The Bird and the Bear

(Bear and Boot, Kestrel please)

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Jenson
Posts: 25
Joined: Tue Jul 10, 2018 6:39 am
Topics: 7
Race: Wick
Location: Old Rose Harbour
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Crosspatch
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Mon Jul 16, 2018 3:46 pm

17 Roalis 2718
Evening
The windows were open in the Bear and Boot, the pub door propped open out into the street. A gentle breeze trickled in, moving the otherwise stifling air. The hearth was dead and had been for some time, the inside swept out to reveal only a dark sooty back. The rest of the interior was much as it normally would be, all manner of labourers at the long tables in the heat; some shirtless, others dabbing at their necks and drinking their pints. Jenson himself however was currently leaning against the bar, elbows planted either side of his well weathered almanac. Not that it exactly looked like one, it was more consisting of a bunch of squares and circles on a page with various strips of long faded colour bleeding across it. His lips twitched, tracing the outline of one of the squares before a patron came over.

His musing paused, the Wick gave a smile. The usual evening crowd had gathered, tired from a day's work and filled with the baker's scraps some hundred yards down the road. Now they were looking to waste away the evening, before drunkenly staggering home to whatever waited for them - some to empty beds, others to wives. It was not his place to pry, only to quietly make notes beneath the counter and mentally record the on goings. After all, knowing was half the battle. Taking the tankard, his eyes followed the patron's gesture to the Fisher's Brown. A small turn and pivot he filled it with the malty contents before sliding it back. Coin slapped down, he scrapped it away beneath the counter, everything was done.

Jenson's nose twitched. There was the scent of tobacco once more, the usual smoker's club gently puffing away. The thin layer of smoke settled around them. But there was another smell, sweeter and foreign that caught his attention. His gaze scanned the pub, before he settled back to his almanac. His head turned as he caught the image in his vision once more, lip curling in amusement, "Heh. Looks like a donkey."

It was the trilling of Beatrice that drew him away from the image once more, followed by a firm bump of the head into his shoulder. The yellow eyes stared at him demandingly and he obliged with a pat. His lips twisted. The scent was getting stronger now, more noticeable as he took in a deeper inhale - a faint almost citrus after burn. His eyes moved, squinting and narrowing down. There were strangers in his bar, he realised that now. They had come to the bar relatively quickly, a pair of greasy looking men - weedy looking in comparison to the dock workers - requested only a half pint of Squire's Delight, and sat as far as physically possible away from the door. Hunched in, they kept their heads down for the most part. He was certain there was a small satchel wedged between the pair of them, some rolled up tobacco based spliff hanging limply from their lips.

He regretted not paying too much attention to them. He gave a tut, tucking the almanac under the bar out if sight. The cat continued to paw at him however, tail held high and the trilling growing louder. Her paw swatted at him firmly, before she bounded down across the bar. The Wick gave her a quizzical look, "Well thank you, your Highness." His gaze shifted to look upon one of the Patrons who sharply stood, bench scraping on the flooring beneath. Another one of the dockworkers, he thought at first a fight was going to break out by the way another rose as well. Sapped, waxy skin, a swaying of movement. It was the cupping of hands over the mouth and the juddering of shoulders that revealed the truth.

"Oi! Oi! Take it outside! Don't you be sick in here now!" he cursed under his breath, "Bloody piss head."
Crosspatch

Business: Bear and Boot | The Bear's Journal | Time Zone: GMT

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Kestrel
Posts: 24
Joined: Thu May 03, 2018 10:09 pm
Topics: 3
Race: Wick
: smoke and wings
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: [url=http:/fullurl/]Plot Notes[/url]
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Thu Jul 19, 2018 1:01 am

The Boot and Bear
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Kestrel rolled her eyes as she sat haphazardly on the ledge of a balcony, shrouded from view by the overhanging rafters. The thugs below her were little more than walking gorillas, but they had the sense, at least, to be organizing their transaction out of the public eye. The Leashers had some intelligence among them, but the field grunts tended to be picked from the lowest common denominator; disposable chattel that could be sacrificed to the law if things got hairy.

Kestrel could only recognize one of them; Ringer, a large man with a balding head he was desperate to hide by combing over what little ginger locks remained over his forehead. He seemed to be organizing the transaction, from what she could gather from her vantage above them. The location was vaguely familiar: The Bear and Boot. She couldn't recall having ever stepped foot in that establishment but she heard it was a place to get decent liquor. Maybe after dealing with this, she could drink her night away in solitary victory.

The witch's eyes flicked toward movement as the men began to saunter down the narrow alley toward their intended destination. She stretched her legs before moving into a crouch, using her hands and slippered feet to hoist herself onto the rooftop. While she had been raised an acrobat, the Muluku witch still had to be careful not to tip over the edge and plummet to her death. The last thing she wanted to do was disappoint Hawke for her failure at such a simple parkour.

With her yellow eyes trained on the three loafs, she watched them walk into the establishment they'd indicated. Kestrel held her breath for a few moments, counting the seconds on her fingers until she hit the two minute mark. The witch dropped to her feet on the ground floor with barely a sound, dust settling from the impact. She walked past the looming buildings, the water from the harbor lapping against the piers as she pushed the door open to the tavern. There was commotion already; some man pushed past her just as he was about to expel the contents of his stomach. Kestrel's lip rose in disgust, and her gaze rose first to the red haired man who'd seemed to have been pre-occupied with the two men leaving the pub.

She saw the transaction just as the parcel of drugs left the Leasher's hands. Hawke had wanted her to trail the Leashers to see where the stolen parcels of drugs were going, and it appeared that it was going straight into the hands of a merchant's hound dog. Was a merchant interested in entering the drug trade? Perhaps that was information that would be useful to the King. For now...

"Selling to netche, now, eh?" Kestrel spoke up as she approached, for now, leaving her knives at her belt. "Tsk, thought you'd know better than to steal from the King, Ringer."

The large human man turned at her voice, lips curling up in a toothy grin. "Well well, if it ain't Hawke's little tumble wench."

"Where's the rest of it, Ringer," She said plainly, ignoring his comment for now, as well as anyone else in the pub, who seemed to be getting up at the sight of a brewing confrontation. "You know this wouldn't have lasted long, natt."

Ringer let out a rough laugh as the man he'd been dealing with looked between them in confusion. "Stealing? Ne. Hawke doesn't need so much territory, ye see; hard to manage, so you could call this a pina favor. Keep your little plump mouth shut and maybe we won't see about cutting out yer tongue, eh?"

Clever. Kestrel rolled her eyes, and without another word to the humans, she beckoned under breath, requesting the mona to will the furniture to fly. It was quick and dirty, and she felt the thrum of energy as her whole arm swung like she was throwing a punch, and the table and chairs went flying, slamming into the four men that had gathered round the table.

I guess I'm the bad guy tonight, kov. Kestrel shook her head and cracked her fingers as the men let out collective groans and stumbled back to their feet.

User avatar
Jenson
Posts: 25
Joined: Tue Jul 10, 2018 6:39 am
Topics: 7
Race: Wick
Location: Old Rose Harbour
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Crosspatch
Post Templates: Post Templates

Fri Jul 20, 2018 6:24 am

bear and boot | evening
17 Roalis 2718
Beatrice tottered away, down from the bar. She moved, head gently bumping against the various legs of patrons, curling between legs and chirping. One of the older sailors gave her a fussing, cooing down at her. She indulged him, for a few seconds at least, curiously patting him with her paws before being firmly turned off by his over pungent breath. She snorted, skipping away beneath one of the other tables. These one were strangers, new people to meet and know – ever curious she circled around the chair legs and dipped out of sight.

Jenson, of course, lost sight of the cat the moment she disappeared among the patrons. His focus was more on the drunk. He breathed a sigh as they went outside, the faint choking vomiting noise creeping in from outside. It was one less headache, he could always slosh the remains away in the morning without too much effort. It was when they were inside that the smell lingered, no matter how much he attempted to scrub it out. He puffed his cheeks, leaning back against the barrels. For the moment it was calm, the previous two attracting another three. He did not think anything of it at the time, they were simply friends he reasoned.

Another customer came up, depositing a several tankards with a slam. His attention snatched, he heard the loud declaration of ‘Shots!’ – and knew instantly they were referring to the yellow rot. He pulled out the small tumblers, pouring out the putrid smelling whiskey. He heard coin being slapped down, the tumblers being snatched up. There was a raucous cheer, a group of younger lads enthusiastic about the drink. A small clink, and it disappeared down the hatch.

Laughter caught his ears, a tall, barrel of a man who was looking down upon another. A smaller figure, dwarfed in comparison was standing toe to toe. He saw the shifting of the closer patrons, uneasy as the accusations started to come out. His hands rested upon the surface of the bar, the yellow orbs transfixed on the situation. He watched it, fingers balling into a fist, chin raising.

The sharp, forceful movement of the mona caught him off guard. The crunch of noise as the table shifted, bodies staggered and trapped beneath. His lips cracked open, jaw growing slack as the obvious display of power rumbled forth. By the way she moved she was the culprit of the groaning. Even now they righted themselves, a bodies juddering into life. Yet there was something else that his attention was snapped to.

”BEATRICE!” he bellowed across the bar – seemingly out of character given his normally softly spoken tones. It was enough to cause a few of the patron’s heads to turn. He clambered over the bar without thought, awkward as he barged past the closest.

It was at the foot of the staggered table that a low, angered hiss rumbled out from the cat. Back arched, ears flat, the fur across her body standing on end. Mere moments before she had been nothing more than a curious creature, playing with the laces of one of the Patrons. She received some ire, but this? Another hiss moaned out from her throat, her body jerking away from the large human as he threw a punch. The rest of the patrons shifted, some breaking out into a cheers others shifting to avoid the narrowing fight. The Wick continued to shout however, ”BEATRICE. DON’T YOU DARE. NOT IN MY PUB. NOT TO MY CAT.”

He was on top of them quickly, left arm reaching out to grab the cat by the scruff. Her claws instinctively reached out and clung to his arm, a warbling noise rattling between them. Mind far too transfixed on the cat however, he missed the coming around of the second swing. He felt the fist before seeing it; feet staggering as the pain passed through his jaw and his head whipping to the side. Another one of these thugs moved, over the table and moving to swarm.

Fist clenching, he swung with his free right at the one who struck him, the other holding the cat close to his chest.
Crosspatch

Business: Bear and Boot | The Bear's Journal | Time Zone: GMT
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