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Opening Title
09-18-07, 11:47 AM
Closed.

The Black Bottle Cellar was small and reputable, if lacking cleanliness. But one can't expect a dock-side joint catering to Scara Brae's generous fishing population and the occasional foul-smelling, fouler-looking overseas trader to achieve high marks in that respect. Not that anyone ever gave half a rat's ass upon noticing the grime and the fish entrails swept in on grubby boot soles. The food was hot, the grog was spiced and there was cheap wine and cheaper board available. Yes, the Cellar was indeed popular among the working folk this side of town. As was typical on most weeknights, a fierce vibration filled the air about the place, spilling through the open door along with smoke, light, and various displaced patrons who would crowd outside, huddling together whilst chattering over their tobacco. A fiddler played, his notes accompanying distant clanging bells from the vessels moored across the road. Hearing him, several of these customers gave a whoop and fell in and out of drunken dance, stirring dust that lifted along with the bar smoke into the starless heavens lurking above.

There came a loud crash, followed by resounding cheers. Those lenient enough to have been pushed onto the street from the sheer volume of the room inside rushed for the entrance, straining to catch a glimpse of the exciting fight surely taking place within. Old Woman McMurray's guttural croaking of displeasure could be heard as well, if the listeners were truly perceptive. She did not appreciate having her precious tavern torn apart.

The entertainment was destined to be short-lived tonight, and the bodies swarming against the entryway hastily parted to allow the passing of the offending party sent careening into a bystander. The tossed man pushed himself roughly away from the contact, simultaneously stumbling backward onto the road where his knees buckled. A bold figure reared silhouetted against the lantern light within, arms slung across her heavy chest. "I'll not have idle sparring in my bar," she growled, raising her hoarse contralto against the laughter. "Come back when you have some sense in ye." With a last, threatening glare directed toward the man lying prostrate on the street, the intimidating mistress spun on her heel and disappeared back inside with what sounded suspiciously like an exasperated and grumbled "Foreigners!"

The crowd dispersed, their attention returned to their own sorry affairs as the lingering patrons outside continued their conversations heedless of the stranger who remained sprawled directly in the path of an approaching cab. Just when the horse's hooves seemed about to run him over, the man quickly gathered himself and rolled out of harm's way, then finding the wooden signpost opposite the tavern's side of the street and propping his darkly-clothed form against it. Sharp bits of stone bit through the material of his pants, but the man did little to make himself more comfortable. Instead he sat alone in the shadows, chuckling dryly.

Agent of Black
09-20-07, 03:54 PM
I had grown fond of Althanas even though I’ve only spent some couples of weeks here. There was just this natural happiness about it, which brought out the kid in me. All new sights, all new people, it was all so hard to take in yet felt so good as my eyes ate their feast of sparkling forests and open seas. Now, I realize that those are the only things I have seen so far but hey, who's to complain?

One thing I have noticed, something that could use a little bit of improvement, was the Law. This world is like the Wild West back on Earth, for crying out loud! A little improvement was needed, but for the most part I had my share of fun within those first weeks, heh. Though, I must say that I had gotten bored of Radasanth quickly. I wanted more than the average medieval city that I had read about in the Forgotten Realms books that I love so much. I wanted to adventure. To satisfy that craving I managed to board a merchant vessel, cleverly hopping into an empty crate that was to be loaded. But not after dumping its contents first.

As to where the ship was going, I didn't know, but I didn't care. I'm sure being a merchant's ship it wasn't going to be at sea for too long a time. My suspicion was proved true when we came to the docks of Scara Brae only a week later. I carefully snaked away from the ship and found myself, well, at the Docks. It was night, and a rather foggy one. A dense mist blanketed the docks, but that didn't deter the sailors that freely stalked around.

The docks were a homey place, sorta. Not the prettiest of places but it had that feel to it, ya'know? Just the various jumble of inns and taverns seemed a little inviting. I wondered if that was what Scara Brae was, a port city. Well, I figured it was time to find that out.

After a quick walk I ended up standing in front of a tavern door. A wooden sign hung above, a black bottle was painted on it with the word 'Cellar' etched beneath. Even on the outside the place looked cheap, but I could hear the common humdrum of any fantasy world's tavern, yelling, cheering, laughing and the smell of straight up alcohol all tingled my senses even from out there. I nodded to myself, assuring that this place was as good as any. I stepped forward and placed my hand on the knob when it suddenly burst open. Reflexively I jumped backward and was soon standing in the very path of a falling man. I tried to turn to the side when our shoulders collided. My balance was easily found just as quick as my hand found my shoulder, holding it over where it had been whacked.

The accident didn't hurt too much and I quickly was able to remove my hand, placing both hands casually at their respective sides. I chuckled on the inside when the dark dressed man scrambled back up on his feet and stood on the other side of the dirt road as if nothing happened.

"Maybe this place isn't the best place for me," I quietly thought to myself, "I'll try and find another place." I nodded calmly to the man who had bumped into me and walked forward, just going along on my way.

Opening Title
09-20-07, 10:33 PM
The chuckling subsided into dry, hacking coughs as Hayashi sluggishly replaced the strip of cloth over his lips he had shifted aside in order to enjoy the drink that had placed him in this position in the first place. It had not been the famous spiced grog what got him in the end, but instead a hard, potent liquor, McMurray's older brother's own devlish concoction. Alcohol had never agreed with the exiled nin; Village shinobi were hardly known for their tolerance of the stuff. Celebratory sips were permitted on occasion, but drinking obsessively was looked down upon, and violation of this cultural taboo could result in dismissal from the ranks. They had a reputation to uphold, afterall.

But it wasn't as if he was a Village resident any longer. Technically, at least.

A man garnered with swinging black dreadlocks strode by, nodding genially in his direction. Hayashi only partially registered this (the fact that the man was the stranger he had knocked into earlier failed to register at all). He wasn't one-hundred percent drunk; forty percent was a closer estimate, if an estimate there was to be had. But percentage had nothing to do with his state. A deceptively shallow shot glass-full of the poision he had felt suicidal enough to swallow half an hour ago had already set to work mutilating his senses to the point where Hayashi was already beginning to forget how much he regretted being unable to use them.

The shinobi took a compulsive step forward, hissing as the ground tilted beneath him. Hayashi groaned, pressing the palm of his wrapped hand firmly against his left eye socket in an attempt to ease the nausea stirring in his gut. Goddammit...c'mon, focus...ugh...NEVER. AGAIN. Yeah, yeah. He'd repeat himself in the morning between mouthfuls of vomit, but deep down he knew these words couldn't be further from the truth. In time, there'd be another tavern, another shot glass brimming with experimental poison. Another fight perhaps.

Hayashi forced himself to take a second step, then a third. Soon he was unintentionally following the dreadlock-wearing man from minutes before, sober enough to realise that he'd better find a place to bed for the night less he wanted to risk sleeping in the alley again. His pace was unbalanced, his steps vaguely shuffling. A few metres before him on the narrow, deserted thoroughfare ahead tread the stranger, and no one else.

Taskmienster
06-13-09, 02:28 PM
This thread has been sitting for a full year. Since no response has been made to create activity I am going to be moving this. If you would like it to be reopened please feel free to PM myself or another staff member and they will be able to move it for you back to Scara Brae.