((No time limit guys. Create the fight you two want and PM me when you finish! Good Luck!))
((No time limit guys. Create the fight you two want and PM me when you finish! Good Luck!))
There is no more cliché starting point for adventures upon the mighty realm of Althanas than a tavern. Bars, pubs, speakeasies and alehouses around the mighty expanse of all Althanas seem to be involved in the first chapter of many great stories. One could posit there are two explanations for this. First, it’s been said that half of all great stories start with people drinking. Secondly, Althanians love to hit the bottle.
Storm Veritas represented Althanas proudly in this way, smiling as he slowly worked at a tall glass of golden, sugary mead. It had been a simple, pleasant day; the first such day in many, and he enjoyed the gentle simplicity of a rare lazy day. The Citadel’s local pub, Tony’s Tavern was exceptionally simple. A handful of pristine white tablecloths covered black tables lit by small candles, a room slightly over half full. A large, clean, slightly-too-bright room, centered with a marble-capped U-shaped bar that opened back into the kitchen. A handsome young tandem of bartenders bustled, poured and cleaned, one man and one lovely lady, both in their mid twenties.
Twenties. Those were good years, wish I knew half then of what I know now. Luckily I still knew twice what these adorable, bubble-headed dunces seem to grip.
The bartender, whom had introduced himself as “Teddy” to Storm, tried to strike up conversations around the bar. Most people spoke up to brag about tales they wished they’d lived; the electromancer was quiet and polite, drawing no attention to what atrocities he had committed in his time.
“Ever try chilling the mead?” Storm questioned, looking at the miniature cyclone within his stein as he gently swirled the amber glass. Stupid questions like this were perfect idiot fodder, and the bartender took the line, hook to lungs.
“Only once! The honey sticks too deep and slows the flow, can’t move it and it doesn’t settle right. Separates, you get different sips down each glass. Terrible shit, even though it sounds good on paper.
“Molly, chilled mead! You hear this one!?”
The diversion had worked; he’d made a memorable gesture, not been overly quiet, and allowed the rest of the bar to erupt with energy and livelihood. Other conversations sparked, and a few laughs around the bar drove the other patrons to speak more loudly, clapping hands on the bar as they yakked about their own would-be adventures. He’d be left to get drinks without question all night, but not be remembered for any particularly antisocial behavior.
Spinning about his stool, Storm pressed his back to the impossibly solid bar as he filled the cherrywood pipe. He hadn’t specifically seen any prohibitive signage, although the bar was slightly devoid of the usual heavy curtain of smoke. His mint-specked tobacco was pleasant and mild; if people had a problem he’d likely spare them and step out for fresh air anyway. It also complimented his mead perfectly, the warm sugar mingling with the tart-tasting smoke.
His thoughts moved to memories, settling in on people who had danced their way in and out of his life. Letho Ravenheart; Karuka and Taische O’Sheean; Cyrus, Damon Kaosi… all would react very differently to the old man on the stool. All were now tragically absent, a reminder which burned at him.
Wasted energy, trying to throw these morons off your scent. Not one of them has the first f*cking clue who you are. Just another fighter moving through the revolving doors.
In the midst of Althanian commoners, even here in the Citadel Storm was no celebrity. Anonymity was a depressingly inexpensive commodity.