the tavern entrance.
The scrawny, sunken-eyed beggar grovels for coins here piteously.

The lanky, ebon-haired man walks east.
You follow the lanky, ebon-haired man, and walk east.

A Small, Dusty Plaza [N, E, S, W]
   Crowds choke this plaza, stirring up thick dust and fine, silty sand
into the air, already thick with the odors of the lives conducted here.  The
ground underfoot is simple, hardpacked dirt, worn smooth with footsteps, but
with an occasional jagged crack or pile of offal that keeps the traveller's
step wary.  Slightly taller buildings surround this plaza, many of them
featuring balconies fluttering with the laundry which has been hung out to
air in the fierce sun. 
   On the eastern side of the plaza rises a two story building of dark
stone, an azure banner emblazoned with the dragon-and-coins sigil of
House Oash hung from above the high-arched doorway.
A mud-brick tenement building sits among the others along this street.
The lanky, ebon-haired man is standing here.
A rag-clad elvish child runs along, playing with a ball.
A weaver's apprentice carries a bolt of cloth towards a shop.

The lanky, ebon-haired man walks south.
You follow the lanky, ebon-haired man, and walk south.

Commoners' Way [N, E, S]
   Commoners' Way proceeds onward from here, wandering amidst the tangle
of crumbling, old mud brick buildings and faded tents that house Allanak's
working class.  The road underfoot initially looks like simple hard-crusted
dirt, but a second glance reveals the layer of worn bricks lying underneath,
their withered outlines barely visible beneath the layers of tracks and
footprints that cover their smooth worn surfaces.  The road is crowded with
Allanak's common folk and slaves, some hurrying about their business, while
others linger, lounging in any patch of available shade to find respite from
the fierce sun. 
The lanky, ebon-haired man is standing here.
The freckled, brawny man stands guard at the eastern door.

Shaking his head, the lanky, ebon-haired man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "What are you trying to prove, mmm?"

Rubbing the various sore locations on her body as she walks through the afternoon sun behind him, you say to the lanky, ebon-haired man, in sirihish:
     "I am not minding the...bothering. At least, I am used to it. But I am not liking.."

Looking at her toes as they near the the freckled, brawny man's post, you say to the lanky, ebon-haired man, in sirihish:
     "...I did not fight for the north."

The lanky, ebon-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "I'm no liar, and as much as I protested your presence there, you still were. I can't disprove that. But, you really should consider leaving when asked."

Moving away from him, wiping blood off her cheek hastily as the freckled, brawny man spots her, you say to the lanky, ebon-haired man, in sirihish:
     "Yes. Perhaps that is wise. Perhaps I am not very wise."

Looking down to the ground, the lanky, ebon-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "I lost someone that week... She was important."

Pausing, and turning back to him, you say to the lanky, ebon-haired man, in sirihish:
     "I am losing many friends as well. Though they are loved only by people like me, they are dying just the same."

You feel your breath and composure begin to return.

Carefully straightening her mussed up clothing, every movement meticulous, if slow, you say to the lanky, ebon-haired man, in sirihish:
     "I -did- keep the necklace."

Waving a hand dismissively, his face shedding its former sorrow, the lanky, ebon-haired man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Anyways, that story is in the past.. Though, can I see it?"

Stepping over the threshold of the door that the freckled, brawny man holds for her, you say to the lanky, ebon-haired man, in sirihish:
     "Wait here."

e
The freckled, brawny man stops using his bulky, painted bone key.
The freckled, brawny man unlocks the door with a bulky, painted bone key.
The freckled, brawny man opens the door.
The freckled, brawny man steps aside, allowing you to pass.
A Small Foyer [N, W, Save]
  Above the entrance, a set of glass wind chimes sound whenever the door opens.
A couple of small, potted pymlithe trees are on both sides of the doorway out.
Its maw open ferociously, an enormous skull has been set facing the doorway.
The weathered, maroon-skinned man stands guard at the bone door.
The dark, brawny guard stands here alertly.
The freckled, brawny man closes the door from the other side.

n
A Large Blue Room [E, S, U, Save]
All manner of raw materials are piled within a large obsidian bin in a corner.
A bone and leather keg, striped with blue paint, fills the air with acidic fumes.
A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on the western wall, darts stuck to it.
An azure-sigiled OOC message board hangs on the wall here.
A wide assortment of tools are arranged in a series of hanging cloth pockets.
A heavy cylini chest sits beside the archway, a bit battered with age.
A large bag is here in the corner, filled with soil.
A large bag is here in the corner beside another, filled with a darker soil.
A large bag is here filled with various equipment.
The bulky, blunt-featured man watches a dart game with a stoic expression.
The young, freckled teen sits quietly, watching the room with bright eyes.
The battle-scarred wizened man sits here, sharing tales.
The sky-haired, long-legged young woman lounges on a pile of cushions.

u
A Large Barracks [N, D, Quit, Save]
  A couple of blue-striped kegs are here.
A panelled folding screen shelters a corner, allowing some privacy.
Sitting tucked beneath a cabinet is a small sandstone footlocker.
An open shelved cabinet is tucked into a corner, filled with strange objects.
A small bone-framed portrait hangs from a hook on the wall, above a bed.
The bald, broad shouldered man is here tending to some armor.

Digging amidst sparse belongings, you get your dusty necklace of red stone beads from a small, azure-trimmed chest.
It is very light.

clean necklace dust
You brush the dust off of a necklace of red stone beads.

You hold your necklace of red stone beads.

d
A Large Blue Room [E, S, U, Save]
All manner of raw materials are piled within a large obsidian bin in a corner.
A bone and leather keg, striped with blue paint, fills the air with acidic fumes.
A multi-ringed dartboard hangs on the western wall, darts stuck to it.
An azure-sigiled OOC message board hangs on the wall here.
A wide assortment of tools are arranged in a series of hanging cloth pockets.
A heavy cylini chest sits beside the archway, a bit battered with age.
A large bag is here in the corner, filled with soil.
A large bag is here in the corner beside another, filled with a darker soil.
A large bag is here filled with various equipment.
The bulky, blunt-featured man watches a dart game with a stoic expression.
The young, freckled teen sits quietly, watching the room with bright eyes.
The battle-scarred wizened man sits here, sharing tales.
The sky-haired, long-legged young woman lounges on a pile of cushions.

s
A Small Foyer [N, W, Save]
Above the entrance, a set of glass wind chimes sound whenever the door opens.
A couple of small, potted pymlithe trees are on both sides of the doorway out.
Its maw open ferociously, an enormous skull has been set facing the doorway.
The weathered, maroon-skinned man stands guard at the bone door.
The dark, brawny guard stands here alertly.

w (a string of beads dangling from one hand)
The weathered, maroon-skinned man stops using his bulky, painted bone key.
The weathered, maroon-skinned man unlocks the door with a bulky, painted bone key.
The weathered, maroon-skinned man opens the door.
The weathered, maroon-skinned man steps aside, allowing you to pass.
Commoners' Way [N, E, S]
   Commoners' Way proceeds onward from here, wandering amidst the tangle
of crumbling, old mud brick buildings and faded tents that house Allanak's
working class.  The road underfoot initially looks like simple hard-crusted
dirt, but a second glance reveals the layer of worn bricks lying underneath,
their withered outlines barely visible beneath the layers of tracks and
footprints that cover their smooth worn surfaces.  The road is crowded with
Allanak's common folk and slaves, some hurrying about their business, while
others linger, lounging in any patch of available shade to find respite from
the fierce sun. 
The freckled, brawny man stands guard at the eastern door.
The lanky, ebon-haired man is standing here.
The weathered, maroon-skinned man closes the door from the other side.

The freckled, curly-haired woman steps over the threshold of the door again, holding your necklace of red stone beads in one hand as she approaches the lanky, ebon-haired man.

Nodding a bit, a faint smile on his lips, the lanky, ebon-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Ah, that is the one. I made it while working on a large order of rings for your Magus."

Gaze dropping to your necklace of red stone beads, as she fidgets with it restlessly, you say to the lanky, ebon-haired man, in sirihish:
     "They sit still in our wagon. We have no one to use them, now."

The lanky, ebon-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "I figured, since he can't receive it, it should go to someone who might appreciate it."

The lanky, ebon-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "That and.. giving you lot the small respect that I might garner after that week."

Looking back up at him, you say to the lanky, ebon-haired man, in sirihish:
     "It is more than most, anyway."

With a slightly dry tone, you say to the lanky, ebon-haired man, in sirihish:
     "Anyway. This is not making us friends, of course. But thank you for your help."

The lanky, ebon-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Believe me, I only stand to lose, if that was something others were to consider true. So, don't worry about that."

Arching a brow over one dark eye as she considers him for a moment, you say to the lanky, ebon-haired man, in sirihish:
     "Congratulations on the House Fale. Lord Timotheo is a kind man."

With a faint smile, the lanky, ebon-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Thank you, and he certainly is a kind man. His Aide has been encouraging me to ... be .. nicer with others."

Backing up once more for the door, you say to the lanky, ebon-haired man, in sirihish:
     "His Shadow, Gurm."

The freckled, curly-haired woman offers a slightly pained smile to the lanky, ebon-haired man, a bruise beginning to darken one cheekbone.

Sighing as he turns, the lanky, ebon-haired man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
     "Shade to you, San."

e (ducking her head as she passes over the threshold of the large door)

[James de Monet]

Heh.  That's a good log.  I like the Wyvern's palpable hatred, the way she reacts to the beating, and the turning points.

[RogueGunslinger]

Whoever played the milky pock marked man was hilarious.

I love how you did your accent laura. Good use of thinks and feels too.

[650Booger]

inspiring.  I need to think/feel/RP more!

[Cind]

I read the whole thing. You did great.

[Esadal]

inspiring.  I need to think/feel/RP more!

I second this.  This is a really cool way to get a glimpse on the life of the Gemmed.  Thank you for the log!