Callan
11-20-13, 11:07 PM
Closed to Fox Owen Xavier. Just as a note to anyone interested, I'm liquid timing this to be after Callan has acclimated a little bit to Dheathain so that I might better explore his actual arrival in a solo quest.
The Lusty Draconian was Callan Blacksnake's favorite bar in Talmhaidh. They served strong ales that tasted unlike most anything he'd tried before, and fruity liquors that inevitably caused a man to wake up the next morning with no memory of the name of the drink he'd bought two rounds of for every patron the night before. The barkeep was a human – an oddity in Dheathain, even in the coastal port cities – and he had quick wits and quicker hands, especially when it came to pouring drinks and even more so when it came to collecting your coin. Finally, the bar had rooms close at hand, rented out by an elderly, amicable man living in his inn atop the bar.
But the primary reason Callan liked the watering hole was because it was one of the few places in Talmhaidh where he could actually get a drink. The Fae he had encountered didn't drink frequently enough and didn't seem to care about worldly wealth enough to merit opening their own bars, leaving the majority to be ran by the scaly drakelings. In those bars he was typically ignored as long as he didn't bother anybody, but unfortunately that meant that even the bartender wouldn't acknowledge him or serve him. In the few bars reserved for the upper caste draconians, the swordsman from Fallien fared far worse. If he wasn't thrown out immediately by strong arms at the door, he'd have weapons brandished at him by barkeeps, or even be attacked by the patrons. He still bore a small gash on his cheek from one such attack, mercifully uninfected and healing.
Callan had arrived in Talmhaidh about a fortnight ago. The humid land of Dheathain had called his name with its promise of magic and adventure, and he had come with no hard and fast plan in mind. He now intended to journey into the deep jungles in the near future to seek out the Fae living far from the coast. So far, they were the only real lead he had as to where he might go to learn more about his powers. None of the magicians and mediums, witches and warlocks, priests and paladins, or even tricksters and truth-sayers he'd met in Corone knew how Callan was able to mentally move metal objects. Some could perform similar feats, but upon viewing the Fallien's mystical skill they assured him that what he did was quite different from their own magics.
Some had wished to teach him their own tricks of the arcane, and others wanted to study him. Still others spoke of fanciful artifacts or mystical races that might lend him light in his quest to uncover more about his abilities. But the only idea that more than a couple had suggested (independently of each other) was to seek out the Fae of Dheathain. And so he had, but so far he had had no luck. Most of the Fae in Talmhaidh told him they were not terribly skilled with magic, but that their brethren deeper in the rain forest in their cherished city of Donnalaich would likely know more than they.
But a trek into the wilds of Dheathain was dangerous to say the least, especially alone. And so for the past couple weeks Callan had spent most of his time talking with other citizens of Talmhaidh – mostly humans and Fae, for the dragon-men still wanted nothing to do with him – and sought to learn more about the strange land. Survival, geography, customs, even politics and culture. He had also started to stockpile some food that would not quickly go bad, and kept an eye out for anyone wanting to join him in his quest for Donnalaich. In the mean time however, he spent the remainder of his time helping out with odd jobs for coin, and relaxing in The Lusty Draconian, where he sat now.
He'd started leaving his leather jerkin and burlap cloak behind in his rented room soon after arriving, and now wore only his black boots, gray pants, and darker gray shirt. The shirt was currently unbuttoned and hung limp with sweat against his chest, exposing his equally drenched muscles. Only a day after forsaking his jerkin and cloak he'd had his hair cut shorter than usual, but it was moist enough with perspiration that he was still able to push it into a part with his hand. Although he had only his dagger with him in the bar (tucked neatly into his boot, only partially visible), the corded muscles on the hand wrapped around his mug of ale betrayed his frequent use of and ability with weaponry.
Tohm, the barkeep, had asked Callan to help him lug heavy crates of sugar in from the docks in return for a promise of free ale all night, and the Fallien would be damned before not making good use on that oath. Draining the rest of his spicy dark Dheathainian ale, he set his heavy mug down and called out to Tohm for another, his silver eyes' mirth matching his smile.
The Lusty Draconian was Callan Blacksnake's favorite bar in Talmhaidh. They served strong ales that tasted unlike most anything he'd tried before, and fruity liquors that inevitably caused a man to wake up the next morning with no memory of the name of the drink he'd bought two rounds of for every patron the night before. The barkeep was a human – an oddity in Dheathain, even in the coastal port cities – and he had quick wits and quicker hands, especially when it came to pouring drinks and even more so when it came to collecting your coin. Finally, the bar had rooms close at hand, rented out by an elderly, amicable man living in his inn atop the bar.
But the primary reason Callan liked the watering hole was because it was one of the few places in Talmhaidh where he could actually get a drink. The Fae he had encountered didn't drink frequently enough and didn't seem to care about worldly wealth enough to merit opening their own bars, leaving the majority to be ran by the scaly drakelings. In those bars he was typically ignored as long as he didn't bother anybody, but unfortunately that meant that even the bartender wouldn't acknowledge him or serve him. In the few bars reserved for the upper caste draconians, the swordsman from Fallien fared far worse. If he wasn't thrown out immediately by strong arms at the door, he'd have weapons brandished at him by barkeeps, or even be attacked by the patrons. He still bore a small gash on his cheek from one such attack, mercifully uninfected and healing.
Callan had arrived in Talmhaidh about a fortnight ago. The humid land of Dheathain had called his name with its promise of magic and adventure, and he had come with no hard and fast plan in mind. He now intended to journey into the deep jungles in the near future to seek out the Fae living far from the coast. So far, they were the only real lead he had as to where he might go to learn more about his powers. None of the magicians and mediums, witches and warlocks, priests and paladins, or even tricksters and truth-sayers he'd met in Corone knew how Callan was able to mentally move metal objects. Some could perform similar feats, but upon viewing the Fallien's mystical skill they assured him that what he did was quite different from their own magics.
Some had wished to teach him their own tricks of the arcane, and others wanted to study him. Still others spoke of fanciful artifacts or mystical races that might lend him light in his quest to uncover more about his abilities. But the only idea that more than a couple had suggested (independently of each other) was to seek out the Fae of Dheathain. And so he had, but so far he had had no luck. Most of the Fae in Talmhaidh told him they were not terribly skilled with magic, but that their brethren deeper in the rain forest in their cherished city of Donnalaich would likely know more than they.
But a trek into the wilds of Dheathain was dangerous to say the least, especially alone. And so for the past couple weeks Callan had spent most of his time talking with other citizens of Talmhaidh – mostly humans and Fae, for the dragon-men still wanted nothing to do with him – and sought to learn more about the strange land. Survival, geography, customs, even politics and culture. He had also started to stockpile some food that would not quickly go bad, and kept an eye out for anyone wanting to join him in his quest for Donnalaich. In the mean time however, he spent the remainder of his time helping out with odd jobs for coin, and relaxing in The Lusty Draconian, where he sat now.
He'd started leaving his leather jerkin and burlap cloak behind in his rented room soon after arriving, and now wore only his black boots, gray pants, and darker gray shirt. The shirt was currently unbuttoned and hung limp with sweat against his chest, exposing his equally drenched muscles. Only a day after forsaking his jerkin and cloak he'd had his hair cut shorter than usual, but it was moist enough with perspiration that he was still able to push it into a part with his hand. Although he had only his dagger with him in the bar (tucked neatly into his boot, only partially visible), the corded muscles on the hand wrapped around his mug of ale betrayed his frequent use of and ability with weaponry.
Tohm, the barkeep, had asked Callan to help him lug heavy crates of sugar in from the docks in return for a promise of free ale all night, and the Fallien would be damned before not making good use on that oath. Draining the rest of his spicy dark Dheathainian ale, he set his heavy mug down and called out to Tohm for another, his silver eyes' mirth matching his smile.