KOBOLDS ... in a pub. Open tavern thread.

[Storm Veritas]

It had been a long day, and his drink washed his throat with a splash of the nearly antiseptic alcohol, a triple-both ale that left a rich, bitter aftertaste. The kids liked this stuff, he understood, picturing the youth of Alerar, a transformative difference from the boys coming of age back in the time of stone and brass, when Storm Veritas was first getting his feet wet in these pubs.

Dickheads. Swishing through these overcooked beers, proud of their asshole beards with hair gel in them and peeking through the thick rimmed glasses with no prescription in them. They even pretend to like whiskey, even if these little boys are soft as puppy shit.

In truth, there weren't any of these young men in the bar right now; it was a fairly quiet night, and he leaned back in his oak chair, feeling the screws wobble a touch as he balanced his beer on his small belt buckle. Kicking his feet up on the table before him, the metal soles reflected some of the soft amber light in the bar, soft white noise buzzing around Philomel. Storm cared deeply for the faun, and knew the attention a hybrid type with staggering whoppers between her armpits would gather, even on an otherwise quiet night. Every man besides him in the bar encircled her, trying to curry favor with stories of bravery, fortune, and glory.

Can't hate the hustle. Ten years younger and five times dumber, I'd roll the same sort of dice.

He smiled as he looked over the top of his glass at the beauty, sipping gently at his bitter beer. She had completely charmed him already, but he suspected had he try to pick her up with smooth lines, compliments and braggadocio, things would have gone sideways plenty quick. Perhaps more interesting to him was the anonymity Philomel afforded him. He had been to every corner of Althanas, adventuring and cheating his way to incredible wealth.

If any of those rubes drinking pickled tomato wine knew who I was, I'd have to wager at least one or two would be dancing like a puppet for ME, trying to at the very least upgrade the thickness of their wallet. Then again, she's got cash AND those tits, so that pretty much seals it for me.

Amused by the dance of the foolish, poor callers, Storm was awakened from a bit of a haze as the door chimed, announcing the entrance of a handful of short, black and emerald monstrosities that strolled in unapologetically. His chair came slamming down as he sat up at the preposterous sight, turning his chair a tweak to gather what absurd encroachment had arrived.

[Yvonne]

There were few things in life she couldn't do for money. She could count them on one hand, lie, cheat, steal, fuck and murder. Under normal circumstances those five acts crossed a line in the minds of others, and it was the minds of others that were of concern to her. It wasn't that she wouldn't do them. She would. Any of them. All of them. It was the price she paid in turn, to appease her lust for coin that hindered her. Kept her in line. Reputation was critical. Tarnish your reputation and what did you have left? A handful of coins. Maybe an opportunity to start again. Maybe.

It's hard to be convincing when you're a known liar. It's hard to gamble when you're a known swindler. Your virtue is lost when you become a prostitute. Thieves and murderers who are discovered employing their skills are forced to run from the law, which cuts into their time spent thieving and murdering. Time is money. Money could often equate to power, or at least the illusion of power. With power comes influence. With influence comes change.

That's what it was all about, to Yvonne. Building a reputation and acquiring influence over these many minds which kept her in line, like a prisoner in a cell. As her black-skinned hands cleaned a mug with a questionable cloth she knew her goals would cost her too much time at this rate. Unless she took risks - made bolder moves - took shortcuts on the road to wealth, she'd be old and greyer than she already was before making her fortune. Seeking an opportunity at a supposedly popular pub, the name of which alone had allured her inside to offer her services - that's why she was waiting tables by night for the time being. If significant people didn't pass through a place like this they'd be too pompous or strait-laced for her taste anyway.

There were a few individuals about the room that garnered her attention in differing ways. One was a very fetching faun - the centre of male attention - and the other a well-groomed gentleman drinking alone. Deeper into his thoughts than his mug, the dwarven hybrid guessed, her elven eyes gazing at him while he eyed the faun. The rest of these people were common rabble, unworthy of her time, but she would serve them regardless for the sake of reputation. She was about to approach the gentleman, ask whether he'd like a refill or a meal when a group of reptilian monsters walked through the door. What have we got here? Remind me of tha Drakari in Dheathain, but...

Yvonne walked right up to them to invite them inside the establishment, having made eye contact with the host of the horde. She sensed a quiet menace in those yellow eyes of his, but how would she know for certain? Living underground most of her life hadn't afforded her the chance to meet one of these scaly humanoids.

"Welcome ta Tha Greyhound," the diminutive waitress began, "Sheathe yer swords and I'll be more than happy ta show ye a table. Me name's Yvonne. I'll be yer waitress this evening."