lickquidsecksy
Really Experienced
- Joined
- May 13, 2020
- Posts
- 255
Garrul fastidiously wiped glasses as the rain pattered softly outside. It made music as it traced its way down wooden boards and planks, dripped off of awning into puddles, and steadily beat the mud and shit from the road outside into a soft, wet slush.
The inn was empty at the moment. Word gets around after all.
Garrul placed a glass on a white cloth he'd spread over the bar and drew another from a bucket of soapy water. He sighed sadly as he scrubbed the already clean glass, rinsed it, and placed it next to its mate. The inn was too quiet. He missed the noise of his last crew.
Dungeoneering is a dangerous thing, but for the far-flung farming communities of Meridia, it is the only job available aside from planting a crop and hoping it sustains you for the winter. For many young adventurers, it is a calling. Any city without high walls could simply...disappear in a goblin raid or after a failed burial. Some became adventurers because they had no choice.
Reaching back into the bucket, Garrul drew out a slender wine flute. It was inscribed with elvish and hummed slightly as he turned it over in his hand, as if it knew it were being admired and were proud of itself. Garrul could not read english, but when the owners name glowed, he spoke it aloud.
The elf had been arrogant and proud, every inch what you'd expect an elf to be. However, he was fiercely loyal and protective of all his team. He pretended to be above it all, but he easily started as many bar fights as he'd been supposedly "dragged into" by his subordinates.
When the other teams finally found them, they said he was on top of a pile of goblin corpses, blocking the room where they found the others.
"Damn, fool...kids," Garrul said. He tried to cover, but his voice broke on the last syllable. He wished he'd never inherited this bar, he wished he'd never given them that mission, he wished he'd never become a broker.
Gently drying the wineglass, Garrul placed it on a shelf above the bar's expensive
liquor, between the thiefs shot glass and the dwarfs mug. Then, unable to stand the silence of the room any longer, the old Minotaur stepped out from behind the bar to wipe already-clean tables.
It was then that the door to the Inn opened, bringing with it the wind and rain from the storm outside.
The inn was empty at the moment. Word gets around after all.
Garrul placed a glass on a white cloth he'd spread over the bar and drew another from a bucket of soapy water. He sighed sadly as he scrubbed the already clean glass, rinsed it, and placed it next to its mate. The inn was too quiet. He missed the noise of his last crew.
Dungeoneering is a dangerous thing, but for the far-flung farming communities of Meridia, it is the only job available aside from planting a crop and hoping it sustains you for the winter. For many young adventurers, it is a calling. Any city without high walls could simply...disappear in a goblin raid or after a failed burial. Some became adventurers because they had no choice.
Reaching back into the bucket, Garrul drew out a slender wine flute. It was inscribed with elvish and hummed slightly as he turned it over in his hand, as if it knew it were being admired and were proud of itself. Garrul could not read english, but when the owners name glowed, he spoke it aloud.
The elf had been arrogant and proud, every inch what you'd expect an elf to be. However, he was fiercely loyal and protective of all his team. He pretended to be above it all, but he easily started as many bar fights as he'd been supposedly "dragged into" by his subordinates.
When the other teams finally found them, they said he was on top of a pile of goblin corpses, blocking the room where they found the others.
"Damn, fool...kids," Garrul said. He tried to cover, but his voice broke on the last syllable. He wished he'd never inherited this bar, he wished he'd never given them that mission, he wished he'd never become a broker.
Gently drying the wineglass, Garrul placed it on a shelf above the bar's expensive
liquor, between the thiefs shot glass and the dwarfs mug. Then, unable to stand the silence of the room any longer, the old Minotaur stepped out from behind the bar to wipe already-clean tables.
It was then that the door to the Inn opened, bringing with it the wind and rain from the storm outside.