sspky
ooof my bones
Skilled fingers plucked on taut lute-strings, the melody uplifting and fair. The Raven’s Rest was a busy establishment, flush with all manner of patrons. Through the din, the bard played on, only half-pleased with the coins the drunkards tossed into the bowl at his feet.
This was a tavern just like any other -- two stories, with a single large, open first floor and rooms up on the second. There was a long bar counter, with an open kitchen behind it. There was a second hearth on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by benches and drunkards on benches.
It was located in the small port-city of Ganymede; along the northern coast of the Bastion Sea. Although it was the middle of winter, and the sea was half-frozen, the port-city still saw countless travellers.
Wren came and went, from this tavern and from a dozen others like it. He was friendly, talkative, and courteous; though only when it suited him to be so. Nice didn’t come naturally to him, but he prided himself on his skills as a thespian. Most of the strangers he met were none the wiser to his secret, more misanthropic nature.
The elf was ashy-skinned, with features as sharp as a knife. Long ears were adorned with silver jewellery, and the near-white hair on his head was cut short on the top and shaved completely on either side. There was a semi-symmetrical set of scars on his face; three down each cheek, running from his temple down to his chin. Without those scars, he might have been handsome. With them? Well, he’d learned how to work them into his persona.
Dressed in blue and black and silver, he was clearly rather stylish, his tunic well fitted and his trousers rather tight. Scuffed boots came to mid-calf, and a thin sword hung from his hip. On his back, he had a simple mage's half-staff. There was an air about him: a bard, obviously, but something more, as well. The knife half-concealed in his boot wasn't just for show, after all.
This was a tavern just like any other -- two stories, with a single large, open first floor and rooms up on the second. There was a long bar counter, with an open kitchen behind it. There was a second hearth on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by benches and drunkards on benches.
It was located in the small port-city of Ganymede; along the northern coast of the Bastion Sea. Although it was the middle of winter, and the sea was half-frozen, the port-city still saw countless travellers.
Wren came and went, from this tavern and from a dozen others like it. He was friendly, talkative, and courteous; though only when it suited him to be so. Nice didn’t come naturally to him, but he prided himself on his skills as a thespian. Most of the strangers he met were none the wiser to his secret, more misanthropic nature.
The elf was ashy-skinned, with features as sharp as a knife. Long ears were adorned with silver jewellery, and the near-white hair on his head was cut short on the top and shaved completely on either side. There was a semi-symmetrical set of scars on his face; three down each cheek, running from his temple down to his chin. Without those scars, he might have been handsome. With them? Well, he’d learned how to work them into his persona.
Dressed in blue and black and silver, he was clearly rather stylish, his tunic well fitted and his trousers rather tight. Scuffed boots came to mid-calf, and a thin sword hung from his hip. On his back, he had a simple mage's half-staff. There was an air about him: a bard, obviously, but something more, as well. The knife half-concealed in his boot wasn't just for show, after all.
