A Chair's Struggle

Moirean · March 2014

This log is not epic. This log is silly. Sometimes silly is fun!

Dingy common room of the "Hound and Halberd" Tavern. (Spinesreach.) - AKA a very messy place.

Its unassuming entrance tucked away down a network of warrens and alleyways which riddle the heart of the Citadel, this tavern is obviously not the fanciest or most reputable or even safest tavern in the city. The common room is dark and dingy, with greasy rushes lining the floor and fish-oil torches casting a smoky haze over the room. A crowd of rather rough-looking men loitering in a dark corner - apparently running an illicit gambling den - puff away on cigars, adding to the cloud of smoke, while a harried serving wench constantly winds her way through the bustle, depositing drinks and food before various visitors: gypsies, tramps, thieves (both off-duty Syndicate and otherwise) all seem common patrons of the establishment, although a familiar face of a city official or a guild secretary can sometimes be glimpsed in the shadows, taking a night off from duties to slum it up. A fireplace dominates one wall, chickens spitted and turning as they cook in rotisserie, and various trinkets adorn its mantle, matching the sundry collection of clutter which hangs from the ceiling - beads and feathers, broken weapons, undergarments, a range of totems, the antlers of a stag, pilfered signs from across the land, more undergarments, fireworks (some ominously undetonated), a boat's rudder, dried herbs, dried flowers, dried husks, a decapitated head or three - the range of objects is baffling and outstanding, each apparently added at random over the years as an extra bit of personal adornment by the tavern's patrons. A constant low thrum of conversation fills the room, sometimes threaded through with the tinny tunes of a wandering musician; the atmosphere is an odd mixture of a rowdy, boisterous pub undercut with the rough, threatening tension of the city's dank underbelly. As an ominous addition - perhaps hinting at the type of time one can expect in this pub - a heavy, acrid scent of smoke hangs in the air, while the floor around one of the tables is heavily charred, rushes burnt away into ash. Hanging up high is a cute and flowery tapestry, an imp depicted in its center. A stool sits here, fashioned from an upturned keg. A bar spans one corner of the tavern, painted in bright, eye-catching designs. A wooden trestle table is here, a long wooden bench has been placed at it. A bleak and terrifying tapestry of snarling hounds hangs here. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. A large chest is here, re-purposed from an old keg. A large brick fireplace rests against the eastern wall. A conscripted Spirean soldier coldly scans the area for threats. A glowing red flame-shaped sigil has been left here. There are 9 delicate silver goblets here. There are 21 battered iron cups here. A plain grey pack lies here. There are 5 silver rings here. There are 5 arcane black rings here. A gold stud earring has been dropped here. An elegant white letter is in danger of being soiled here. An obsidian cup with serpentine carvings lies here. An opulent tea cup painted fiery sunset hues lies here. Ingram is here. He wields an iron-tipped whip in his left hand and a needle-pointed dirk in his right. You see a sign here instructing you that WARES is the command to see what is for sale.

You see exits leading northwest and down (closed pine door).

Ingram:

He is a typical Human and an overall slim individual. Standing just over six feet, he poses a clean-cut and neat appearance. His countenance is paled, drawn with two calm, mahogany eyes that rest above a commonplace nose, and his narrowed face ends in a wide mouth with a long jaw. Combed neatly back and parted to the right, his medium-cut hair is almost meticulously cared for. His skin is absent of any tan, and he generally holds himself with a polite and proper demeanor. A half-severed ear on the left side of his head distracts from the general picture of his visage, and a deep, slender scar travels from the top of his hand to the palm. He walks with the blessing of Maghak.

(worn on a finger) : the Aetolian bicentennial ring

(worn on the belt) : a secure brass keyring

(worn on a finger) : a polished gold wedding band

(covering the body) : a suit of scale mail

(around the waist) : a chain bearing a brass compass

(worn on the back) : an elegant sable quiver

(slung over a shoulder) : a barbed bone darkbow

(covering the torso) : a stiff-collared, crisp white shirt

(worn on the legs) : a pair of black tuxedo trousers

(covering the torso) : a elegant ivory vest

(around the neck) : a jet-black silk tie

(worn on the back) : a sturdy pack with a silver clasp

(worn on the feet) : a pair of formal black shoes

(over the torso) : an elegant black blazer coat

Moi:

She is a typical Imp and is a slight, slender creature. Small, bat-like wings fan out from her shoulder blades, while a curling tail twists behind her to occasionally twitch in vaguely mischievous movements. A pair of petite horns frames her features, sprouting from her brow to highlight a pair of bright, amber eyes. Auburn hair tumbles around pointed ears in tangled curls, while one arm ends at the elbow, melding with a limb forged from steel and covered in a spiderwebbing network of liquid soulstone. She walks with the blessing of Maghak. She walks with the blessing of Maghak.

(set at a rakish cant) : a pair of Impish horns

(inked into the skin below her ear) : a black-inked tattoo of a pair of crossed fists

(sturdy and utilitarian) : a pair of boots

(jangling around her ankle) : an anklet of red moons

(slim-fitting and unencumbering) : black leather pants

(form-fitting for ease of movement) : a fighter's black leather shirt

(worn in a gaudy display) : a miniature, mischievous wedding band

(hanging from a chain around her neck) : a ring engraved with the Seirath crest

(wristguard wrapped around her hand) : a shield of shackled souls

(molded to her shadowy arm) : a steel arm webbed in living soulstone

You stare implacably at Ingram.

You say, "Are you making a mess of my tavern?"

Ingram sits up faintly and glances back at you, lifting an eyebrow. "I'd never, c'mon," he murmurs, lips picking in a faint smile. "How're you, Ma'am?"

You have emoted: Moirean plants her hands on her hips and stares accusingly at the patch of space Ingram occupies. Around her, scorch marks, splinters and stray cups litter the bar in its usual sort of shabby decoration. A sign on one wall even lists to one side, letting out a quiet creak as it slowly tumbles from its brackets to smash to the floor. She continues to stare at Ingram, eyes narrowed.

You have emoted: Finally, Moirean snorts in clear suspicion. "Use a coaster," she admonishes.

His face twitching, trying to retain its adoption of severity it has recently picked up, Ingram snatches his cup to elevate it from the bartop. His throat clears and he gives a firm, resounding nod. His foot, swaying in the air to scrape its toe on the ground, prompts a light clatter as a few stray teeth are knocked away.

You have emoted: Moirean is positively nonchalant about the mouthless teeth, her stare trained on Ingram until she seems satisfied that he isn't going to mar the "pristine" surface of her countertop. From behind her, the bartender lets out a low whistle, twirling one finger next to his head as he gives the woman's back a significant stare, before winking at Ingram.

With a firm, pleased nod, you say, "I am well, comrade. And you? Comrade." She abruptly giggles. "Adjusting to that title?"

Ingram's lips fold in as he tries to keep his mouth straight before opting to simply hide it behind the rim of his cup. A hissing exhale follows the gulp before he decides to let a smile return. "Fondly, at that," he answers. He swivels in his stool, the other half of his face visibly, marred with three decent gashes and an inordinate amount of dried, flaky blood. "Coming back here was a decision I oughtta have made decades ago. But hey, I claim to be smart, not wise."

You have emoted: Moirean takes in the wounds, head tilting sideways as she lifts her chin to indicate them and conversationally asks, "Kelliara?" Without waiting for an answer, her attention shifts, eying one of the stools at the bar with a large measure of trepidation, as if sizing up a formidable foe. Her lips purse, she grunts, and she gives her knuckles a sharp crack before gallantly approaching the long-legged chair.

"You need assistance, short-stac--," Ingram cuts himself off, seemingly remembering something. Potentially the influence he's recently found under in regard to your position. He speaks again as if the preceding words weren't uttered, and drops an elbow on the bar's edge to prop his head up with a fist in his temple, "Ex-wife, as it happens. Very recently divorced, and she very recently found out about it."

You have emoted: Moirean has begun to scale the stool, tackling it with a running start and a bounce. Her feet clear the first rung! Her fingers dig into the seat and her muscles strain as she does an awkward sort of pull-up until both her elbows and her chest rests there. She takes a momentary break, dangling there, to look over at Ingram, her tone still conversational, and almost a bit imperious, as if it's a throne she's seated atop and not a wobbly stool she's half-clinging to.

You say to Ingram, "She didn't want to join us in the North, then, I take it?"

Ingram shrugs a shoulder faintly, watching you with a face that's determined to remain stonily neutral, not even betrayed by a twitch of his lips. "Well.. Might not have even given her the chanc-- I don't really want to be married, Moirean," he mutters, making a face. "I don't want to have to be devoted to anything but this."

You have emoted: "This?" Moirean echoes, before she grunts, focus returning to her task at hand. She gives her feet a little kick and tries to hoist herself up - the short break has wonkified her gauging, though, and she hops up too far, losing her grip entirely to send her tumbling to the floor. A sharp snap of her wings and some fancy tailwork prevents her from sprawling in a way that would be EMBARRASSING, but she does, nonetheless, still go somewhat head-over-heels.

Ingram watches you still without expression and when he speaks, it's slow and focused. "Did you win the election on the charisma born of your graces?" Without waiting for an answer, he gives his own to your question. "Spinesreach, potentially the Syssin, and what I intend to do from here and there." He cranes his body sideways and a hand lowers to your fallen level.

You have emoted: Moirean gives the hand a cold, cold stare and curtly retorts, "I win elections because I murder all of my competition." With that warning hanging in the air, she exhales sharply, twisting to her feet to face her current foe. Her feet dig into the rushes on the floor, almost like a bull pawing at the ground before a charge. Her eyes narrow. Her teeth grit. She's gotten serious, now.

Ingram dips his head to the left, curling an arm to veil the lower half of his face below his wrist. "Pragmatic political strategy," he mumbles against his sleeve. "Can't see where it'd go wrong." He sniffs sharply, something of habit, and straightens his head up a moment later. "I want to thank you again. Repeatedly."

You have emoted: "FOR?!" Moirean demands, voice raising as she abruptly breaks into a trot, head lowered, horns leading. As she nears the chair, she suddenly veers off to the right, storming over to a bulky man sitting behind a makeshift display of combat supplies. One ear twitches back, clearly still listening to Ingram, but the rest of her dives in to a quick and rapid exchange of banter, barter, insults, gesticulations and finally, with an indignant snort, a handful of coins and something shiny.

You pay 149 gold sovereign and receive a mushroom sigil.

Calmly as ever in contrast to your tone, Ingram flicks a hand out. "Letting me back home," he murmurs. "No more pretending, no more facade, blah blah. To make shit a touch more succinct, I'm happy and better again." He flashes a wide, beaming smile at you in effort to punctuate it, but as to whether you catch it or not is in the timing.

You have emoted: Moirean doesn't - her attention is solely focused on the misbehaving, rebellious chair. With a swift decisiveness, she wields the recently-purchased sigil, palming it from hand to hand as she eyes the stool, before she pitches it towards the furnishing. The result is rather splendid: shards and splinters go flying, raining down a veritable shrapnel across the tavern. It is likely becoming clear where the rest of the decorations came from.

You gingerly affix the mushroom sigil to a keg stool, and upon contact, both are destroyed in a magical explosion that damages you significantly.

Ingram flings himself forward to slam his upper body over the bartop, drink dropping through the air as his hands move with his arms to fold over the back of his head. Wood smacks off and over the side of his jacket, a few faint splinters sticking to the surface, and only after silence pervades for a few beats and his ear eases its ringing does he lift his head. His brow is lifted, caked blood cracking and flaking off as he looks incredulously at the empty space the chair once was.

You have emoted: Moirean gives Ingram a challenging stare, eyebrows drawn together in a scowl, as if daring him to comment. "It is mine," she informs him, chin lifting to indicate the wooden viscera. "It BETRAYED me, so I treated it accordingly." Her arms cross over her chest and her tail writhes in a sharp snap, sweeping down to poke at the splinters.

Straightening up, Ingram lets his arms slide off his head to land on the bar. The fingers of a hand drum quietly, rapidly and he flicks his other extremity out. "As you well should've," he offers, face adopting an encouraging expression that might be more befitting to describe as a wincing one.

You have emoted: "The couch, on the other hand," Moirean states, tone shifting to a soft giggle as she eyes a battered leather couch in one corner of the room. "The couch is a loyal servant." Her gaze turns upwards, taking in a beaten metal lantern. "As is the lamp. I love lamp. I give it fire to make it happy. I appreciate couch. I refill its stuffing. Loyal. Good. Rewarded." Her scowl returns as she glances back at the remnants of the stool. "Stool did not deserve rewards. Stool was fickle. Stool deserved what it had coming."

You have emoted: Moirean's stare shifts over to Ingram. Her irritation is gone now and her tone grows mild. "Welcome back to Spinesreach, comrade," she tells him, flashing a wide smile. "Serve the Republic loyally."

You say, in Imp, "Bye!"

Placing a bone stepladder on the ground, you quickly scramble up it - upon reaching the top, a cloud of smoke erupts and you find yourself, for once, taller than everyone.