Les Misérables
08-24-08, 02:00 PM
Closed to Destrudo.
The smell of matured mead blended with the sedative scent of the polished oak furniture and floor. Phyr Saresh swished the beverage once more around the tumbler, clockwise, then lowered the glass and drank deeply. His throat bobbed like an inquisitive ferret as he drank, a crooked protrusion from his sickly sunken body. He sighed, a sound of deep rooted satisfaction, and set the empty vessel down with resounding authority.
The one-armed drow sat in the middle of a sea of empty chairs and tables. He faced the door, always waiting for it to open. His curving pointed ears awaited the familiar squack of the brass hinges. Quite intentionally, Phyr had never fed them even a drop of oil. Behind him, the long smooth bartop beckoned with welcoming wooden stools and seductive, sparkling bottles. A squat, fat bottle rested on the back counter, cork out, half full of dwarven mead.
Phyr placed his hand on the sturdy oaken table and heaved himself upright, then picked up his tumbler. He shuffled behind the bar to pour himself another glass of comraderie and comfort. The lapping sound of liquid splashing into the vessel replaced the swish of his worn and torn garments. Something that was almost a smile ghosted across the ancient soldier's scarred face. He had come to Scara Brae with nothing to his name, but life was made easy by the Dajas Pagoda. The former beggar had money, a place to sleep, and all the booze he could oggle, let alone drink.
A sound like a dying parrot's last words filled the tavern. Phyr glanced over his shoulder, saw that the door was opening. The drow knew he had to defend his position, but barely thought of the upcoming kill as a battle. Battle implied there was a chance he would not emerge victorious.
"What are you drinking?" He called in common, the friendly tone of his voice sounding similar to a barley sack splitting open. He leaned his elbow on the bartop and grinned ghoulishly at the entrance.
The smell of matured mead blended with the sedative scent of the polished oak furniture and floor. Phyr Saresh swished the beverage once more around the tumbler, clockwise, then lowered the glass and drank deeply. His throat bobbed like an inquisitive ferret as he drank, a crooked protrusion from his sickly sunken body. He sighed, a sound of deep rooted satisfaction, and set the empty vessel down with resounding authority.
The one-armed drow sat in the middle of a sea of empty chairs and tables. He faced the door, always waiting for it to open. His curving pointed ears awaited the familiar squack of the brass hinges. Quite intentionally, Phyr had never fed them even a drop of oil. Behind him, the long smooth bartop beckoned with welcoming wooden stools and seductive, sparkling bottles. A squat, fat bottle rested on the back counter, cork out, half full of dwarven mead.
Phyr placed his hand on the sturdy oaken table and heaved himself upright, then picked up his tumbler. He shuffled behind the bar to pour himself another glass of comraderie and comfort. The lapping sound of liquid splashing into the vessel replaced the swish of his worn and torn garments. Something that was almost a smile ghosted across the ancient soldier's scarred face. He had come to Scara Brae with nothing to his name, but life was made easy by the Dajas Pagoda. The former beggar had money, a place to sleep, and all the booze he could oggle, let alone drink.
A sound like a dying parrot's last words filled the tavern. Phyr glanced over his shoulder, saw that the door was opening. The drow knew he had to defend his position, but barely thought of the upcoming kill as a battle. Battle implied there was a chance he would not emerge victorious.
"What are you drinking?" He called in common, the friendly tone of his voice sounding similar to a barley sack splitting open. He leaned his elbow on the bartop and grinned ghoulishly at the entrance.