Post by Joliette Thorne on Aug 28, 2008 2:12:09 GMT -5
Brelith burst through the doors, muttering disjointed rants toward noone in particular. His movements were erratic, spasmodic, the persistant twitches and tremors tossing his half-head of dirty hair across his decayed features. In his hands he wrenched a piece of dark cloth, as he did the days earlier, occasionally hiding it from sight of wandering eyes.
The bar's thick crowd was a shifting sea of faces, a multitude of creatures and capers colliding in one giant and sordid place. The newcomer had made his home along a stretch of the granited bar, his strong arms occupied by a particularly lovely tavern girl. Her tray was empty, but it mattered very little. Great volumes of coins came from his pockets and towards her, paying her for her company as he and a pair of men shared sharply cued laughter. Unnaturally, perhaps, the stoic Steadman is partaking. His laughs perhaps the longest and the hardest as he keeps the ale pouring for this raucous quartet. The leader of it all is hard to miss, a massive male of brutish proportions. The great box of his shoulders gives to a barreled chest, the waist remarkably trim. The great arms of him display a gentle respect that their corded muscles would not suggest. The moor is a man of the ebon-skin, a deep and night-dark that lightens only on the pads of his thick fingers. Full lips crown his face, but pay a supporting role to a pair of frosty, malachite eyes. His head is a handsome shape and shaved clean, revealing a single tattoo at the base of his skull. A rose, twisted in thorns.
Tenebrae's voice was a husky whisper, throttled throat showing nothing of it's purple and black reality through the collar drawn around it, the cowl raised over her shattered face. "Steadman. Whisky." The keep wasn't listening; even if he was, he'd have a time of hearing her over all the laughter. Tenebrae waited. And waited. The bar was a bustle, business was good. But she needed a whisky now, more than she ever had. Her one unbroken hand was employed in tipping the peanuts from a wooden bowl. This was promptly thrown at the one-eyed man. It'd do nothing so dramatic as harm him, merely thunking dully against his shoulder. "I said... " She'd use the ensuing silence to make her point. "I should very much like a whisky."
It wasn't Steadman that served or answered then, but the Moor. A warmth touching his features as he shuffled a glass across the stone counter and before her. There was an inherent ease about him, a welcoming confidence that rumbled through his heavy words as he spoke them with a faint laugh across the bar. "So polite, Miss Tenebrae. And in your own bar. Allow me to pay you twice and offer this one."
He didn't appear to have any problem making his way through the crowd, his rather obvious volatility caused others to instinctively shuffle away, where he could be mocked out of earshot. Twice Brelith stumbled over his own feet as he walked, though managed to right himself before his bony jaw made contact with the ground. The cloth was again used to wipe the spittle from his chin, shadowy tendrils clinging to his maw long after the rag was removed and wrapped around his right hand.
Tenebrae might have looked past the stranger to shoot the evasive Steadman a venomous glare, did not that act require more motion than she was willing or able to make, just then. Her descent from the rooms above had been difficult, and it wasn't anything but sheer and innate stubborness that had brought her here at all. "Thankyou," she said, with an air of resignation, dipping her head so that her bruises and cuts would remain hidden from him. This too had the effect of removing the sight of him, for the most part. She'd nod, toward his large hands. "Most obliged. And .. how is you know me?" The other stranger would, for now, remain unnoticed; her peripheral vision blocked by thick cloth.
"Hard to do business in this town without getting to know a bit about you. You've a reputation. And what happened to you in that Fountain isn't exactly a secret. How bad was it?" There was a simple honesty in the way he spoke, but that hardly made him simple. His pale eyes flickered with a rare and noted intelligence, a cunning of sorts that he made no attempt to conceal. Infact, his open curiosity was so ungarnished that it could easily be perceived as genuine. The waitress on his lap had grown uncomfortable lounging with Tenebrae so near, and she rose with an easy assist of his strong arms. They guided the wench without effort or hesitation, allowing him to turn and face the hooded woman the moment his lap was entirely vacant. "Much better."
Brelith chews on his tongue, occasionally to the point where the muscle is punctured. His voice muffled by the chewing, he continued blowing air into incoherent sentences. He reached over seated patrons, snatching a handful of their purchased food and stuffed it into his mouth. Truly he was the king of his world, albeit the only one living in it.
Tenebrae gave the girl a look that might've curdled milk, though it sadly went unregarded courtesy of the cloak. Her words were, however, not for the wench, whose tenure at the bar was new, and now short. "I lived." Her unsplinted hand curled around the glass, the liquor disposed of with a tilt of her head that would, for a moment, reveal some of her injuries' extent: one eye almost enclosed by navy-blue and scarlet flesh, the cut on it still seeping. The cheek below it splintered, healing now but thick with bruising. Her lips, stinging with the rough whisky, swollen and hideously split in four places. The rest of her mien was hardly recognisable as belonging to her pale race, for there was barely an inch of it not marked by contusion of gash. Worst, perhaps, was the long, bone-deep gouge that ran from the top of her left eyebrow and down the cheek, stitching drawing closed the wound that promised a scar. "And who are you?" Her fingernails were still ragged, and thier fingers pinched a fold of fabric, hastily recovering her features.
Garron allowed his eyes to cut a swift path through the shadows of that cowl, not bothering to conceal his curiosity. They raked what flesh was bared, all the awful wounds and horrid marks that made their way upon once pristine features. He tsked faintly, but audibly, before bothering to answer. The drink in his hand was idle a moment, caught in the grip of those massive hands. "They call me 'Good Day', which is about as close as you'll get to having one anytime soon by the looks of it." More quietly now, the addendum soon concealed by a lift of his tankard. He knew she'd hear him, but the others were spared the brief concession. "They're still finding bodies about this place, I heard. You did a good thing.”
Brelith continued his meandering course through the bar, shoved away every time he'd snatch a portion of a meal. Eventually he'd find himself at the bar, chattering away about the conversations he'd had with the peanuts, which were shortly thereafter consumed.
Tenebrae peeled back the cowl, the eyes that peered through stray scarlet-and-black strands and a swell of punch-darkened skin sharp on the man. "Every day I'm not in Hell's a good day... Mr. Good Day. Steadman..." Her attention went to the strangely jovial keep, who was less jovial now his employer had arrived. "Bring me the bottle." She remarked nothing about the days prior, waiting for her drink, and studying the blatant man opposite with something akin to the eye a trader gives a horse too restless for his liking.
"Grim." The assertion was washed away by a tip of his tankard, the contents swirling between full lips and fading. "I dockhand." The information was offered freely as his hand drew the tankard to the counter, eyes warming faintly as they settled onto Tenebrae's shattered features. To a stranger's eye there was little way to know she was once a stunning beauty, but it appeared that 'Good Day' was no stranger. His eyes traced her features with the quiet warmth of appreciation, measuring beneath the wounds that crossed the woman's face and seemingly through them. "Nothing as fancy as your folks sail, but they get the job done."
Brelith frowns for no justifiable reason, the skin hanging loosly from his part-exposed skull furrowed across the brow. His split tongue thrashed about inside his mouth, catching loose nut fragments and dragging them toward his throat. He'd take a moment to return Tenebraes stare in between quirks and twitches, and reached through her shroud with a bony finger to stroke her wounds, "Not dead, praaaise the dock-tor. GooOOOoooOOogly Brain did a good job. Brelith "
Tenebrae's right brow performed the obligatory arc, eliciting a wince of regret that could have gone on ad infinitum, for the way her flesh complained at every twitch. "They?" He'd done his homework. Had zeroed in on her. Seemed confident. 'Mr. Trouble' more like, she thought, pouring herself another from the bottle Steadman deposited in front of her, before taking back to the gathering he'd been so entertained with. Which did not escape her, either. The wracking of her ribs was doing nothing for her demeanour. The ebon-skinned man had the bottle nudged his way once she'd drained her glass once, and then again. "Where're you employed?"
Abruptly, the vampiress winced again, as salty fingers probed her tender wounds. "G'roff!" It hurt like blazes to snap her gaze the undead’s way, and her glass was gripped hard, as if it were the weapon it'd shortly become. Though what, exactly she was going to do to the man in her state was beyond her. Urghdak, in a like state of face, if not of body, took a menacingstep forward, poised like a great mastiff to do his duty at her word.
Garron seemed to consider this, but only before he could claim the bottle. He left the rim for Tenebrae's swollen lips, merely tipping the contents into his mug before settling the vessel back before the haggard vampriss. "I suppose you could say I go where the money is. We gotta take what comes, don't we?" There was an obvious smile now, even as he spread his hands along the bar's counter. "And they, meaning the ships I've been on."
Brelith 's head bobbed from the Sin Eater to the guard, then back to Tenebrae. "Ain't a fight." He smacked his lips again, lubricating his rasping speech, "Green won't fight the black." He smirked, flailing the dirty cloth at the half-orc, taunting the battered bouncer, "Aint red, but you won't fight the black! Knows better..." He dug his grubby fingers into the bowl of snacks a second time, chewing loudly through his ranting.
Tenebrae said to Urghdak, "Remove this fool, please." Urghdak Trollson needed no further encouragement to make a sweeping, claw-tipped lunge for Brelith.
Lynn moved inside, returning to work after awhile of being gone from these land. Tying her raven tressed up into a bun, leaving some strands to hang about the curves of her visage. She stands behind the counter, cringes her nose and quickly cleans it off. Speaking a bit loudly so the patrons may hear her, "Does anyone need anything? A refill?"
Tenebrae gave Lynn a hard look. "Get out from behind that bar. Now."
Lynn blinks, and moves out from behind such. Looking at her, "Something wrong?"
Garron remains silent then, his drink settled before him.
Tenebrae nodded. "Your'e not employed here." Her scowl hurt her face, only souring her mood further. "Now bugger off."
Lynn blinks, "Since when? Eilyo hired me awhile back, but I have been gone. Just now returned, madame. She told me I was hired."
"Neither is Eilyo employed here, nor was she entitled to hire..." All the talking was making her jaw ache, "... anyone, without my approval. Kindly remove youself."
Lynn nods, "I apologize for the trouble. If you ever are looking to hire, I wouldlove to work for you." she places a rose infront of the lady.
Tenebrae left the flower where it lay. "I doubt it." The necromancer was irritable, obviously.
The difference in size between Urghdak and his putrefied target was immense, to say the least. Though he'd spent enough time consorting with 'the black' to properly know his limits. Brelith lept upon the counter, shoulders hunched forward, beating his brittle chest in a display of ill-deserved machismo. Slowly the bouncer made his way through the crowd, and as he'd approach the tramp would respond. His napkin, or what was being used as one, was pulled over his squalid features, stains of food and drool not at all detracting from the menace which would ensue. His body, for years decomposing beneath the soil, found itself somewhat renewed as 'the black' coursed across his being, covering his flesh with a skin of the shadows. The bouncer grunted with dissatisfaction as he neared the tramp. Though Brelith was much smaller in stature than the former catastrophe, his will would remain unchanged.
His mother was a trollish whore renowned for killing and eating the warped souls who'd pay for ugly, if exotic, flesh. His father was an orc so miserably treacherous and vile as to be banished from even that rough society. Together, they had made a horror of a son, and it was this being that bunched his thighs like massive pistons to make a leap for the masked undead. Tene, the issue of staff corrected, shifted her body painfully to watch while Urghdak, at the signal of her hand, overcame whatever trepidation that was - existing or not - percieved upon him, to spread wide, a great, hairy and crushing embrace intended to bring the interloper down from his bartop pedestal.
Tenebrae said, aside to Garron, "It never ends." There'd be a look of mild amusement, if he could catch it glimmering from her beaten eyes. The vampiress looked suddenly weary, that light fading now, and she tucked her cloak about herself again.
The crowd made a wide circle, affording plenty of room as Urghdak frolicked into the fray. It would end, of that Garron "Good Day" Hassat was certain. A brief look to the inn's abandoned stair was afforded, pale eyes glinting harshly under the dim light as he spoke over the clammer to the woman beside him. His frame dwarfed her own, and yet his mannerisms were cultured and his words nimbly spoken. "Show a man around?"
Tenebrae wisped aside her cowl. "Yeah. I'd do a little dance for you too, but..." The cough that shuddered her frame was caught by the back of her hand and lowered, spotted with blood. "I'm wearing the wrong shoes."
Unless she fought him, Tenebrae would find that his great size concealed a remarkable quickness to him. The great scoop of his arms meant to gather her beneath the knees and about the back, secure and soft beyond most measure. It was a comfort born of his strength, the great ease of how he lifted her allowing him to focus entirely upon her comfort. Perhaps, if anything was truly frightening, it was how terribly sure his hands were as they found uninjured places. No hesitation, simple knowledge or disconcern. He showed no worry of harming her. "Here's to shamelessly making friends with the boss."
Brelith howled as nimble legs launched him skyward, away from the brutish assail. At the apex of his flight, ebon slime would gather at his fingertips, forging wicked, viscous claws which would soon become as hard as stone. Now gravity would have its way, stealing the ghouls momentum away to thrust him toward the beast which stood between he and the hardwood floor, where mutated appendages would sink into the green flesh of Urghdaks right shoulder. There he remained, hanging and clawing at his agressor, every effort made to prevent his dismount.
Tenebrae wasn't in any state to argue with anyone; the way he lifted her, his apparent good intentions- she'd just have to trust Garron, seeing as her "lift" to the floors above was currently playing pony for a madman. "Don't get grabby on me." The warning was wry, Tene inwardly cringing about the state she was in. Helplessness was not her forte. Her next words were gentler, almost a plea, as she supressed another agonising cough. "Upstairs, on the right. If you'd be s'kind."
Garron had smothered most of his smile as they ascended, his feet sure and unhurried as he navigated the landing. His words match Tenebrae's tone, sweeter if only on the bass of his voice, and keyed on by the steady glint fashioned in his pale eyes. Against an ebon canvas they were notedly intense, a cutting malachite that stood against the darkness of his face. But even these could be softened with his smiles, big and wondrous things that stretched features that could be equally ferocious into a harmless, teddy's smile. "I'd heard you were quite the looker, Tenebrae, but to be honest I'm a little disappointed. Won't have to worry about me getting handsy."
Tenebrae spared him a stony look that was only half a joke, trusting him only so far as he seemed to not want her dead. Immediately, at any rate, which was something of a relief from the fear she faced and hidden of late. "Dockhand. It shows, in your arms." She added, "Your strength, I mean. It's hard work."
Garron afforded the most minute of nods, though it was the laughter that served as quiet affirmation. "Does it? What if I merely made a habit of carrying women away?" He turned from her then, those frosty eyes wandering the room's decorative interior. "Must have cost you a small fortune."
She might've shrugged, but the gesture was impossible. "I had it rebuilt, twice, to boot. This place is often a target for the righteous and the greedy, in equal measure. But it's impolite to talk of coin with strangers, I shall not bother you with it." He'd feel her shrinking in on herself, the efforts of her sojourn below starting to take thier toll in the most demanding way. "On the bed, Mr. Good Day. I am.. in need of rest."
Garron settled the sleek-framed woman against the bed's heavy covers, watching as a mattress all but cradled her. He'd never known such a thing. All he knew is that beneath his powerful arms it felt heavenly soft. The words left him even as he stood from her, looking down on her with a brief spark flashing through the pale cast of his eyes. The nature of it was hinted at only by his words. "Tenebrae, I need to confess something."
Neither could she huff the sigh that was drawn only a shallow, pained breath. Here it comes, she thought; chivalry was something too good to be genuine, in any male she'd known, since... A hurried reply cut off the thought. "Speak on, Mr. Good Day. Though if you'll kill me, make it hasty. I'd almost be thankful, to have an end to this pain."
Garron spoke evenly, and without humor now. But these were not grim things, and he didn't approach them as such. Instead, he watched her, looming over her from the bedside. "Killing you would be bad for business. You've managed to build yourself something special here, Tenebrae. I respect you for it. But I'm going to be doing what I can to make as much gold as I can, and it may interfere with your operation from time to time. It's just business, it isn't personal. If I could avoid it, I would, but you've gotten so big and have your hands in so many things... this entire town for one, that I don't have much an option except to work for you." He paused at that, as if to give her some small but poignant concession. "And it's not something against you, but that's just not how I envisioned things. I thought it fair to tell you."
Tenebrae nodded, and did not at all hide the fact she found it regretful he'd proven her at least half-right. "Very well." It was curt, and she did not meet his glacial eyes for long. "Now, if you'll leave me to my rest?"
Garron made the door in a series of measured strides, only to hesitate. A great hand lifted, poised along the framework. This was spoken over a shoulder, steady and direct. "I don't like it when people get hurt, but our business is a hard business. Even at our best sometimes we can't control other people. But I meant what I said, and I am not looking for blood. I hope that even at the worst between us everyone goes home. So, heal up. Get well. And if you want I've got a card game that goes once the week has passed. A few small time boys with some ambitions play. We all brawl about over the same scrap of docks, but at the end of the day there's not a lot of hate between us. Might do you well to see what the life's like a little closer to the ground. I'd be happy to buy you a few more drinks. Rest easy."
"I've spent enough of my time on the ground, let alone near it," she wanted to say, but the retort wouldn't rise, her will sapped of the desire. Instead she replied, We'll see." and made the effort to ease herself into a semblance of less pain. Live to fight another day. The old maximum made her more tired, even as it passed her thoughts and faded into the cloud of sleep that called her. If he left then, she wouldn't see it through closed lids.
The bar's thick crowd was a shifting sea of faces, a multitude of creatures and capers colliding in one giant and sordid place. The newcomer had made his home along a stretch of the granited bar, his strong arms occupied by a particularly lovely tavern girl. Her tray was empty, but it mattered very little. Great volumes of coins came from his pockets and towards her, paying her for her company as he and a pair of men shared sharply cued laughter. Unnaturally, perhaps, the stoic Steadman is partaking. His laughs perhaps the longest and the hardest as he keeps the ale pouring for this raucous quartet. The leader of it all is hard to miss, a massive male of brutish proportions. The great box of his shoulders gives to a barreled chest, the waist remarkably trim. The great arms of him display a gentle respect that their corded muscles would not suggest. The moor is a man of the ebon-skin, a deep and night-dark that lightens only on the pads of his thick fingers. Full lips crown his face, but pay a supporting role to a pair of frosty, malachite eyes. His head is a handsome shape and shaved clean, revealing a single tattoo at the base of his skull. A rose, twisted in thorns.
Tenebrae's voice was a husky whisper, throttled throat showing nothing of it's purple and black reality through the collar drawn around it, the cowl raised over her shattered face. "Steadman. Whisky." The keep wasn't listening; even if he was, he'd have a time of hearing her over all the laughter. Tenebrae waited. And waited. The bar was a bustle, business was good. But she needed a whisky now, more than she ever had. Her one unbroken hand was employed in tipping the peanuts from a wooden bowl. This was promptly thrown at the one-eyed man. It'd do nothing so dramatic as harm him, merely thunking dully against his shoulder. "I said... " She'd use the ensuing silence to make her point. "I should very much like a whisky."
It wasn't Steadman that served or answered then, but the Moor. A warmth touching his features as he shuffled a glass across the stone counter and before her. There was an inherent ease about him, a welcoming confidence that rumbled through his heavy words as he spoke them with a faint laugh across the bar. "So polite, Miss Tenebrae. And in your own bar. Allow me to pay you twice and offer this one."
He didn't appear to have any problem making his way through the crowd, his rather obvious volatility caused others to instinctively shuffle away, where he could be mocked out of earshot. Twice Brelith stumbled over his own feet as he walked, though managed to right himself before his bony jaw made contact with the ground. The cloth was again used to wipe the spittle from his chin, shadowy tendrils clinging to his maw long after the rag was removed and wrapped around his right hand.
Tenebrae might have looked past the stranger to shoot the evasive Steadman a venomous glare, did not that act require more motion than she was willing or able to make, just then. Her descent from the rooms above had been difficult, and it wasn't anything but sheer and innate stubborness that had brought her here at all. "Thankyou," she said, with an air of resignation, dipping her head so that her bruises and cuts would remain hidden from him. This too had the effect of removing the sight of him, for the most part. She'd nod, toward his large hands. "Most obliged. And .. how is you know me?" The other stranger would, for now, remain unnoticed; her peripheral vision blocked by thick cloth.
"Hard to do business in this town without getting to know a bit about you. You've a reputation. And what happened to you in that Fountain isn't exactly a secret. How bad was it?" There was a simple honesty in the way he spoke, but that hardly made him simple. His pale eyes flickered with a rare and noted intelligence, a cunning of sorts that he made no attempt to conceal. Infact, his open curiosity was so ungarnished that it could easily be perceived as genuine. The waitress on his lap had grown uncomfortable lounging with Tenebrae so near, and she rose with an easy assist of his strong arms. They guided the wench without effort or hesitation, allowing him to turn and face the hooded woman the moment his lap was entirely vacant. "Much better."
Brelith chews on his tongue, occasionally to the point where the muscle is punctured. His voice muffled by the chewing, he continued blowing air into incoherent sentences. He reached over seated patrons, snatching a handful of their purchased food and stuffed it into his mouth. Truly he was the king of his world, albeit the only one living in it.
Tenebrae gave the girl a look that might've curdled milk, though it sadly went unregarded courtesy of the cloak. Her words were, however, not for the wench, whose tenure at the bar was new, and now short. "I lived." Her unsplinted hand curled around the glass, the liquor disposed of with a tilt of her head that would, for a moment, reveal some of her injuries' extent: one eye almost enclosed by navy-blue and scarlet flesh, the cut on it still seeping. The cheek below it splintered, healing now but thick with bruising. Her lips, stinging with the rough whisky, swollen and hideously split in four places. The rest of her mien was hardly recognisable as belonging to her pale race, for there was barely an inch of it not marked by contusion of gash. Worst, perhaps, was the long, bone-deep gouge that ran from the top of her left eyebrow and down the cheek, stitching drawing closed the wound that promised a scar. "And who are you?" Her fingernails were still ragged, and thier fingers pinched a fold of fabric, hastily recovering her features.
Garron allowed his eyes to cut a swift path through the shadows of that cowl, not bothering to conceal his curiosity. They raked what flesh was bared, all the awful wounds and horrid marks that made their way upon once pristine features. He tsked faintly, but audibly, before bothering to answer. The drink in his hand was idle a moment, caught in the grip of those massive hands. "They call me 'Good Day', which is about as close as you'll get to having one anytime soon by the looks of it." More quietly now, the addendum soon concealed by a lift of his tankard. He knew she'd hear him, but the others were spared the brief concession. "They're still finding bodies about this place, I heard. You did a good thing.”
Brelith continued his meandering course through the bar, shoved away every time he'd snatch a portion of a meal. Eventually he'd find himself at the bar, chattering away about the conversations he'd had with the peanuts, which were shortly thereafter consumed.
Tenebrae peeled back the cowl, the eyes that peered through stray scarlet-and-black strands and a swell of punch-darkened skin sharp on the man. "Every day I'm not in Hell's a good day... Mr. Good Day. Steadman..." Her attention went to the strangely jovial keep, who was less jovial now his employer had arrived. "Bring me the bottle." She remarked nothing about the days prior, waiting for her drink, and studying the blatant man opposite with something akin to the eye a trader gives a horse too restless for his liking.
"Grim." The assertion was washed away by a tip of his tankard, the contents swirling between full lips and fading. "I dockhand." The information was offered freely as his hand drew the tankard to the counter, eyes warming faintly as they settled onto Tenebrae's shattered features. To a stranger's eye there was little way to know she was once a stunning beauty, but it appeared that 'Good Day' was no stranger. His eyes traced her features with the quiet warmth of appreciation, measuring beneath the wounds that crossed the woman's face and seemingly through them. "Nothing as fancy as your folks sail, but they get the job done."
Brelith frowns for no justifiable reason, the skin hanging loosly from his part-exposed skull furrowed across the brow. His split tongue thrashed about inside his mouth, catching loose nut fragments and dragging them toward his throat. He'd take a moment to return Tenebraes stare in between quirks and twitches, and reached through her shroud with a bony finger to stroke her wounds, "Not dead, praaaise the dock-tor. GooOOOoooOOogly Brain did a good job. Brelith "
Tenebrae's right brow performed the obligatory arc, eliciting a wince of regret that could have gone on ad infinitum, for the way her flesh complained at every twitch. "They?" He'd done his homework. Had zeroed in on her. Seemed confident. 'Mr. Trouble' more like, she thought, pouring herself another from the bottle Steadman deposited in front of her, before taking back to the gathering he'd been so entertained with. Which did not escape her, either. The wracking of her ribs was doing nothing for her demeanour. The ebon-skinned man had the bottle nudged his way once she'd drained her glass once, and then again. "Where're you employed?"
Abruptly, the vampiress winced again, as salty fingers probed her tender wounds. "G'roff!" It hurt like blazes to snap her gaze the undead’s way, and her glass was gripped hard, as if it were the weapon it'd shortly become. Though what, exactly she was going to do to the man in her state was beyond her. Urghdak, in a like state of face, if not of body, took a menacingstep forward, poised like a great mastiff to do his duty at her word.
Garron seemed to consider this, but only before he could claim the bottle. He left the rim for Tenebrae's swollen lips, merely tipping the contents into his mug before settling the vessel back before the haggard vampriss. "I suppose you could say I go where the money is. We gotta take what comes, don't we?" There was an obvious smile now, even as he spread his hands along the bar's counter. "And they, meaning the ships I've been on."
Brelith 's head bobbed from the Sin Eater to the guard, then back to Tenebrae. "Ain't a fight." He smacked his lips again, lubricating his rasping speech, "Green won't fight the black." He smirked, flailing the dirty cloth at the half-orc, taunting the battered bouncer, "Aint red, but you won't fight the black! Knows better..." He dug his grubby fingers into the bowl of snacks a second time, chewing loudly through his ranting.
Tenebrae said to Urghdak, "Remove this fool, please." Urghdak Trollson needed no further encouragement to make a sweeping, claw-tipped lunge for Brelith.
Lynn moved inside, returning to work after awhile of being gone from these land. Tying her raven tressed up into a bun, leaving some strands to hang about the curves of her visage. She stands behind the counter, cringes her nose and quickly cleans it off. Speaking a bit loudly so the patrons may hear her, "Does anyone need anything? A refill?"
Tenebrae gave Lynn a hard look. "Get out from behind that bar. Now."
Lynn blinks, and moves out from behind such. Looking at her, "Something wrong?"
Garron remains silent then, his drink settled before him.
Tenebrae nodded. "Your'e not employed here." Her scowl hurt her face, only souring her mood further. "Now bugger off."
Lynn blinks, "Since when? Eilyo hired me awhile back, but I have been gone. Just now returned, madame. She told me I was hired."
"Neither is Eilyo employed here, nor was she entitled to hire..." All the talking was making her jaw ache, "... anyone, without my approval. Kindly remove youself."
Lynn nods, "I apologize for the trouble. If you ever are looking to hire, I wouldlove to work for you." she places a rose infront of the lady.
Tenebrae left the flower where it lay. "I doubt it." The necromancer was irritable, obviously.
The difference in size between Urghdak and his putrefied target was immense, to say the least. Though he'd spent enough time consorting with 'the black' to properly know his limits. Brelith lept upon the counter, shoulders hunched forward, beating his brittle chest in a display of ill-deserved machismo. Slowly the bouncer made his way through the crowd, and as he'd approach the tramp would respond. His napkin, or what was being used as one, was pulled over his squalid features, stains of food and drool not at all detracting from the menace which would ensue. His body, for years decomposing beneath the soil, found itself somewhat renewed as 'the black' coursed across his being, covering his flesh with a skin of the shadows. The bouncer grunted with dissatisfaction as he neared the tramp. Though Brelith was much smaller in stature than the former catastrophe, his will would remain unchanged.
His mother was a trollish whore renowned for killing and eating the warped souls who'd pay for ugly, if exotic, flesh. His father was an orc so miserably treacherous and vile as to be banished from even that rough society. Together, they had made a horror of a son, and it was this being that bunched his thighs like massive pistons to make a leap for the masked undead. Tene, the issue of staff corrected, shifted her body painfully to watch while Urghdak, at the signal of her hand, overcame whatever trepidation that was - existing or not - percieved upon him, to spread wide, a great, hairy and crushing embrace intended to bring the interloper down from his bartop pedestal.
Tenebrae said, aside to Garron, "It never ends." There'd be a look of mild amusement, if he could catch it glimmering from her beaten eyes. The vampiress looked suddenly weary, that light fading now, and she tucked her cloak about herself again.
The crowd made a wide circle, affording plenty of room as Urghdak frolicked into the fray. It would end, of that Garron "Good Day" Hassat was certain. A brief look to the inn's abandoned stair was afforded, pale eyes glinting harshly under the dim light as he spoke over the clammer to the woman beside him. His frame dwarfed her own, and yet his mannerisms were cultured and his words nimbly spoken. "Show a man around?"
Tenebrae wisped aside her cowl. "Yeah. I'd do a little dance for you too, but..." The cough that shuddered her frame was caught by the back of her hand and lowered, spotted with blood. "I'm wearing the wrong shoes."
Unless she fought him, Tenebrae would find that his great size concealed a remarkable quickness to him. The great scoop of his arms meant to gather her beneath the knees and about the back, secure and soft beyond most measure. It was a comfort born of his strength, the great ease of how he lifted her allowing him to focus entirely upon her comfort. Perhaps, if anything was truly frightening, it was how terribly sure his hands were as they found uninjured places. No hesitation, simple knowledge or disconcern. He showed no worry of harming her. "Here's to shamelessly making friends with the boss."
Brelith howled as nimble legs launched him skyward, away from the brutish assail. At the apex of his flight, ebon slime would gather at his fingertips, forging wicked, viscous claws which would soon become as hard as stone. Now gravity would have its way, stealing the ghouls momentum away to thrust him toward the beast which stood between he and the hardwood floor, where mutated appendages would sink into the green flesh of Urghdaks right shoulder. There he remained, hanging and clawing at his agressor, every effort made to prevent his dismount.
Tenebrae wasn't in any state to argue with anyone; the way he lifted her, his apparent good intentions- she'd just have to trust Garron, seeing as her "lift" to the floors above was currently playing pony for a madman. "Don't get grabby on me." The warning was wry, Tene inwardly cringing about the state she was in. Helplessness was not her forte. Her next words were gentler, almost a plea, as she supressed another agonising cough. "Upstairs, on the right. If you'd be s'kind."
Garron had smothered most of his smile as they ascended, his feet sure and unhurried as he navigated the landing. His words match Tenebrae's tone, sweeter if only on the bass of his voice, and keyed on by the steady glint fashioned in his pale eyes. Against an ebon canvas they were notedly intense, a cutting malachite that stood against the darkness of his face. But even these could be softened with his smiles, big and wondrous things that stretched features that could be equally ferocious into a harmless, teddy's smile. "I'd heard you were quite the looker, Tenebrae, but to be honest I'm a little disappointed. Won't have to worry about me getting handsy."
Tenebrae spared him a stony look that was only half a joke, trusting him only so far as he seemed to not want her dead. Immediately, at any rate, which was something of a relief from the fear she faced and hidden of late. "Dockhand. It shows, in your arms." She added, "Your strength, I mean. It's hard work."
Garron afforded the most minute of nods, though it was the laughter that served as quiet affirmation. "Does it? What if I merely made a habit of carrying women away?" He turned from her then, those frosty eyes wandering the room's decorative interior. "Must have cost you a small fortune."
She might've shrugged, but the gesture was impossible. "I had it rebuilt, twice, to boot. This place is often a target for the righteous and the greedy, in equal measure. But it's impolite to talk of coin with strangers, I shall not bother you with it." He'd feel her shrinking in on herself, the efforts of her sojourn below starting to take thier toll in the most demanding way. "On the bed, Mr. Good Day. I am.. in need of rest."
Garron settled the sleek-framed woman against the bed's heavy covers, watching as a mattress all but cradled her. He'd never known such a thing. All he knew is that beneath his powerful arms it felt heavenly soft. The words left him even as he stood from her, looking down on her with a brief spark flashing through the pale cast of his eyes. The nature of it was hinted at only by his words. "Tenebrae, I need to confess something."
Neither could she huff the sigh that was drawn only a shallow, pained breath. Here it comes, she thought; chivalry was something too good to be genuine, in any male she'd known, since... A hurried reply cut off the thought. "Speak on, Mr. Good Day. Though if you'll kill me, make it hasty. I'd almost be thankful, to have an end to this pain."
Garron spoke evenly, and without humor now. But these were not grim things, and he didn't approach them as such. Instead, he watched her, looming over her from the bedside. "Killing you would be bad for business. You've managed to build yourself something special here, Tenebrae. I respect you for it. But I'm going to be doing what I can to make as much gold as I can, and it may interfere with your operation from time to time. It's just business, it isn't personal. If I could avoid it, I would, but you've gotten so big and have your hands in so many things... this entire town for one, that I don't have much an option except to work for you." He paused at that, as if to give her some small but poignant concession. "And it's not something against you, but that's just not how I envisioned things. I thought it fair to tell you."
Tenebrae nodded, and did not at all hide the fact she found it regretful he'd proven her at least half-right. "Very well." It was curt, and she did not meet his glacial eyes for long. "Now, if you'll leave me to my rest?"
Garron made the door in a series of measured strides, only to hesitate. A great hand lifted, poised along the framework. This was spoken over a shoulder, steady and direct. "I don't like it when people get hurt, but our business is a hard business. Even at our best sometimes we can't control other people. But I meant what I said, and I am not looking for blood. I hope that even at the worst between us everyone goes home. So, heal up. Get well. And if you want I've got a card game that goes once the week has passed. A few small time boys with some ambitions play. We all brawl about over the same scrap of docks, but at the end of the day there's not a lot of hate between us. Might do you well to see what the life's like a little closer to the ground. I'd be happy to buy you a few more drinks. Rest easy."
"I've spent enough of my time on the ground, let alone near it," she wanted to say, but the retort wouldn't rise, her will sapped of the desire. Instead she replied, We'll see." and made the effort to ease herself into a semblance of less pain. Live to fight another day. The old maximum made her more tired, even as it passed her thoughts and faded into the cloud of sleep that called her. If he left then, she wouldn't see it through closed lids.