Long Night In Northreach

The Wailing Wench Tavern: Tavern Hall - The Wailing Wench Tavern stands as one of the largest publican services in the Empire, acting as both a Tavern and Inn for those who wish to partake of that which it offers. A four-level structure if one counts the basement, the Wailing Wench features the main tavern hall on the ground floor, private lodging and rooms on the second floor, an as-yet unconverted loft for storage and the occasional private deal (or proverbial roll in the hay), and the previously mentioned basement, which is sealed via an exceptionally complicated lock that can only be opened by the owner, though very rarely is.

The tavern hall itself is a mostly "L" shaped affair, split between the large and equally spacious rectangular tavern itself, and the segregated kitchen area hidden in a room at to the right of the bar. That bar rests at the southern end of the "L", features a rich and polished redwood surface and counter, complete with barstools and an elegant display of hanging mugs and tankards. An uncountable number of bottles rest in wineracks that span the length of the wall behind the bar, while barrels of ale and mead stand off to the sides.

Wooden beams the shade of ecru yellow comprise the well-trodden floor, while khaki-shaded granite forms the walls, with the upper halves being paneled in wood that exists as the same colour as the floor. Redwood support beams and highlights finalize the colour scheme, giving the Wailing Wench a very rustic and inviting feel to it. Redwood tables and chairs span the length of the hall, while benches and booths line the walls to provide extra seating to those that want it.

A redwood staircase ascends in a "T" shape to the second floor via the eastern wall just next to the bar, while a performance stage ingresses from the middle of the western wall to the left of the main door that rests in the northeast of the "L".

Paintings of various busty maidens and wenches on the walls contrast against the real things that serve ale and various other pleasures - some of the flesh - to those that desire them, regardless of gender or class. Cleavage is on tap here as much as the ale, as are periods of high spirits and entertainment, and quieter times of subtle conversation and talespinning. Stained glass windows prevent the troubles of the world from getting into the establishment. -

"If everything is all right with you, my dear, then everything is all right with me." Syton says to Alainne with a chuckle. The two Freelanders are sitting side by side in front of a warm fire, each one of them with a drink in hand. The young man looks fondly on the young woman beside him. "You know how I worry. Just checking on you."

Temple
 * Though this young man may be short and thin, there is something about him
 * that speaks of an understated but powerful force of character. His narrow
 * frame stretches only five feet in height, alternating at places between
 * being smooth and bony. His skin is pale, clean, and healthy, complementing
 * the wild shock of light blond hair atop his head. Contrasting these muted
 * tones, the young man's eyes are a more vibrant shade of pure blue, alert and
 * attentive. The rest of his face is lean and angular, with a sharp jaw and
 * slightly sunken cheeks.


 * At the moment, he wears a suit of fine, dark brown leather armor. The
 * leather pads are thick and even colored, tanned to a satin-sheen, and
 * fastened tightly over a set of matching brown cloth beneath. A matching pair
 * of leather boots cover his feet, and a fingerless leather glove rests on his
 * right hand. This man's left hand, however, wears what appears to be an old,
 * but well-fitting, iron gauntlet which is covered with intricate intalgio
 * carvings.

Alainne nods, "Yes, you do know how to worry," she agrees with a laugh. "But I have learned to deal with that part of you," she adds, leaning back to sip at her tea. "I am quite unsure of what to do with you, Syton Temple."

Alainne
 * Made of a hardy mold, Alainne Woodsong is a woman of physical activity and a
 * great deal of labor. Standing at only five feet, thre inches, she is not
 * tall, but carries the look of strength. Her body is created of lean muscle,
 * and basically only muscle. There are very few curves on this woman's figure
 * - no fat, and just the bare minimals around the hips and chest area. To go
 * with the look of labor, her skin is a burned tan, bronzed from many days out
 * of doors, with a splattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her
 * hands, by the same account, are roughened from work, calloused along the
 * fingers and palms. Across her right cheek is a burn of unusual nature. It is
 * a perfect circle, as if a brand, and just freshly healed, leaving a strange
 * discoloration against her skin, very easily noticable.


 * She could be considered attractive, what with her athletic figure, and
 * pleasing enough features, but never a classical beauty. Her face is all
 * angles, with sloping cheeks and a curved chin. There is no plumpness to it,
 * nothing outside of what is necessary. If this were all there was to her,
 * then she could quite easily be considered plain. However, her eyes tend to
 * be what draw the attention. At first glance, they are a sage green, steady
 * and hard to read, however on a closer look, they prove to be a swirling
 * mixture of a dark forest green and a light steely grey. These two shades
 * come together in a mix that never blends, but creates a contrast to the
 * untrained eye of a solid shade. Her hair is a thick mass of shoulder
 * lengthed blackness, lightened by russet streaks that comes and go
 * throughout, offering a source of light. Though not completely straight, it
 * could not be considered curly either, but more of a slight wave that never
 * goes away.


 * A sage green tunic adorns the upper body of the young woman, altered for the
 * physique of a woman. It hugs at her narrow waist, and then tapers off to
 * allow for free movement. The sleeves have been cut to the spot in between
 * the wrist and elbow, allowing for free movement of the hands without any
 * disruptions. A pair of black trousers hug her hips and lower body, meant for
 * the feminine curves, but still remaining practical enough for long hours in
 * the saddle. The material, well made and cared for, is still starting to run
 * thin in places, and patched and stitched in others. A pair of worn and
 * scuffed boots protect her feet, ending mid-calf, and laced up. About her
 * throat is a silver necklace, thin and delicate in contrast to the rest of
 * the womans appearance, weighed down by a silver waterstone ring, finely
 * crafted.

"Oh? Must something be done with me, my dear?" Syton asks Alainne, looking vaguely amused. He takes a sip of his ale and leans back, getting quite comfortable in front of the fire. "If any plans come to mind, do tell. I'm rather curious."

Alainne opens her mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. She repeats the process, and after a few more attempts, she finally just "grrrs" at Temple. The leatherworker scrunches her nose up and she hands over the now empty cup that once held tea. "I think I /will/ go to bed, Syton," she says. "I will see you back there?"

In from the rain and cold comes Caprice, damp and bedraggled and wearing the tired countenance of the grossly overworked. Gloved hands snake to her cowl and draw it back before she rakes them through her hair, taming wet, wild locks in an effort to compose herself. She blows out a breath, wipes her booted feet on the mat, and threads her way through the evening crowds toward the busy bar.

Caprice
 * Fair-skinned, with a medium-long mop of wavy blonde hair and sparkling blue
 * eyes, this young woman might be called quite lovely -- though perhaps not
 * the ideal beauty bards sing of. She stands tall and square-shouldered,
 * testament to time served among the ranks of the watchmen, with lean ropes of
 * muscle elegantly defining her naturally slender figure. There's a certain
 * grace about the way she moves, effortless and unthinking, light as a feather
 * on limbs long like an antelope's. High cheekbones and slim eyebrows offset
 * the softness of her full, rosy lips, lending an almost aristocratic severity
 * to her heart-shaped face, a harshness combatted by the Mikin orchid and
 * Nepos flower tucked behind one ear.


 * Pragmatism and simplicity combine to form her protective attire, an
 * unpretentious suit of armor in black and silver whose matte finish aims to
 * minimize the light reflected without sacrificing quality. From the neck
 * down, she is armored in bronzed scale and dusky leather, the former of which
 * gives way to the latter at the joints and neck for mobility's sake. Deep
 * foresty hues in her calf-length cloak have long faded away into a grayish-
 * green which belies its frequent use, as does the odd unmended tatter along
 * the garment's tail where it brushes along her knee-high boots. Quiver and
 * longbow, both black, are slung securely across her back, but otherwise she
 * appears to be unarmed.

Syton looks generally pleased by Alainne's lack of response. He takes her empty cup and sets it on the floor in one motion, then leans over to give her a kiss on the cheek. "I will be by later. I promise. Light keep you, my dear."

Alainne smiles and nods, bending to return the kiss. "You as well, Syton," she replies, rising to her feet. "Do not be too long," she adds, tightening her cloak around her as she heads for the door.

Shouldering her way between two seated patrons -- neither of whom look especialy pleased with her intrusion, one offering a snide opinion on women in armor -- the blonde-haired archer raps a knuckle on the table to steal the proprietor's attention. "I'll hae ye stew," she calls, voice raised to carry over the din. "Wi' a touch o' warm mea' fer m' bones." That said, she glances sidelong at the loose-tongued fellow, eyeing him critically. "Manners, lad," she chides. "Lear' some."

"I won't be long," Syton says to Alainne happily. He finishes the rest of his ale, then turns to watch Alainne depart. Once she is out of sight, he rises to his feet and stretches lengthily. The young Freelander gathers up the two empty cups and turns to head for the bar. He's got a bit of a bounce in his step, at the moment.

Alainne casts one final glance to Temple from over her shoulder before she smiles, tugging the hood of her cloak up to cover her as she steps out into the elements once more.

A cool breeze follows Thayndor Zahir into the tavern, and the nobleman pulls his cowl back from his face before weaving through the crowded tavern towards a corner table.

Thayndor Zahir
 * A little over twenty, this young man's skin is weathered and tanned from
 * exposure to the elements. He has dark green eyes, brooding under expressive
 * eyebrows and long eyelashes; high-set cheekbones and a thin, straight nose
 * add to the angular set of his features. The bullish line of his jaw adds a
 * fierce, aggressive quality to his face, belied by his stature and
 * comportment. Tall with a thin, athletic build, his limbs and fingers are
 * long and slim. He moves fluidly, as if each step was artfully rehearsed.


 * Finely crafted links of obsidian shimmer darkly, close-fitting, over his
 * torso, intermeshing with dark leather plates at his chest and shoulders. The
 * obsidian ringmail protects his arms, supporting spaulders, splints and
 * bracers of the same deep auburn leather. Fingerless leather gloves protect
 * his hands, the knuckles reinforced with obsidian. As he walks, dark tassets
 * shift over black leather pants.


 * Emblazoned on a bold violet tabard worn over the ringmail is the sigil of a
 * raven perched atop crossed rapiers. Tucked into the spaulders at his
 * shoulders, a deep violet cloak clasped with a raven-shaped brooch billows
 * out behind him. At his hips are a scabbard with the ornate crossguard of a
 * sabre, and a sheath with the more functional hilt of a knife. Peeking from
 * under his cloak is a leather flap that could only belong to a sheath for a
 * longbow housed in a quiver on his back.


 * On his right cheek is a tattoo: a circle outlined in black, one half white,
 * the other as ebony as the outline of the circle.

"Dresses, lass," the man snorts back, eyeballing Caprice right back. "Wear some."

Struck by the gall of the comeback, Reese hisses a short, mirthless chuckle through bared teeth, her only response. Tact and civility defeat any urges to plant a boot square in his chest, despite the chortles that erupt from the other men within earshot, and she simply hardens her blue-eyed gaze before averting it altogether. She turns away, annoyed, arms crossed on polished redwood.

"A bath, brother," comes another feminine voice from down the bar. "Take one." Shar Ashleather, wearing Darkwater garb as she sits at the far end of the bar, raises her head and her ale in toast.

Syton's attention wanders away from the door, eventually settling on the bar ahead of him. He steps up next to Caprice and drops his empty cups on the counter, seemingly oblivious to the nearby gender dispute. "I'll have another ale, barkeepstress," Syton calls to Jessamin, who only vaguely recognizes that she was spoken to. As he waits for his order, the young man's attention begins to wander again. Curiously, it falls upon Caprice, though he doesn't say anything to greet her at the moment.

Thayndor Zahir chuckles as the woman wearing the same sigil he bears on his tabard gets involved in the argument at the bar, but rather than settle there -- perhaps he does not see Temple -- he moves past the group and towards a table at the rear.

Evidently, Reese approves of Shar, lifting her own glass in silent acknowledgment and sending a crooked grin along with it as the bar explodes into hoots and laughter around them. With, it should be noted, the exception of the fellow who started it all in the first place. When she turns, breaking away from the counter to search out a seat, folds of her cloak peel away to reveal a mongoose embossed over her heart. Her gaze meets Syton's for a moment, and a slender brow lifts, but in the next instant it flits away.

A moment of eye contact is all that Syton needs to chime in. "Don't listen. They're overrated," he says to Reese, nodding in firm agreement with himself. He might have intended for there to be more, but his ale arrives just then to distract him. He takes a long sip of the ale, then smacks his lips appreciatively.

Shar's eyebrow rises at the mongoose sigil. When she turned to face Caprice, the raven filigreed in silver over her chainmail was clearly visible. She takes a slow sip of ale and sets the mug down, watching Caprice without malice or judgement.

Thayndor Zahir, for his part, remains out of the way in the shadows of one corner of the tavern.

"M' ears are deaf t' fool's talk," the archer assures Syton, adding with a cool half-smile, "Donnae hear much, these days." Then she's zigzagging at an unhurried, casual pace through the bodies and chairs and general confusion to a table catty-corner from Thayndor. It's littered with a dirty glass and a wadded cloth napkin, but she brushes them aside without a care, placing them in easy view of any servers coming up the aisles. Caprice is the one who just sat down near Thayndor. Temple's near the bar.

The cold air can be felt through the tavern for a brief moment as the door opens and closes, and a young woman makes her way into the Tavern. A gold circlet adorns the twist of dark curls and accents the excellently made green velvet dress of Gabriella Seamel. Her cheeks bear the brightness of chill or drink, and her hands carefully smooth her gown while she glances about the tables, looking for a familiar face of some type.

Gabriella
 * Here stands a noblewoman, no higher than five feet tall with bones as small
 * as they are fine. Her face gives a childish appearance; eyes of bright
 * violet framed by thick lashes; high cheekbones are accented by pale skin and
 * her lips are full, rosy in color. The girl's age, however, is belied by the
 * fullness of her breasts and hips, and one may rightfully assume she must be
 * in her late teens. Thick, curly, dark brown hair tumbles down her back,
 * ending at her thighs. And, although her mane is obviously washed and well
 * kempt, it wanders, with a few strands always resting against her cheek.


 * A simple red tunic falls to her thighs, grey diamonds sewn into as a means
 * of decoration. Her trousers are of a pale brown color, hugging the girl's
 * curves, and are tucked securely into a pair of well-made black boots. The
 * laces are done tightly, and the footwear shows little use. The black cloak
 * covers most of her form, the hood a pool of thick black fabric. A signet
 * ring bearing the symbol of the Seamel house adorns her right thumb.

Thayndor Zahir gives Caprice a brief glance before raising a hand to flag a waitress. He orders in quiet tones, a Noble caring not for the travails of freelanders around him.

Syton accepts his ale happily. After taking a stiff drink, he spins about to lean his rear end against the counter. The young Freelander scans the room as he takes another sip from his drink. Blue-gray eyes slide from table to table alertly, seeming to pause for a bit longer on Thayndor's table, and again as they find Reese for the second time. In the end, however, his attention falls upon the recently arrived Seamel. Drink in hand, the young Master Temple watches her curiously from the bar.

There isn't a familiar face in Reese, unfortunately. She glances up when the stew arrives, blue eyes lighting upon the newly-entered nobility for the briefest of moments before attention diverts to coming up with coin for the meal. The busty little barmaid nods politely and smiles, bussing the dirty dishes and stepping around to attend to the Zahir, while again the lady ranger finds Shar at the bar. Should she steal the woman's notice, she summons her with an upward nod.

When the Duchess' eyes land upon the face of an old friend, she blinks in shock for a moment. Gabriella tries to hide her obvious surprise with a quick smile that melts into genuine warmth as she approaches the table of the Zahir, her slippers moving with an odd grace.

Thayndor Zahir lifts his eyes at the sound of approaching footsteps, and both eyebrows raise as the Noble Mage recognizes the newcomer. "M'lady," he says. "-This- is certainly a surprise." Thayndor rises to greet Gabriella.

Syton exhales lengthily, watching Gabrielle approach Thayndor with some idle interest. Not content to be idle for long, the young Freelander quickly finishes his ale before returning his tankard to the bar. He straightens up, tugs at his armor briefly, then turns to head for the door. The young Freelander pushes the door open and slips out into the rainy night.

"Gabby," Gabriella reminds, reaching a hand out in the fashion appropriate for her attire and station. Her eyes, however, twinkle with a mischevious glow. "I do detest that title and all that goes with it." There is a pause, and her eyes investigate the man's face. "And indeed, a surprise it is."

Thayndor Zahir takes the hand in a manner appropriate for his own. "I tend to surprise people simply by staying alive, it seems," Thayndor replies with a chuckle. "Please, join me for a glass of wine. I was just taking a drink before I retire for the night."

"Ah, you'll have to excuse me," Gabriella laughs as she moves towards a chair, winking at the Noble Mage. "I'm afraid its an ale sort of night, but I'll join you while you have your glass of wine, m'lord. And how have you been faring in Duhnen's newfound hold?"

It's the name that sticks in Reese's ear, and she tries her hand at a surreptitious once-over of the renegade noble over a heaping spoonful of steaming-hot gravy-drenched venison and rice. Still, she minds her place, quietly eating while keeping an ear trained on the conversation.

"Well enough as can be expected," Thayndor replies, though his eyebrow threatens to spasm as he says it. "I would rather be on the river. I would rather be in the Mastery of my keep than spend weeks in a tavern room. But so far I have not suffered for lack of good company." The Zahir waits for Gabby to sit before joining her, and the waitress brings him his glass of wine.

This causes Gabriella to look on the man quietly for a moment while seating herself, her hand tugging her velvet skirts into place. "I cannot say I know your pain," she answers with a little shrug. "I am afforded what you are not. All I can say is Duhnen hopes to change things."

Thayndor Zahir smirks a thin, sad smirk. "As do we all," he replies. "In due time. How are your children?" He asks, lifting his wine to his lips.

"Well enough.. growing every day," Gabriella answers with a bright smile. She lifts a hand to wave over the waitress. "Eden is so big now, and the twins are talking. I imagine we'll have another on the way, soon enough. And yourself, have you found a good woman?"

If Reese was planning on a nice meal and some quiet eavesdropping, well... she doesn't get it. Not three bites into her bowl, she is interrupted -- and rudely -- by the same man she'd butted heads not ten minutes before. He's considerably more red-faced now, fuming in the wake of his humiliation, and slams both meaty hands down on the opposite sides of her table. She starts, flinching, shaken out of her reverie, and draws back as he leans in to demand where she feels she gets off, speaking to her betters like that. Cue the staring and sniggers from patrons seated around the scene.

Thayndor Zahir sets his wine down, looking astonished. "Such a creature exists?" he asks, seemingly in earnest. "Can you tell me where I might go to --" And the interruption jars him from his sarcasm.

Across the bar, Shar eases forward on her stool, one hand languidly descending towards the shortsword at her waist. It takes her a split second to glance across the room at Thayndor, a question unspoken in her eyes.

The Zahir looks from Shar to the man confronting Caprice, then back. It would be easy to miss the motion of his chin going back and forth, a negative gesture. It would be easier still to miss the two fingers he holds near his thigh, tips pointing towards the ceiling, pushing towards the Deeper.

Shar's jaw sets forward and she leaves one hand casually draped over the hilt of her sword.

"Oh, Light," Gabriella mutters under her breath as she looks between the Zahir and commoner. "The day I forget my knife and wear a dress." Still, the noblewoman remains seated and even eyes the nobleman's glass of wine.

Reese is remarkably calm in the face of drunken rage, though she's careful to keep herself out of arm's reach. "Sun sa' ye tongue, milord, les' drink spoil 't wi' sin," she tells him carefully, her tone measured, even. "As' yesel' whit ye weel r'gret come th' morn, aye?"

Her courteous attempts at smoothing the situation over are rewarded with the stew upended into her lap and a direct, icy gaze. A wordless, unmistakable challenge.

Reese's chair squeaks when she rises, glops of cooked meat and vegetables slopping from meticulously polished scale. She meets his gaze, unflinching, but exercises grace again, albeit with a bite to her words. "Say't 'gain, milord," she warns, "Tis yer own honor ye soil."

"Excuse me," Thayndor says to Gabriella, rising. His voice raises to a booming pitch perhaps suited for addressing a Mastery full of servants. "Someone had mentioned his betters," the Zahir observes, voice cutting through the room. "Well, then: We have arrived, and you are interrupting our evening drink." Thayndor takes a single step forward and rests a hand on the hilt of a sabre at his hip, revealing both the weapon and the prominent raven sigil on his chest. "You will return to your seat, Freelander, or you will leave the tavern and not return tonight. And, if you must continue this squabble, you will do it outside the limits of this town. Your only other option will be very painful, and afterwards you may not be able to find work. Do you understand me, commoner? Or should I draw you a picture?"

Gabriella reaches for the glass of wine previously belonging to the Zahir, takes a sip, and then stands. She's much less formidable, and she's actually quite cheery, but she makes herself heard well enough. With a sigh, she begins her speech. "Gentleman, mistress.." she begins, waving a hand while she takes another sip of the wine. "I speak with the voice of the Duchess Gabriella Seamel. I guarantee that should something unpleasant interrupt my night of debauchery, there will be one more eunuch in this world. Its getting near branding season, and I need to practice my husbandry skills anyways. I assure you, the Duke will not argue with his Lady wife and and her delivery of justice, either." When the woman finishes, she empties the cup and sets it, delicately, down on the table.

Well, if nothing else, all that lengthy exposition on the part of the named nobility gets both parties to concentrate on something else for a while. Where the sot appears deflated, broiling in silent anger as he bows an apologetic head and withdraws toward the bar again, Reese seems ashamed. The archer dips her head politely, blue eyes pointedly fixing themselves on a seam in the hardwood floor. "Beggin' yer pardon, milord, milady," she demures, quiet and still for a handful of seconds before turning to collect the bow from the ground.

"Now that's settled," Thayndor says quietly, giving Reese a brief glance but not a response, "Where were we?" The Zahir rests a hand on the back of his chair, apparently waiting for the Duchess to take her seat.

"I hate throwing weight around," Gabriella tells the nobleman, giving him a wink before motioning to the empty cup. "I'm afraid you can't leave good drink around a Lomasa, m'lord. You'll learn soon enough."

Attempts made on Reese's part to collect the fragments of her dignity more or less fail when a search around her table turns up no fresh napkin. Exasperation manifests on her fair face, self-control restricting it to a set jaw and a hard crease in the forehead. She sighs, short and sharp, in and out through the nose with only the slightest pump of her spauldered shoulders, and strides across the room with deer meat on her legs and chin lifted high. Her figure vanishes into the crowd on the far side of the bar.

Thayndor Zahir laughs. "Perhaps that's my cue to retire, then," he replies. "I apologize to end the night on such a sour note ... Gabby ... but the hour is growing late, and the party appears to be over."

- Return to Season 6 (2007)