As I stepped into the seedy bar I inhaled deeply, almost choking on the
scent of alcohol, sawdust, and broken dreams. Taking a seat in the corner,
I listened intently for the current rumors, as is my wont. I also observed
the inhabitants of such a curious place, certain I could find inspiration or
an interesting story. As I scanned the room, I heard a loud thud as the bar
creaked loudly under the thunderous slamming fist of an obviously drunken
dwarf sitting at the bar. A pyramid of mugs empty but for the last vestiges
of foam from a frothy ale rattled loudly in front of him as he shouted
loudly "Gerard is dead, there is no Gerard here... The dragonslayer was
dragonslain." A curious looking woman, apparently an elvish mage, blanched
in the face of that powerful statement. She reached for his shoulder only
to have her hand wrenched away forcefully by the dwarf. He calmly warned,
"yer magic be useless then, yer magic be useless now. I dun even know yer,
now now. P'raps not ever. Be gettin' out of meh face if yer dun want it
ter be rearranged for yer." Breaking out in tears the elven woman makes a
hasty retreat. The dwarven man slams a few coins on the bar apologizing to
the barkeep and looks around angrily before leaving in a huff.
I've heard all the tales surrounding a powerful fighter by the name of
Gerard. He was an adventurer of note, peerless in the arena, considered
heroic by some. Clearly this drunkard could not be the same man, could he?
An interesting idea for a tale.... For sure.
*from the notes of an aspiring Herald*
Description:
A steady rhythmic percussion heralds the arrival of the short man before
you. A curious necklace made of wickedly curved talons and razor-sharp
teeth clatters noisily with each of his heavy steps. Broad-shouldered,
barrel-chested and solidly built he bears a wealth of muscles lined with
bulging veins. His bald pate shiny and reddened with gouts of hair spilling
out from atop and inside his ears. Grey and white hairs intertwine to form
an impressive and upturned moustache. They continue down his craggy face
and terminate well below his chin in a thick, braided beard. His rounded
ears, large bulbous nose, and short stature indicate his dwarvish heritage.
His massive hands are dominated by sausage like fingers and his palms bear
the callouses of an experienced swordsman. His blue irises are almost fully
subsumed by the blood-shot nature of his narrow eyes. The pungent smell of
a brewery wafts from his general direction.
[reply to Elmett]
These lands are dark but even a single candle spreads light in all directions.
[reply to Raeburn]
[reply to Davairus]