@Fetzen But does he sing
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- Old Guild Username: SilverPariah
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- Silver 10 yrs ago
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Stony Brook?
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Crap, this isn't Google
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How to get back into roleplaying
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"And if I hear another note of that abominable din you call music, I'll stick a flaming plank so far up your ass your friends will think you're a dragon!"
With that, the barrel-chested innkeep slammed the door in Galen's face, knocking him backwards into the poorly cobbled road. Galen immediately shot back, "Joke's on you, you fat bastard, I don't have any friends!" The few moments of silence he was left in afterwards were enough for him to comprehend the mediocrity of his retort. He sighed, gathering his instruments off the stairs where the innkeep had tossed them, trying his best to ignore the amused glances of bystanders. To his relief, none of the instruments were broken.
Galen was both comforted and severely disturbed by the fact that this was far from the worst eviction he'd suffered. Two months back, he'd narrowly escaped with his life from a boarding cottage, chased down a steep, rocky path by a band of furious brigands who hadn't even bothered to tip. He chose to believe that the true reason for the general contempt with which he was often greeted was the sardonic nature of his songs, rather than the painful tunes he was accused of producing.
Oh well, he thought. It was an art, and art takes practice, and practice needs spectators. How else was he to tell whether he was playing well or not?
He sighed and began walking down the road, trying not to think about it too much. He had few other options besides being a skald. He wasn't strong enough to mine ore or plow fields, nor brave enough to fight raiders and less tasteful beasts. The dagger he carried was little more than a souvenir; it could probably pass for a tableknife at some of the less reputable longhalls in Ballara. No, his instruments were his greatest assets. If nothing else, perhaps he could play music until his assailants ran away in horror.
The more Galen thought about it, the worse he felt, so he decided to quit thinking and start drinking. He turned off the road to the last inn in town from which he had not already been chased, and pushed open the thick oaken door. It was quiet inside, the dank interior lit by a wavering fire at the end of the room. A bearded old man occupied the bar, where Galen sat down, setting his instruments beside his stool.
"Get me something strong, please. I want to die." The innkeep raised an eyebrow and produced a small battleaxe. Galen shook his head; just his luck that he'd encountered the one bartender in the Shieldlands with a sense of humor. "Ale will do fine, thanks," he amended, and gratefully accepted the heavy flagon the barkeep poured him. The already questionable flavor of the ale was made less pleasant by Galen's reluctant realization that he didn't have enough coin in his pouch for many more. He sighed, sat back, and drank his ale in silence.
With that, the barrel-chested innkeep slammed the door in Galen's face, knocking him backwards into the poorly cobbled road. Galen immediately shot back, "Joke's on you, you fat bastard, I don't have any friends!" The few moments of silence he was left in afterwards were enough for him to comprehend the mediocrity of his retort. He sighed, gathering his instruments off the stairs where the innkeep had tossed them, trying his best to ignore the amused glances of bystanders. To his relief, none of the instruments were broken.
Galen was both comforted and severely disturbed by the fact that this was far from the worst eviction he'd suffered. Two months back, he'd narrowly escaped with his life from a boarding cottage, chased down a steep, rocky path by a band of furious brigands who hadn't even bothered to tip. He chose to believe that the true reason for the general contempt with which he was often greeted was the sardonic nature of his songs, rather than the painful tunes he was accused of producing.
Oh well, he thought. It was an art, and art takes practice, and practice needs spectators. How else was he to tell whether he was playing well or not?
He sighed and began walking down the road, trying not to think about it too much. He had few other options besides being a skald. He wasn't strong enough to mine ore or plow fields, nor brave enough to fight raiders and less tasteful beasts. The dagger he carried was little more than a souvenir; it could probably pass for a tableknife at some of the less reputable longhalls in Ballara. No, his instruments were his greatest assets. If nothing else, perhaps he could play music until his assailants ran away in horror.
The more Galen thought about it, the worse he felt, so he decided to quit thinking and start drinking. He turned off the road to the last inn in town from which he had not already been chased, and pushed open the thick oaken door. It was quiet inside, the dank interior lit by a wavering fire at the end of the room. A bearded old man occupied the bar, where Galen sat down, setting his instruments beside his stool.
"Get me something strong, please. I want to die." The innkeep raised an eyebrow and produced a small battleaxe. Galen shook his head; just his luck that he'd encountered the one bartender in the Shieldlands with a sense of humor. "Ale will do fine, thanks," he amended, and gratefully accepted the heavy flagon the barkeep poured him. The already questionable flavor of the ale was made less pleasant by Galen's reluctant realization that he didn't have enough coin in his pouch for many more. He sighed, sat back, and drank his ale in silence.
Since there's 8 of us, it might be kinda difficult to interact right off the bat. If anyone wants to partner up, so to speak, shoot me a PM
Ingrid loves to sing the songs of Old she remembers
Excellent singer though not many have heard him
Skrauti likes the sound of music, often tapping his foot or humming and likes to dance to drums.
Nice to know Galen won't be out of a job
Phineas, a bit surprised by the whole turn of events, hurried to the two soldiers and grabbed their pistols. He stuffed them into the bag, along with all of the other objects that had been dumped onto the sand. He slung the bag over his shoulder and looked to the rugged vehicle that the soldiers had arrived in. It seemed to be a rover of some sort, built for the harsh dunes of the desert. The wheels were large and textured.
"Can't be that hard," he said, looking back at Eliza. "I don't see that I have much of a choice." He glanced over his shoulder at Zanzik. The small outpost was barely a mile away. The soldiers would survive, although he wasn't sure that was the most desirable outcome.
"Let's move it, then," he said, and climbed into the driver's seat. The console was rather alien to him, but the arrangement of the various levers and dials seemed familiar enough. He pulled a bar to the right of the wheel and the engine sputtered to life.
"That's more like it," he said to himself.
"Can't be that hard," he said, looking back at Eliza. "I don't see that I have much of a choice." He glanced over his shoulder at Zanzik. The small outpost was barely a mile away. The soldiers would survive, although he wasn't sure that was the most desirable outcome.
"Let's move it, then," he said, and climbed into the driver's seat. The console was rather alien to him, but the arrangement of the various levers and dials seemed familiar enough. He pulled a bar to the right of the wheel and the engine sputtered to life.
"That's more like it," he said to himself.
Phineas, a bit surprised by the whole turn of events, hurried to the two soldiers and grabbed their pistols. He stuffed them into the bag, along with all of the other objects that had been dumped onto the sand. He slung the bag over his shoulder and looked to the rugged vehicle that the soldiers had arrived in. It seemed to be a rover of some sort, built for the harsh dunes of the desert. The wheels were large and textured.
"Can't be that hard," he said, looking back at Eliza. "I don't see that I have much of a choice." He glanced over his shoulder at Zanzik. The small outpost was barely a mile away. The soldiers would survive, although he wasn't sure that was the most desirable outcome.
"Let's move it, then," he said, and climbed into the driver's seat. The console was rather alien to him, but the arrangement of the various levers and dials seemed familiar enough. He pulled a bar to the right of the wheel and the engine sputtered to life.
"That's more like it," he said to himself.
"Can't be that hard," he said, looking back at Eliza. "I don't see that I have much of a choice." He glanced over his shoulder at Zanzik. The small outpost was barely a mile away. The soldiers would survive, although he wasn't sure that was the most desirable outcome.
"Let's move it, then," he said, and climbed into the driver's seat. The console was rather alien to him, but the arrangement of the various levers and dials seemed familiar enough. He pulled a bar to the right of the wheel and the engine sputtered to life.
"That's more like it," he said to himself.
Phineas stepped in front of Eliza, one arm protectively hovering in front of her, the other extending to ward off the leader. Eliza was sobbing now; if she was faking her terror, she was doing a damn good job of it. Phineas addressed the leader, voice shaky.
"Now listen here, you... er, gentleman. This 'woman' is no animal to be beaten and scolded. She is my wife, and it would do well for you to treat her with an ounce of respect. Now, we are British citizens, and we wish to..."
His voice trailed off as it became apparent that the leader wasn't listening to him in the slightest. The burly man's eyes were cast to the ground, focused on the pile of belongings he had dumped from their bags. Slowly, he stooped down and brushed aside a shirt, dislodging a small box from the sand. The leader lifted it into the air, and turned it slowly. One by one, several dozen rounds of pistol ammunition tinkled out of the box and on to the dune. The leader threw the empty box in disgust and turned to Phineas, an expression of cold fury on his countenance.
"You tourists?" he repeated, somehow adding an edge of sarcasm to his rough voice.
"Now listen here, you... er, gentleman. This 'woman' is no animal to be beaten and scolded. She is my wife, and it would do well for you to treat her with an ounce of respect. Now, we are British citizens, and we wish to..."
His voice trailed off as it became apparent that the leader wasn't listening to him in the slightest. The burly man's eyes were cast to the ground, focused on the pile of belongings he had dumped from their bags. Slowly, he stooped down and brushed aside a shirt, dislodging a small box from the sand. The leader lifted it into the air, and turned it slowly. One by one, several dozen rounds of pistol ammunition tinkled out of the box and on to the dune. The leader threw the empty box in disgust and turned to Phineas, an expression of cold fury on his countenance.
"You tourists?" he repeated, somehow adding an edge of sarcasm to his rough voice.
LET'S GO TO AFRICA..YOU..YOU SAID!
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