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(Archive) The biter bit?

Tags: Delling,  Brev,  Naverine,  Ban

Short Summary: Delling's arrows of mockery misfire when he chooses the wrong target and finds his listeners united against him.
Date (real-life): 2013-01-27
Scene Location: Esgaroth: Fiery Flagon
Date (in-game): January 3058
Time of Day: Evening
Fiery Flagon

The Fiery Flagon has long been a nexus for gossip and comradary in Esgaroth. The room is still scattered with evenly placed tables, each piece of furniture well smoothed and ready to provide a comfortable seat and a place for a mug to the inn's patrons. Against one wall, a large brick fireplace stands proudly, a number of iron tools and an extra pile of wood huddled on the hearth. To the side of the fireplace there is a large window with thick glass which looks out onto Bowman Street, the words "The Fiery Flagon" painted in common across the pane so they might be read from the road.

The bar occupies another wall of the room, standing as a stout guard before the neat rows of bottles, glasses, boxes and kegs. It is perhaps this piece of heavy, dark wood that shows the most evidence of a recent fire. The base of the bar still shows the scorchmarks from the flames, although the entire bar has been polished so much that it will neither chip nor flake ever again. Carved deeply into the center of the bar is the tavern's sigil: a mug overflowing with flame.

Behind the bar a doorway vanishes into a kitchen area, whee rumour has it a small courtyard can be found.

Obvious exits:
 Up the stairwell leads to Sleeping Quarters.
 Swinging Doors leads to Center of Bowman Street.
 Back Door leads to The Market Square.


Dale-Lands Time and Weather Service

Real Time: Sun Jan 27 15:19:17 2013 MST

Dale-Lands Time:
Monday, late night on a stormy winter's night, January 16 of 3058


[Delling(#17990)] Outside the winter winds howl and rip harshly through the evening, lashing wave and land with flurries of snow. Inside the Fiery Flagon, in the warmth and the cheer and the noise, a different voice altogether dominates - that of the bard Delling.

"Yet I think you agree, Dalemen all over -
The beer is a friend, solace and lover
And I'll die, if my will may prevail,l
holding a flagon of foamy ale!"

Thus he finishes his song and takes a bow to the sound of applause, one foot on the table and the other on the chair. He even sweeps off his hat before setting it back at a jaunty angle when he straightens up again. The minstrel grins broadly when he finds coin is making it his way ere he announces, "And now, a break! Singing is thirsty work!" Clearly not the first song of the evening then and light as a cat on his feet Delling jumps down, keeping his lute carefully pressed to his body.

Perhaps Brev was hoping for a quiet entrance, but the wind has other ideas. The swinging door jerks inward, letting in a blast of snow and a gust of icy air and raising a chorus of swearing and orders (accompanied by varying degrees of obscenity) to 'shut the bloody thing!'. He shoulders it shut again, then leans against it wearily, shaking snowflakes from his grey cloak, before even starting to look round to see who's within.

[Celys(#13888)] Not too long after Brev's arrival, the doors open once again to allow in a storm-wracked figure, wrapped in a thoroughly drenched cloak of black velvet, snow still clinging to the shoulders. The door slams shut behind with a resouding THUD loud enough to momentarily silence the bar--this sort of noise is often the precursor to something ominous, or at least interesting. The figure is not, alas, forthcoming with drama: whoever it is seizes a corner not too far from the minstrel's recently vacated table. Whoever it is has also not apparently learned that wearing a fancy black hooded cloak in a bar is not a good way to remain unnoticed.

Some of the patrons clap and cheer. One of them standing at the bar is clapping more politely than anything else. He still has a cloak and scarf about him, though any snow on him has since melted and dried. The clapping is the distinctive sound of his left hand hitting into the black leather glove on his right. Grabbing the carved walking stick leaning up against the bar, he tucks it under his arm, and carries two pints towards the minstrel's table.

"Master Delling," Ban says politely. "Master Brue thought you could use something to drink." He sets both mugs down on the table, and looks up at the two drafts that chill the room.

[Delling(#17990)] Delling, who took such a long time making sure his lute was neatly tucked into the case, has not yet had the time to scurry up to the bar - surprise is upper-most in his blue eyes and then he bows his head. "My thanks, Master Ban. Been a while since I saw you, I'd say." He too looks towards the door and breaks out into a grin which he quickly masks. "You know," he begins to tell the moneylender, "I can't help but think that anyone who would keep their hood down like that, well, they're up to no good." He jerks his head in the direction of the figure heading towards the table near them and then sits down, reaching for his mug.

Brev stumbles away from the door as it reopens, muttering something under his breath and rubbing a bruised shoulder. He shows no immediate inclination to challenge the highly suspicious hooded figure, though he does give the velvet a good long look and one dark brow arches slightly. He makes his way in toward the warmth a little behind him/her/it, pausing only when he spies just who's been entertaining the crowds tonight. "Master Rhinvan," he greets wearily, though politely enough. "And Master Delling."

[Celys(#13888)] Not too long after old velvet-cloak's arrival, one of the servers arrives at its table with a mug of something and a bowl of something else--both of them, apparently, reasonably hot. The server sets them down with a polite bob and a "Is there anything else, milady?"

"No, thank you." The hood falls back as she takes up the mug--the pale features and dark hair belong to Lady Naverine Arathmor. She looks less than pleased to be here (but she always looks like that), though the bulk of her glare is reserved for the minstrel who is talking about her.

"Master Brev," Ban says with a smile that is, to all appearances, utterly genuine. "Master Delling was just, ah-" When the Arathmor reveals herself, he stops talking, instead offering a half-bow in her direction. "-singing," he finishes primly.

[Delling(#17990)] "Why, Master Brev! Do sit down!" Delling delivers the invitation so cheerfully that anyone would be right to be suspicious. His teeth gleam as he fires off a smile. "Why, I can't seem to recall, when was the last time the three of us sat at the same table..." he drawls, making a point of tapping his chin. "Why, yes! Of course! It was when your wife-" he points to Ban, "was still his wife," and he points to Brev, "but had recently left him for you! And I'm /sure/ there was some other fellow inbetween... Ah, and to think you called her a whore, Master Brev." After a moment he seems to realise that someone is glaring at him and he offers the Arathmor a blank-faced nod ere murmuring to Ban, "Should I know who that is, or why she is staring so hard at me, Master Moneylender?"

"You don't sound too sure about that," Brev murmurs in reponse to Ban. There's a ripple of amusement in his singsong tones as he glances toward the minstrel.

Delling's speech, of course, has him stiffening despite the fact that he's not its main target. "I'd be careful what I recollect, were I you," he suggests to the minstrel, his expression studiously neutral. If a certain carved cane were to slip, or - say - a bowl of scalding stew to be spilled over that priceless instrument, I doubt too many would mourn." Mention of a 'she' and 'staring' causes him to glance toward Naverine before adding airily, "I expect it's your filthy mouth, Master Delling. We're not all equally impressed by it."

To the Arathmor herself he offers a blank nod.

[Celys(#13888)] Naverine rises from her seat to approach the table of the minstrel. "I was only curious if the minstrel was planning to sing further this evening," she says, her tone approximately as icy as the weather outside. She gives a similarly blank nod in greeting to the carpenter. Her attention, for the moment, is fixed on the minstrel.

    Ban looks no happier than Brev, and looks, if anything, more hostile and less neutral. Eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring, and his cheeks going even paler - their pallor is nearly gray - his gloved hand tightens on the walking stick. He doesn't answer Delling's inquiry about the Arathmor; he says nothing at all. Indeed, it's possible he is quite speechless.

[Delling(#17990)] Delling's grin never wavers. "Oho? I wonder how that fine new House of yours would like you making threats, Master Brev." Still, he shrugs and leaves it, glancing up as Naverine approaches. The minstrel slowly rises, affording the noblewoman a bow. "If my lady wants another song I will song," he replies mildly, "and if she does not wish it, why, then I'll be quiet as a mouse." Perhaps he regrets baiting Ban quite so much - whatever the reason, he takes a moment to look over his shoulder and to the moneylender add in quiet tones, "Come now, Master Ban. You can't cuckold another man and expect to hear nothing of it. We exist to make sport for our neighbours, and be laughed at in turn. Why, I'm sure my woman is out putting horns on my head in this very moment, and you are free to laugh about it." He breaks off the murmured litany and promptly turns back to Naverine. Whether Ban finds it a comfort or no, well...

At Delling's words Brev's mouth opens and then he presses it firmly shut again. What, he's been silenced? Apparently so, even if it's temporary. He watches as Naverine is addressed, one corner of his mouth twitching slightly; by the time the minstrel's done with his speech he's recovered his wits enough to state composedly, "House Taurdain's concern is for the welfare of Laketown and those who work toward it."

Alone amongst the group he does not yet have an ale in hand, and he doesn't look like to order one. Perhaps the threat of Delling's songs will be enough to send him packing?

[Celys(#13888)] Naverine nods her head and rummages in a pocket, briefly flashing a gold coin at the minstrel. "If you refrain from singing, and from annoying me in any way, for the duration of my visit, there is a gold florin in it for you," she says coldly. "That includes leaving these men in peace. There is nothing more irritating than watching a man attempt to be clever when he is not."

Is Ban still breathing? Apparently so, as he finally says in a chill, raspy voice that is unlikely to carry beyond their little circle, "You will refrain from speaking of this matter to me again." He coughs once, and his voice returns to its normal tones. "I have never had to blacklist a customer for anything short of violence, and I do not want to have to start now."

He relaxes his face, though tension remains in his shoulders. "Perhaps another time, Master Delling, we will meet more courteously. But for now, I find I have less desire to entertain - or be the entertainment."

Leaving his mug where it sits, Ban bows once more to the Arathmor with a quiet "my Lady," nods to the foreigner and adds, "Master Brev, goodnight." Then he takes a few steps back, resettling his cloak about his shoulders and pulling his hood up.

[Delling(#17990)] Delling throws his head back, bursting into laughter. "Oh, my lady," he gasps between chuckles, "think you that one little florin would be enough to make this tongue stop running?" He grins and quickly wipes at his eyes. "I'll accept the rebuke, but the money you may keep, lady. I make no promises to be silent, nor to refrain from pointing out folly when I see it, be it someone else's or my own. Now, may I offer you a seat?"

His ears, however, catch the sound of Ban's voice and he actually turns to regard the man, brows knitting together briefly. Then he nods and makes an expansive gesture; "Another time, Master Ban. I will tread more softly." And that is as likely as anyone of the male sex is to get an apology out of Delling. The minstrel crosses his arms, gaze sliding between Brev and the lady and he sighs loudly. "Well, my lady," he complains, "you've taken the fun out of the evening so now I may as well sing instead of asking the future Lord Taurdain here whatever he could have done to earn such high and noble favour."

"Goodnight, Master Rhinvan." Is that softening of Brev's gaze something akin to pity? He nods politely to the moneylender, at any rate.

Delling's exchange with Naverine is not commented on immediately; rather the carpenter lets one dark brow up and then regards the minstrel with an expression of studious blankness. "What future lord would that be? As a retainer of that House, I can inform you that House Taurdain is quite content with its present nobles." A stiff little bow, then there's a slight twitching at one corner of his mouth as he adds, striving for gravity, "not to mention adequately supplied with excellent minstrels."

To Naverine he inclines his head. "Enjoy your evening, Lady of Arathmor. I'm afraid such singing is not to my taste." Then he steps away, heading back toward the door. Perhaps if he's lucky it will now be less chilly outside than within.

[Celys(#13888)] "You may well offer me a seat," says Naverine, "but I can't fathom why you'd think I would accept it." She looks the minstrel over very carefully, as if attempting to commit every detail to memory--and it does not look like she is doing this with friendly intentions. "Still," she says at length, as if she has reached a decision, "I do hope you have a pleasant evening." These words have probably never sounded more hostile, and the cold little smile she offers after does not help matters. She returns to her table and returns her attention to her meal.

[Delling(#17990)] Again there is that knotting of Delling's brow, as if dark thoughts are gathering. Is he... experiencing regret? He scratches his chin and in puzzlement mutters to himself, "When was I /ever/ a customer of Ban Rhinvan?" Shaking his head he goes back to plying his trade, this time with a languishing love song.

Date added: 2014-11-28 10:19:34    Hits: 65
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