The Price of Wine

Tavern Hall - 


 * Upon entering the Drunken Dragon, the first thing that might strike a person would be the sheer size of it. To put it generally, the taproom is massive. Arc-shaped biinwood rafters give the impression of massive wooden ribs, and when fires burn in the twin hearths, eerie shadows dance across the ceiling. The lanterns hanging amidst these rafters add to the effect.


 * A C-shaped bar curves outwards from the wall, offering plenty of room to maids and cooks work and more than enough seating room. Surrounding the outer curve of the C are the bar stools; four-legged, backless affairs with hard round seats. The heads of iron nails can be seen protruding from the floor, securing the stools from rowdier guests.


 * Like a pair of fiery gladiators preparing to face off, identical granite hearths guard opposing corners of the room. Stacks of firewood are kept piled high beside them, and there's almost always a blaze akin to a small bonfire kept alight - even in the warmer months of the year. Because of their positioning, the tables in the middle of the room are usually the coolest. And as for the tables themselves? A mismatched collection of tables in nearly every shape and size imaginable dots the tavern floor, seating anywhere two people to parties of twelve or more.


 * And yet, somehow, as huge as it is, the Drunken Dragon always seems to manage a worthy number of guests - especially in the evenings. For those wishing to stay the night, an inconspicuous stairwell leads up to the guest rooms. To the left of one of the great hearths stands the door returning to Trademeet.

The wooden doorway opens smoothly; in fact, it is surprising that the latches do not creak after the harsh winter weather. It reveals the towering, imposing figure of a regal featured nobleman clad in polished steel full-plate armour. Stepping across the threshold, Godric Lomasa steadily enters the dimly lit tavern aglow with oil lanterns. He idly scratches the stubble on his chin with his right hand, encased as it is in a heavy metal gauntlet, and allows his blue eyes to gaze about the room. "A dull and sad song that one," loudly announces the Baron. "Play something sprightful and I may pay for one of your bastard children, yes?" adds the Lomasa knight, chuckling briefly.

Brand blinks, pulling his curtoll down. "I don't have any bastard children," he says, tilting his head aside as he looks at the Lomasa thoughtfully. "Which way do you like to look?"

Zia casts a wary glance towards the door and the approaching Godric. Not in the Refuge anymore... With a sigh, she taps the side of her teacup again and contemplates Mareten. "Nothing at all? You work the metal and the wood, and I'd wager something comes of that, aye?"

Mareten looks over at the noble and rises to his feet quickly and dips into a bow. "Ello me lord!" He greets with another submissive bob of his head before he slips back onto his seat. "Ayup..? Guess Iz makes purdy stuffs with metal en wood sometimes.. but mostly work stuffs."

"At least none that you know, yes?" Godric replies to Brand. He offers the commoner a conspiratorial wink. "To be sure, fellow, your private affairs are hardly of interest to me. As it may: play something spirited, lively, and you shall have a neat purse to wag and fawn on the womenfolk. Keep you to the better brothels, I expect." It would not take a great sage to infer that this nobleman does not hold a high opinion of the lower orders. However, he does seem jovial at the moment.

The Baron continues to walk inside the tavern. His gait is slow and deliberate. A perceptive eye might even catch the residue of spotted, dark, and dried blood on his otherwise immaculate armour: near the left side, to be precise. Godric breezes pasat the bard on his way toward Mareten.

Considering that a moment, Brand shrugs and starts playing a cheerful, though much less technically impressive tune, watching the others with quiet amusement, as if laughing at his own private joke.

"Aye, well, 'on demand' and 'can't' are completely different affairs, are they not?" Zia points out with a hint of a smile. Godric gets nod, respectful in the thin, veiled sort of way, and silent.

Mareten blinks a few times as the noble starts for him and he rises out of his stool once agian. "Ummm! Takes me seat me lord en rests some? Umm knows its a Freelander seat but.. well Iz gives it ta ya if ya wants?"

"I am quite able to stand, Master," Godric answers Mareten. He turns to his side and looks directly at Zia. "Leave us," orders the Lomasa. The Baron leans against his long steel-tipped spear, held in his right hand, and slides the shield off his left arm. It is rested against the bar.

Brand's song becomes playful as he stays nearby, looking like he's off looking at whatever and still laughing with his eyes, which do drift over to the shield and spear with a tilt of his head.

Zia's eyes flash, but she inclines her head, archly, and rises to her seat. Her tea goes with her, and she adjusts the fit of her pack across her shoulder. "Gladly," she mutters--under her breath--and starts in Brand's general direction, her hand once again going to her pack. "I'm going to join you," she announces. Normally, she'd ask, for the sake of politeness, but she's not exactly in a polite mood just now.

Mareten bobs his head once again and fidgets for a moment. "Umm okays me lord." He says meekly. "Anythings Iz can helps ya with me Lord Lomasa."

Godric looks down at the other man. "I thought I would employ you, Master Crashhammer. Nothing too complicated, of course. Master Thatcher is busy with some of my other orders, and I could use another smith in my employ. That is - unless you have abandoned your trade for the rigours of the Count Mikin's service?"

Brand nods, stopping his playing to nod to Zia. "He's flashy, and bossy," he notes quietly to Zia, though this is more amused than anything else.

Zia seems to relax a little. No arguing over where she will and will not play her music--this is, in her mind, a good thing. She nods--ever so slightly--to the boy, slinging her pack off her shoulder and resting it on a nearby chair while she digs her trill out, running a thumb across the smooth-polished wood. "All right, what do you know?"

Mareten nods his head and scratches his beard quickly. "Na na me lord. Iz stay with me Lord Varal. Umm but Iz makes ya whatevers it is ya wants ya know? Makes it right goods for ya."

"For your sake, Master, I hope that is the truth," Godric pointedly remarks to Mareten. "I doubt the Count would be happy to hear that one of his vassals produced inferior merchandise for a friend and ally, no?" The Lomasa pauses to allow the comment to sink in. "You will make me a pair of steel sabatons. We shall see the quality of your worksmanship, my boy, and perhaps I shall offer you another contract: one that promises something a tad more interesting, yes?"

Brand blinks at Zia. "Um, I know how to fly a kite?" he says. "Play a curtoll or trill? Do nice flips?"

Zia smiles, looking down at her own trill, though the line of her shoulders is stiff and tense, a good half her attention fixed on the conversation going on behind her. "Will you play with me?" she asks. "For the fun of it?"

Mareten nods his head after a moment and makes a mental note. "Ya gets it.. if da price is right me lord." The smith says after a moment.

"The price is right?" Godric answers, tilting an eyebrow. "I am not prepared to haggle with a commoner, Crashhammer. You will be amply paid, I can assure you. My family is known for our generosity and care for our inferiors."

Brand looks over to Godric, tilting his head to the side. "Well, he /has/ to know how much he's being paid, doesn't he?" he asks, before nodding to Zia with a smile. "Of course!"

Zia nods, lifting the trill to her lips and beginning a soft, slow melody and very deliberately ignoring the conversation between nobleman and smith. For now, at the least. The music is not impressive under the category of technicalities, but it does have a peculiar air about it that could almost be missed, and is more difficult in the reading.

"Wellz me lord. Just as long as ya knows Iz aint dos it for free." Mareten bobs his head.

"Mind your musical cords, Freelander!" corrects Godric. He glances sidelong, disapprovingly, at Brand. Shortly thereafter, his blue eyes rest upon Mareten. "Shall we say two thousand Imperial Kahar?"

Brand shrugs, before rolling his eyes goofily behind Godric's back, before playing along with Ziavri. To her soft, slow melody, he plays a harmony. It's a little more playful, like an undercurrent beneath the river.

Zia looks to Brand from the corners of her eyes, her glance at once smoldering, and mischievous. Breaking a minute from the melody of the trill, she murmurs to him in a low voice, "Follow me." Having set up something of an improvised intro (well, at least it's in the same key), she begins with words.

The minstrel boy to the war is gone In the ranks of death you'll find him His father's sword he has girded on And his wild harp slung behind him "Land of Song!" said the warrior bard "Though all the world betrays thee One sword at least thy rights shall guard One faithful harp shall praise thee!" 

The music is pleasant, not disharmonious to the ear, though sad, and the lyrics fitfully depressing.

Mareten shrugs his shoulders. "Dats a good starts. We talks en Iz have all da stuffs ready for ya yes me lord?" He says with a small shy smile.

"Very well," the Lomasa says to Mareten. At the sound of the music, Godric's eyes narrow. With a forceful clatter, he rolls his first into a ball and slams the steel gauntlet against the countetop. It makes a noisy racket. Turning around, he glowers at the pair of musicians. "I said something cheerful and uplifting, churls! How dare you play that insolent, crooning, and morose dribble!" Obviously, the Baron is displeased with the tone of the music.

Brand blinks at the song a moment, then follows along as Zia sings, the tune going sad and thoughtful to match her singing. He isn't really listening to Godric at the moment, just enjoying the song with closed eyes.

Zia doesn't even seem to notice Godric--either that, or she's just in the mood to test the limits. Weaving her words and melody with Brand's flute playing with experience, she continues to the next verse.

The minstrel fell--but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under The harp he loved ne'er spoke again For he tore its chords asunder And said, "No chains shall sully thee Thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were made for the pure and free They shall never sound in slavery!" 

Short, the lyrics are, and she returns to her trill to help Brand finish it off.

Mareten nods his absently then goes to sit back down. The smith looks at his lap and listens to the music.

Godric is vocal in his displeasure. Picking up a stray tankard from the bartop, he wips the container toward the musicians in an obvious show of distaste.

Brand is cut short before he ducks out of the way, scowling. "Hey! It was a pretty song, my Lord!"

The last note of the trill ends sharply and high, at once out of place and fitting for the song. Figures. Stashing the trill protectively against her, Zia ducks the flying mug. There's even a bit of a startled laugh, and when she straightens, she faces Godric with a defiant sort of dread to see what will happen next.

A waiting that seems shared by all in the tavern at this public display of rudeness. "Hey now!" calls Ristyn. "If'n ye can't hold yer ale, me lord, it's best time yer lordship be on home."

Mareten blinks at the thrown tankard and moves to stand between the music players and the Noble. "Me lord! Ummm.. .they right sorry... umm... we all just Freelanders ya knows? Aint no needs for ya get mads at us en our silly ways." He stammers out.

"Hire some new bards, innkeeper. These louts are surly, sad and talentless wastrels," Godric remarks. He drops a handful of Kahars on the counter, and looks directly at Ristyn. "Fetch me a bottle of northern red, and some lamb shanks. I hunger." Ignoring the proprietor, the Baron looks back at Mareten. "How long for the sabatons?" he asks. Apparently, his tankard outburst does not bother the Lomasa very much.

Brand blinks. "She didn't hire us," he says. "I work for Lord Esvan, and he and Master Darksteed say I play well." He shrugs, then just smiles, reaching for his ale. "That was fun, Mistress," he says to Zia with a bright, playful smile.

Zia flashes a brief grin at Brand, still holding her trill close, protectively. "Wasn't it, though?" she asks, eyes bright with both merriment... and something largely unidentifiable. That look doesn't die when she turns back to Godric, taking a tentative step closer to him and Mareten. Just in case.

Mareten exhales slowly and nods his head over at Godric. "Iz can't says me lord. As fast as I cans."

The inkeeper takes some of the money, bows, and gestures to a tavern maid to take the order to the chefs. "Lamb shanks it is, m'lord, but if ye're goin' te be tossin' drink about th' t'isn't yours t'throw, the Watch'd be havin' words wi' me if I served y'lordship more wine." He pushes the rest of the coin back to the baron. "An' they ain't workin' fer me, lordship. Just travelers like yerself, paid their meal just as your lordship did. Nobody else minded the free entertainin'."

"No one else is in this hovel is worthy of their opinion, barman," Godric remarks. He narrows his eyes upon the innkeeper. "You best watch your tongue, Master. Else one might worry that your establishment is not 'above board', yes? Rats in the cellars, and harlots in the rafters? Not quite sanitary."

Brand holds out a hand to Zia. "I'm Brand Heartwood," he introduces himself cheerfully. "Who're you?"

Zia accepts the hand, shaking it warmly, if the tiniest bit distractedly. "Ziavri Silverdew," she says, still with a bit of that peculiar smile. "But just Zia, aye?" The syllable thing really does get on her nerves. With a glance at Godric, she murmurs to Brand, "I think he may have some trouble with that. This place is well established, in a prosperous town, and fairly popular, I believe."

Mareten rubs his beard for a moment then just plops down on a stool and sits.

The innkeeper gives Godric a stern look. "I think yer lordship's had enough for one night," she says. Putting her fingers to her lips, she lets out a sharp whistle. This creates a few chuckling 'oh hos' from tavern regulars, as a few large, heavily muscled men emerge from the kitchen. "His lordship here was just leavin', lads," she says calmly, looking Godric right in the eyes. "He's had a few. Best see'm safe t'his carriage, right?"

Godric leans his spear against the countertop. His armoured hand seizes the jewelled pommel of his broadsword, and swiftly unsheaths the weapon. The flat of the blade casually touches the top several times, as if to accentuate his words, as the Baron says, "Ho now? Who do you think you are, Master? You dare threaten a man of noble blood with brigands and ruffians? This is foolish and unlawful, I shall say. And I do sternly warn you - and your bullies - that the first man who sets a hand upon my person shall mourn the lack of it."

"I'll contact the watch for you, Mistress!" Brand calls out cheerfully as he hops up and heads to the door. "Need to be getting back anyways! Good night!"

Mareten looks over at the noble and rubs his face. "Ah bullocks." The smith sighs. "Iz aints gonna makes ya nuffin me lord if ya keeps like dis." He says after a moment.

Zia offers Brand a wave as he leaves, but manages to do that without taking her eyes off Godric. Nervously touching the knife hanging at her side, she eyes the nobleman, and takes another small step... closer.

The innkeeper is not, it seems, at all intimidated, and neither are her bouncers. "M'lord," she says, calm, flat, and quiet, "Ah'm keepin' th' peace o' my tavern. Yer drink's talkin' louder'n yer blood, m'lord. Ye're throwin' me mugs about, insultin' me patrons, me tavern, an' threatenin' me. An' I've had more nobles'n yerself through 'ere an' lost nae business by it. I'm askin' ye one last time, m'lord, te leave my tavern on yer own two feet. If'n yer still here when t' Watch arrive, sure'n I'm gonna have te put a report in, an' the Duke'll nae love me fer that."

"My own two feet, you say, you pernicious harlot! This tavern reeks of filth." The last remark is directed at the surly looking thugs. Godric glances at Mareten. "I shall be lodging at my cousin's establishment whilst in Trademeet. You may find me there, Master Crashammer." He does tap his sword once more against the counter top. "Tossing threats to the nobility, yes? You belong in the Shadow District, churl!"

Mareten rubs his beard and looks down. "Okays.. Iz thinks ya should goes me lord before bad stuff happens ya knows?"

Zia relaxes slightly, now, taking her hand away from her knife and putting it safely to use rummaging about in her pack for her cleaning cloth, and then polishing the trill. Though still alert to whatever happens, things seem to be taking a favorable turn.

At the lord's lack of movement, the innkeeper's bouncers reach for him. Not, it must be said, with the rough attitude one might expect in a lower-quality establishment. Rather, they seem intent on preserving the noble's dignity.

Godric steps backward, attempting to move away from the oncoming thugs. With a flick of his wrist, he moves his sword to protect himself and keep away the nearest attacker (or 'escort'). If they are not quick enough, one of them may lose a limb!

"Bullocks." Mareten sighs to himself before he starts to back the hell away. In doing so the smith tries to play hero and place his bulky form between the sword swinging Noble and Zia. "Ummm stays back?" He says over towards her.

Zia, for her, part, makes short work of stuffing trill and cleaning rag back into her pack and shifting position to something more defendable, if need be. Her hand strays again to her knife, tentatively, uncertainly, and then disappears again into her pocket, where it makes a tense outline in the folds of her cloak. "If you do," she says to Mareten in a low voice. "I think they can handle him?"

Indeed, the innkeeper's bouncers sidestep the wild swing. And, all unarmed, attempt to wrest the man's sword from his hand. "Nah, nah, me lord," one rumbles. "Let's hae none o' that. Ye're gonna ha' enough trouble when ye wakes up t'morrow as t'is."

Godric Lomasa continues to backstep, moving slowly and with a noticable limp, away from the oncoming thugs. He makes for the doorway, keeping his front to the hired muscle and his sword poised before him. Gripping the weapon in both hands, he makes an effort to parry the attacks and beat a fighting retreat out the doorway. The Lomasa continues to swing his weapon at the men, its lethal edge covering his exit.

Godric Lomasa is being chased by two thugs. An upset bartender is behind the counter. Zia is being protected by Mareten with a drawn shortsword.

Mareten backs up and his fists ball. "This aint goods." He grunts over at Zia. "Thinks we gotta find da back door.."

And who should busy himself taking up the doorway? Why, it's ol' Otto Stonefish. The not so local fishmonger. He considers and steps back outside to keep the door closed. Being a lard butt is good for something. He puts it to use here. He whistles innocently as he leans or pulls there, trying for the nonchalant, waiting on a buddy to show up look.

Zia isn't going anywhere. Watching the action near the doors, she's certainly not about to get *closer* (she's not suicidal), but she's not about to pass up the chance to watch, either. Taking a step closer to the bar--and farther from the door-ward Godric--she wordlessly shakes her head at Mareten.

The tavern's guests are in a state of turmoil. By the fire, a group of merry drunks laugh, while more get the hell out of the way of bouncers and sword-swingin' noblemen, parting to give them plenty of a path.

The bouncer's unarmored, unarmed, and now badly injured; bleeding profusely from a gash that all but unhands him, he drops to the tavern floor with a cry. At this display of violence the tavern patrons probably would be rushing for the door, if the door weren't blocked by Otto. As it is, some rush up the stairs and the rest try to flatten themselves against the wall. Ristyn, the innkeeper, rushes around the counter to her fallen bouncer, trying to tend to his injury, while the second stands protective guard over his employer and coworker. "Ye'll answer t' the watch fer that, m'lord," he growls. "An' his grace th' Duke." But he makes no move to attack as the noble seems intent on going where they wanted him to go anyway. Rather, he's focused entirely on defense. As much as a man lacking arms or armor can be against a sword-bearing noble in full plate.

Godric reaches the door, but finds that he cannot force it open. Trapped, the Baron leans his back against the doorway and makes a fighting effort to keep the bouncing thugs at bay. His tactics take a dramatic turn: from trying to quickly exit the common room to being sealed inside! With a loud shout, he cries, "It's a trap! Assassins! You will answer for treason, witch! I will see you hung upon the Thoroughfare for hiring these ruffians to try and kill me!" He has his own logic; the two thugs, one gashed and moaning on the ground, and the other frantically standing over him, are now hired killers in Godric's eyes. He slams his armoured shoulder with force against the wooden doorway. Either he will dislodge Otto, or break the door from its hinges.

Mareten blinks a few times at the goings on and a stares for a moment before he moves quickly towards the bleeding man to provide some cover for him.

That fatbody Otto remains where he is for the time being, whistling merrily as he works on looking for a guard in the late night streets of Trademeet who just happens to be passing by the tavern at his moment of need.

Lightning quick, Zia shrugs out of her pack, leaving it abandoned at the bar as she skirts around the chaos, elbowing her way through masses of people and fumbling with the clasp of her cloak. She drops to her knees beside Ristyn, jerking the cloak up and over her head and offering it to the innkeeper. "Take that," she hisses. "Staunch the bleeding.

Calls to fetch the watch flood the tavern as the tavern guests sober enough to be scared back away from the mayhem, stumble into one another and stare, dumbfounded for what to do next. There's a lot of milling, a lot of shouting, but no one dares approach the door.

And indeed, several members of the Watch are jogging toward the Tavern doors. "Ho there!" one calls. "Word of a disturbance, good master!"

A second, rather quicker on the uptake, hears the noise from inside and adds, "Sounds like it's still goin' on, sir." He turns to Otto. "We were told there's a drunk noble causin' trouble. Better let us in, aye?"

Inside, the innkeeper's more than happy to take any measures to aid her fallen employee, doing her best to try and stop his bleeding.

Godric grunts as his shoulder strikes the door to no effect. His blue eyes move around the room, trying to locate an avenue of escape. "Murderous assassins!" curses Godric. "Shadow-cursed scum!" Convinced that he is being beset by cutthroats, the Baron turns around and raises his sword toward the door. Heaving the weapon in both hands, he hacks at the door attempting to break it to pieces.

"Bullocks. Aint doin nuffin for him nows." Mareten growls as he tries to provide as much cover as he can for those working on the fallen man with his bulky frame.

Otto is moving aside for a number of reasons - namely the pair of watchman and the sword impacting on the door he was supporting. He says to the watch types, "Ol' Otto be thinking he lost his mind. Touched by the shadow or something. Violent, even, aye, aye, sure 'nuff." He nods sidelong towards the rapidly deteriorating door as if it is some sort of proof of his warning.

Zia helps the frantic Ristyn fold the cloak over, pressing it to the wound as the bouncer moans quietly. A pool of blood is steadily spreading across the floor, following the creases of the floorboards, slicking the area and making the walking treacherous. "Don't get stabbed," Zia warns Mareten, coming up with the most logical advice she can think of while she presses the wound and tries to shut out the bouncer's groans. The milling guests aren't helping, and the likelihood that someone is going to trip or stomp someone else grows by the minute.

The Watchmen note it too, and given they've got no idea who's doing it or why, their swords are out and they *blockade* that door with blades at the ready. Anyone barreling through it - or trying to - would quickly find themselves neck deep in drawn Cutlery of Large Size. Their leader calls to the new hole in the door, "Put down your weapon! This is the Watch!"

Inside, Ristyn makes an audible sound of relief at that. "Get a healer! Aron's been hurt!"

"By the holiness of the Light, these assassins are trying to kill me!" Godric shouts out at the door upon hearing the Watch. He turns around to press his body against the wall inside the door. Reaching toward the handle, the Baron tries to swing it open. His sword is at the ready in case the unwounded thug comes at him again - or anyone else, for that matter. "By my noble birth, arrest these villains!"

The ever helpful Otto deputizes himself to get out of Dodge while mumbling something to the preoccupied watchmen about going to get that healer for poor ol' Aron.

"Aint get sworded... never though of dat." Mareten mumbles.

The watch captain nods to Otto, with a quick 'Thanks'. Then he looks into the tavern, which is full of unnerved and unhappy patrons. And at the injured man on the floor. And at the heavily armed and armored Godric. "Yes, of course, my lord, sir," he says in a bright tone that apparently his subordinates know well. "If you'll just come with us, my lord, we'll escort you to wherever you're staying. We will need a full statement from you, of course, but we can wait until your lordship has rested."

Zia laughs, sharply, caught by surprise by that remark. Her cloak is soaked in blood. So are her hands, and that pool of blood grows steadily larger, seeming minimally stopped by the wool. From somewhere towards the back of the room comes the timid, terrified voice of one of the tavern maidens, clutching her skirts close about her and watching with wide eyes. "Salt!" and then she vanishes into the kitchen.

"Yes, very well," Godric says. He sheaths the bloodied weapon with a single, swift movement. Speaking to a nearby corporal, he gestures toward his shield and spear. "Fetch my armaments, yes? I stay at my Cousin's establishment of the Hawk and Dove. Place those men - and that innkeeper - under arrest, I say. They attacked me, uttered threats against my person, and blocked my escape from this dreadful hovel. Rogues all of them!" Despite the reports about drunkeness, not a scent of alcohol is on Godric's breath. He is entirely sober. With these words, he steps out of the Tavern leaving the wailing and confused mob behind him.