[Closed]I Have What You Need, And It'll Cost You
Posted: Mon Nov 09, 2020 8:48 pm
34 Achtus 2719
Mimsbury-in-the-Marsh
The dawn had brought with it rain. Rain, rain, and then more rain. The leaden sky seemed to be under some magic spell, where the clouds never emptied, and man, wick and beast alike was like to be drowned before the last drop was wrung from them. Along with the rain came a steady, hard blowing wind, with the bite of the coming deep winter’s cold in its teeth. Like a fretful, noisome child, the occasional gusts were near enough to blow a man over, making the bare branches of the scrubby trees rattle. Holes and gaps under the eaves and around the windows let in the moans and sighs and screeches of the air spirits and every inhabitant of the village sought shelter where they could, even the knaves and scoundrels.
Ross, fitting into at least one of those descriptors, and possibly all of them, hurried across the raised boards that served to keep feet (and ankles and knees sometimes) out of the mud that was ever present, but of varying depths. The taproom, which in no way was esteemed enough to warrant the name tavern, or pub, or even bar, leaned a bit leeward, as if the decades of such mean treatment by the weather had put a permanently resigned slouch in the set of its shoulders. Its exterior, grey and drab as the clouds above and the mud below, formed the perfect camouflage, as it squatted in the mire. Mimsbury seemed truly to be in the marsh, at times, or certain sections of it did, and on this day it seemed as if perhaps it would finally let go of its tenuous grasp of solid ground and slide right in lock, stock and barrel.
Just to make an ugly point, the sky shot down pellets of ice, as Ross gained the entrance to his chosen place of refuge. The bits of hail bounced off his hat, his coat, the walkway, disappearing quickly wherever it hit the mud. He pulled the door open quickly and passed into the muggy warmth of the smoky, malodorous interior. Touches of dry rot, and damp rot, and mold stretched searching fingers along its warped floorboards, and snaked up table legs and across benches. A few steps brought him to an equally buckled and bent counter, behind which lounged the barman, also owner and manager of the establishment. He gave a slight nod of acknowledgment, and a whistling greeting from behind cracked teeth. Ross returned same with a grunt, hips against the well-worn edge of wood, digging a coin from his pocket, and sliding it across the stained surface.
There was no need to order any specific type of draught. There was only one on offer, a weak ale that many likened to horse piss. The barman shoved a greasy looking tankard at Ross, who took it silently, leaving the coin on the counter, and turning to see if he could find a seat. For despite its pronounced lack of appeal, the hovel was a draw, to those who avoided the few other drinking establishments in the village. The weather had driven them all to roost, and what a perfect murder of crows they looked, all dark and flapping and restless, with beady eyes roving ceaselessly about, clacking and clattering as they spoke in deep, low voices. Spying a spot on an as yet empty bench, against a wall, far from the smoking fire, Ross wove between the denizens of this dreary dive and sat down, legs stretched out before him, the ale pot resting on his thigh. The hail continued for a few minutes more, peppering the grimy windows, drumming on the roof.
He had just raised the ale to his lips, when through a haze of tobacco smoke he saw the door open again. He watched, with no keen interest, but with idle curiosity, as the newcomer made their entrance. One eyebrow lifted, but that was the extent of his reaction, regardless of whether what he was now looking at was to be expected, in such a place, on such a day, or not.
Mimsbury-in-the-Marsh
The dawn had brought with it rain. Rain, rain, and then more rain. The leaden sky seemed to be under some magic spell, where the clouds never emptied, and man, wick and beast alike was like to be drowned before the last drop was wrung from them. Along with the rain came a steady, hard blowing wind, with the bite of the coming deep winter’s cold in its teeth. Like a fretful, noisome child, the occasional gusts were near enough to blow a man over, making the bare branches of the scrubby trees rattle. Holes and gaps under the eaves and around the windows let in the moans and sighs and screeches of the air spirits and every inhabitant of the village sought shelter where they could, even the knaves and scoundrels.
Ross, fitting into at least one of those descriptors, and possibly all of them, hurried across the raised boards that served to keep feet (and ankles and knees sometimes) out of the mud that was ever present, but of varying depths. The taproom, which in no way was esteemed enough to warrant the name tavern, or pub, or even bar, leaned a bit leeward, as if the decades of such mean treatment by the weather had put a permanently resigned slouch in the set of its shoulders. Its exterior, grey and drab as the clouds above and the mud below, formed the perfect camouflage, as it squatted in the mire. Mimsbury seemed truly to be in the marsh, at times, or certain sections of it did, and on this day it seemed as if perhaps it would finally let go of its tenuous grasp of solid ground and slide right in lock, stock and barrel.
Just to make an ugly point, the sky shot down pellets of ice, as Ross gained the entrance to his chosen place of refuge. The bits of hail bounced off his hat, his coat, the walkway, disappearing quickly wherever it hit the mud. He pulled the door open quickly and passed into the muggy warmth of the smoky, malodorous interior. Touches of dry rot, and damp rot, and mold stretched searching fingers along its warped floorboards, and snaked up table legs and across benches. A few steps brought him to an equally buckled and bent counter, behind which lounged the barman, also owner and manager of the establishment. He gave a slight nod of acknowledgment, and a whistling greeting from behind cracked teeth. Ross returned same with a grunt, hips against the well-worn edge of wood, digging a coin from his pocket, and sliding it across the stained surface.
There was no need to order any specific type of draught. There was only one on offer, a weak ale that many likened to horse piss. The barman shoved a greasy looking tankard at Ross, who took it silently, leaving the coin on the counter, and turning to see if he could find a seat. For despite its pronounced lack of appeal, the hovel was a draw, to those who avoided the few other drinking establishments in the village. The weather had driven them all to roost, and what a perfect murder of crows they looked, all dark and flapping and restless, with beady eyes roving ceaselessly about, clacking and clattering as they spoke in deep, low voices. Spying a spot on an as yet empty bench, against a wall, far from the smoking fire, Ross wove between the denizens of this dreary dive and sat down, legs stretched out before him, the ale pot resting on his thigh. The hail continued for a few minutes more, peppering the grimy windows, drumming on the roof.
He had just raised the ale to his lips, when through a haze of tobacco smoke he saw the door open again. He watched, with no keen interest, but with idle curiosity, as the newcomer made their entrance. One eyebrow lifted, but that was the extent of his reaction, regardless of whether what he was now looking at was to be expected, in such a place, on such a day, or not.