Jukebox Hero
2012-06-14, 09:47 PM
"Kill 'im!"
"Straight, straight!"
"No! Throw a hook, get 'im in the jaw!"
The bloodthirsty cries of man pervade the air. Even though the fighting ring sits a floor beneath you, the thin floor isn't enough to keep the cheers and jeers away. And why shouldn't they scream with such enthusiasm? this was why they had come here, to the Two Flagons Inn, this and that cheap swill they pass as ale. After all, what other pleasures can one find in this cesspool? But here you sit, for reasons of your own, whether it be for blood-sport or for firewater is your own business.
This level, in stark contrast to the one below, has a staggering 12 people, including the bartender himself, who stands behind the counter, wiping the same filthy mug with an even dirtier rag. One man sits collapsed in front of him, the floor around him littered with broken glass, other empty glasses sitting in front of him, waiting to be broken. Two bugbears stand on opposing sides of the room, leaning against the walls, looking bored. Two orcs are avidly engaged in a conversation with a staggeringly beautiful woman, obviously fighting with each other to win her affection. Only five individuals here are out of the ordinary, one is a small waif of a woman, a scarf around the lower half of her face, another is a man roughly 6 feet tall, maybe a bit shorter. He looks a bit...out of place, his trimmed goatee and relatively clean clothes are a rarity here. Only a few feet behind him sits another individual, an individual known for his medical expertise. His name might be Doctor Chop? Whatever, he's probably under an alias anyways, many people often are. The last man is even a stranger sight than the other three and it is clear that he doesn't belong. Fresh-faced and unbroken, he sits nearby, here for reasons of his own. Lastly, there lies a strange man in the corner, his small wiry frame crumpled on the ground. A small puddle of drool is next to his face, and there are dark, rust-colored stains on his plain grey cloak. In the silence, you hear his ragged breathing, and perhaps even occassionally a mutter, incomprehensible over the prospective lovebirds' conversation.
OOC:
If you want more details, feel free to ask about anything.
"Straight, straight!"
"No! Throw a hook, get 'im in the jaw!"
The bloodthirsty cries of man pervade the air. Even though the fighting ring sits a floor beneath you, the thin floor isn't enough to keep the cheers and jeers away. And why shouldn't they scream with such enthusiasm? this was why they had come here, to the Two Flagons Inn, this and that cheap swill they pass as ale. After all, what other pleasures can one find in this cesspool? But here you sit, for reasons of your own, whether it be for blood-sport or for firewater is your own business.
This level, in stark contrast to the one below, has a staggering 12 people, including the bartender himself, who stands behind the counter, wiping the same filthy mug with an even dirtier rag. One man sits collapsed in front of him, the floor around him littered with broken glass, other empty glasses sitting in front of him, waiting to be broken. Two bugbears stand on opposing sides of the room, leaning against the walls, looking bored. Two orcs are avidly engaged in a conversation with a staggeringly beautiful woman, obviously fighting with each other to win her affection. Only five individuals here are out of the ordinary, one is a small waif of a woman, a scarf around the lower half of her face, another is a man roughly 6 feet tall, maybe a bit shorter. He looks a bit...out of place, his trimmed goatee and relatively clean clothes are a rarity here. Only a few feet behind him sits another individual, an individual known for his medical expertise. His name might be Doctor Chop? Whatever, he's probably under an alias anyways, many people often are. The last man is even a stranger sight than the other three and it is clear that he doesn't belong. Fresh-faced and unbroken, he sits nearby, here for reasons of his own. Lastly, there lies a strange man in the corner, his small wiry frame crumpled on the ground. A small puddle of drool is next to his face, and there are dark, rust-colored stains on his plain grey cloak. In the silence, you hear his ragged breathing, and perhaps even occassionally a mutter, incomprehensible over the prospective lovebirds' conversation.
OOC:
If you want more details, feel free to ask about anything.