Tradewinds Taproom and Bunkhouse
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Zeki Soricel
- Posts: 2
- Joined: Fri Jan 22, 2021 6:38 pm
Tradewinds Taproom and Bunkhouse
One of a number of inns that dot the Midway. Tradewinds makes its reputation with clean beds, a relatively clean taproom, and a wider selection of ales than most of their competitors. A high archway with a plate medallion depicting swirling winds identifies the establishment to passersby on the street.
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Zeki Soricel
- Posts: 2
- Joined: Fri Jan 22, 2021 6:38 pm
Re: Tradewinds Taproom and Bunkhouse
Far from the niceties of Upper Ptergius, in the borders of the slums, the air was stale at best, and a little rank the further one got into the ramshackle buildings that staggered along the edges of the cobbled streets – the road stones were the only thing that connected the rugged edges of the city to the grandeur within the second wall. It was here, in this margin of not-quite-rank air, and jumbled mixtures of cut stone and aging wood, that the working class of Ptergius made their way in the world. It was also in this margin that outsiders tended to gather. The second wall was in sight, and so was the outer, giving the space a feeling of comfortably safe enclosure despite the homely circumstance of the streets. The early autumn sun illuminated generous swaths of the wall and the city itself, granting enough light for the citizens to go about their days with the light-heartedness of everyday life. For outsiders, newcomers, and travelers, this was the time of day that promised the widest breadth of social experience. The earliest risers were finishing their day’s labor and heading out to find food and run errands, while those who ran shops and other public venues were shining up their business facades in preparation for the increase in traffic from the former.
Into the igniting of the early afternoon bustle dove a fairly – but not entirely – ordinary-looking figure. A half-elf, clad in plain traveler’s garments and hardly favoring his elven ancestry enough to catch the eye. It wasn’t his appearance that made folks glance at him twice as he strode confidently down the street, it wasn’t necessarily even the subtle clatter of sheathes tippy-tapping underneath the folds of his ragged cloak. It was the mere fact that he strode down the middle of the street, smiling an unassuming and unconcerned smile at anyone who made eye contact with him. It was the way that his shoulders swayed back and forth like a flag in the open wind. It was the way that some innocuous tune squeezed between his teeth and out into the air just loud enough to be heard above the din of the crowd without drawing full attention to him. Zeki Soricel looked entirely like he belonged, but he couldn’t have seemed any more out of place, either.
A leather satchel hung from the half-elf’s left shoulders, stretching across his chest to bob gently between the opposite hip and the barely visible pommel of some weapon hidden under his cloak. He occasionally drummed a few excited fingers across it as he walked along, causing mostly inaudible rustling sounds from the sheaf of papers that had been stuffed into the bag by the fistful. He had parted ways with his nobler companion shortly after entering the city. She had some errands to run – perhaps something on the holier side of things; for all he knew Paladins were expected to check in whenever they came to new places – and he had volunteered to find them some work. Before parting they had, however, agreed on a meeting place that would suit their needs. And so it was that Zeki swayed suddenly out of the middle of the street, slipping smoothly under the vaulted arch of an inn and through the door to the taproom beyond. Making his way to the bar, Zeki hopped his backside onto a stool with a sigh of relief and slammed a silver piece onto the counter. “I’ll have a pint, good man!”
The “good man” was in fact a barkeep whose baldness could have easily been attributed to either his age or the weathered state of his complexion. Either way, he was about as surly as an orc, and he didn’t appear nearly as taken in with Zeki’s swashbuckling charm as had a dozen others on the street. He merely glanced at the half-elf and continued polishing a dull wooden tankard.
“A pint of what?”
“Oh are there choices? I’ll take… the second darkest ale you’ve got, unless there are only two in which case I’ll take the darker.”
“One stout, coming up.”
“Oh! And have you seen a beautiful lady in polished armor come through here? She’s my traveling companion.”
The man merely glared at him a moment and wandered off to pour ale from a tap. Zeki sighed contentedly and gazed around the tavern. He had a pocket full of business leads, an itching sword hand, and a stout on the way. It was a going to be a great week.
Into the igniting of the early afternoon bustle dove a fairly – but not entirely – ordinary-looking figure. A half-elf, clad in plain traveler’s garments and hardly favoring his elven ancestry enough to catch the eye. It wasn’t his appearance that made folks glance at him twice as he strode confidently down the street, it wasn’t necessarily even the subtle clatter of sheathes tippy-tapping underneath the folds of his ragged cloak. It was the mere fact that he strode down the middle of the street, smiling an unassuming and unconcerned smile at anyone who made eye contact with him. It was the way that his shoulders swayed back and forth like a flag in the open wind. It was the way that some innocuous tune squeezed between his teeth and out into the air just loud enough to be heard above the din of the crowd without drawing full attention to him. Zeki Soricel looked entirely like he belonged, but he couldn’t have seemed any more out of place, either.
A leather satchel hung from the half-elf’s left shoulders, stretching across his chest to bob gently between the opposite hip and the barely visible pommel of some weapon hidden under his cloak. He occasionally drummed a few excited fingers across it as he walked along, causing mostly inaudible rustling sounds from the sheaf of papers that had been stuffed into the bag by the fistful. He had parted ways with his nobler companion shortly after entering the city. She had some errands to run – perhaps something on the holier side of things; for all he knew Paladins were expected to check in whenever they came to new places – and he had volunteered to find them some work. Before parting they had, however, agreed on a meeting place that would suit their needs. And so it was that Zeki swayed suddenly out of the middle of the street, slipping smoothly under the vaulted arch of an inn and through the door to the taproom beyond. Making his way to the bar, Zeki hopped his backside onto a stool with a sigh of relief and slammed a silver piece onto the counter. “I’ll have a pint, good man!”
The “good man” was in fact a barkeep whose baldness could have easily been attributed to either his age or the weathered state of his complexion. Either way, he was about as surly as an orc, and he didn’t appear nearly as taken in with Zeki’s swashbuckling charm as had a dozen others on the street. He merely glanced at the half-elf and continued polishing a dull wooden tankard.
“A pint of what?”
“Oh are there choices? I’ll take… the second darkest ale you’ve got, unless there are only two in which case I’ll take the darker.”
“One stout, coming up.”
“Oh! And have you seen a beautiful lady in polished armor come through here? She’s my traveling companion.”
The man merely glared at him a moment and wandered off to pour ale from a tap. Zeki sighed contentedly and gazed around the tavern. He had a pocket full of business leads, an itching sword hand, and a stout on the way. It was a going to be a great week.
Re: Tradewinds Taproom and Bunkhouse
A rather miniature brown owl fluttered to a perch on the empty barstool to the right of the half-elf. After twisting its head about in a near full-circle motion, the robin-sized avian locked judgemental golden eyes on Zeki for a brief moment. Regardless of whether it was satisfied or not, the creature hopped from the seat up onto the bar counter with a soft but sharp “Chevak!” chirp.
“Tssch. We’ll get on fine.” The slim elf rested her staff of yellow birch neatly against the bar and promptly claimed the seat for herself, as well as the little owl who hopped cheerfully up onto her shoulder and began preening its feathers.
“Mae govannen, my new friend.” The maid’s speech lilted with an odd accent for these parts, but she spoke Common perfectly well. She seemed young enough among her people, but not especially so. She wore a belted tunic and pants in woodsy greens and browns, with well-kept boots and a cherished cloak. She didn’t have much on her person aside from a pouch or two at her belt and whatever small things were away in pockets. Her pale hair was twisted and tumbled back into a wind-wisped braid with little smaller braids woven throughout here and there according to whatever had pleased her at the time. She was fair skinned, but still rather tan for an elf. Even in the tavern lighting, it didn’t take much more than a glance to see that her eyes were clouded over from some past event; she was quite blind.
“I could not say I’ve seen your beautiful travel lady, but I heard some beautifully upkept armor walking along with a wonderful horse near the peach blossom street and the beekeeper house on the other side of the river… Maybe three hours ago? Close to that. Have you noticed my Laersûl about here, per chance? Like me, but he is a shade better with the flutes if we must say — Ah thank you, master Bram!”
She gracefully accepted a mug of honey mead from the barkeep, who’d evidently disappeared back to the taps when he noticed her and then returned with the drink for her and Zeki’s dark ale at once. Ithilwen produced a trio of perfectly sweet peaches from a pocket and gave one to the bald man before he moved on, then rolled a second along the counter on a curving path towards where Zeki’s ale had clinked down. She bit dreamily into her own peach, and then nodded her head to the half-elf with a light grin. The tiny owl went to sleep against her neck ignored him.
“Of course I wish a pleasant morning to you. You can call me Ithilwen.”
“Tssch. We’ll get on fine.” The slim elf rested her staff of yellow birch neatly against the bar and promptly claimed the seat for herself, as well as the little owl who hopped cheerfully up onto her shoulder and began preening its feathers.
“Mae govannen, my new friend.” The maid’s speech lilted with an odd accent for these parts, but she spoke Common perfectly well. She seemed young enough among her people, but not especially so. She wore a belted tunic and pants in woodsy greens and browns, with well-kept boots and a cherished cloak. She didn’t have much on her person aside from a pouch or two at her belt and whatever small things were away in pockets. Her pale hair was twisted and tumbled back into a wind-wisped braid with little smaller braids woven throughout here and there according to whatever had pleased her at the time. She was fair skinned, but still rather tan for an elf. Even in the tavern lighting, it didn’t take much more than a glance to see that her eyes were clouded over from some past event; she was quite blind.
“I could not say I’ve seen your beautiful travel lady, but I heard some beautifully upkept armor walking along with a wonderful horse near the peach blossom street and the beekeeper house on the other side of the river… Maybe three hours ago? Close to that. Have you noticed my Laersûl about here, per chance? Like me, but he is a shade better with the flutes if we must say — Ah thank you, master Bram!”
She gracefully accepted a mug of honey mead from the barkeep, who’d evidently disappeared back to the taps when he noticed her and then returned with the drink for her and Zeki’s dark ale at once. Ithilwen produced a trio of perfectly sweet peaches from a pocket and gave one to the bald man before he moved on, then rolled a second along the counter on a curving path towards where Zeki’s ale had clinked down. She bit dreamily into her own peach, and then nodded her head to the half-elf with a light grin. The tiny owl went to sleep against her neck ignored him.
“Of course I wish a pleasant morning to you. You can call me Ithilwen.”