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Messages - RollinsCat
Humming. Always the humming. The place is clean and kept-up, but here and there the years show; in the way his feet scuff on the floors where polish has given way to unsanded wood, in the slight gouges and nicks on the bar-top that feel like musical braille under his fingertips. His whiskey-aged baritone hums what his fingers feel; an orchestral score of decades of revelry, tears, and drunken debates. He should write it down. He probably won't.
A lone man drinks at the end of the long slab of wood, pulling on a pint of something dark. Thick-built with skin like old panther leather, the man says nothing as the bard strokes the bar. He does not even look up. But a few bars in, his voice - rough as a plank - joins, deep and untrained, a thrum that feels like solid rock to the bard's flights of vocal fancy. There is no audience save a singularly unimpressed, plump, butter-colored cat that seems to have taken up residence in the great hall, and no interruptions for several minutes until a thunderclap punctuates the strange duet. The man sitting at the bar ceases his singing, staring into his beer, and the bard stills his hands as the vibrations spread until the waves of improvisation have rippled out of the room. Then, with a slight smile, the bard takes up a parchment and begins to tally the liquors.
The aged bard looks left from his perch on the stage's edge, squinting - his spectacles have gone missing - from under unruly bangs more smoke than shade. "Charlie." His quirky smile is etched in the corners of his mouth and around his eyes. "Things are quiet around here. Is that good or bad?"
Slow. Measured. A scuff of flicked dust breaks the tap-tap of wooden heels; a shuffle here, a pause there. The fleshy whisper of fingertips across oak. Another seven steps, each holding back just a little.
The sound of a drum - not full, no reverberation, just a tap that fills the space around it like a pebble in a pool. A gentle thump, and the whuff of cloth.
Then, silence but for a shiver of wheezing.
Mari comes in and leans on the ledger table for what seems like, and is, hours, occasionally flicking tiny gobbits of rotting flesh from her armor. Finally finding her balance; 17707 Credit; she takes six potions of lore (2880) and starts swigging. A few gags later, she lets out a massive burp and leaves:
Crafted Wand of Lightning Bolt (5060 * 0.75 = 3795); Ingot of Iron (75); six Dark Spider Silk (402); Hold Monster (1500); Endurance (350); Expedition Retreat (250); 17707 + 6372 - 2880 = 3492. Additonally she leaves a note.
A missive from Ferrit reaches a red-coat deep in tavern territory on Alindor. Tapping the vellum against one dark cheek, the man finishes an ale that lost its froth months before it was unkegged and moseys loosely into the sun.
The little witch is mostly quiet. Her examinations don't stop at magical tasting; catching Neema's and Ceviran's eyes, she runs gentle fingers over the smooth skin of the face, feeling the for dips and edges that mark bone. Her touch glides over flesh-covered eye sockets, pressing lightly to feel for orbs underneath, and over the lower mandible, pressing harder to check lower jaw impressions and for the resistance of a tongue. She also checks for herself Quill's observation of the smooth junctions of the suffocating facial skin to the rest of the woman's body. "Mister Quill, would you allow us to assist in the removal of this flesh so we can better understand what happened? Transmutation may only be part of it."
"Mister Quill! Hello!" The petite woman smiles, walking to the body but not touching, respectful of the undertaker's work. "I've been fine, but I've missed your teaching! I heard about this incident and hoped I could be of help?" Lola extends her magical sense to the body, teasing apart any threads of the Al'Noth sensed as a tailor would a knot.
« on: October 23, 2015, 03:08:20 pm »
"Fern...you are the bat dung expert, so I'll leave the spreading of that to your, ah, expert hands." Resting one hand on a hip, he has another look around the former town's center. "Let's...Muse, there is a lot to do. Let's start with one rain shelter. We can use the foundation and walls...there, and put a roof of some sort on it and board it up so animals won't get the supplies. You don't want a raccoon running off with that pie, do you Jo?" The bard heads for the first destroyed house, singing again, and starts hauling out whatever useful wood there is and setting it aside.
« on: October 21, 2015, 11:36:36 am »
A half-smile. The bard's eyes are warm but he does not tease. "Oly, Zig, Griff; Quenton, as well; and Mari MacMurray of Llast. I can send ahead the Trues for the wagon, and you can owe me. I'm sure, following Rofirien, you're good for it." A brisk rubbing of his long-fingered hands. "Are you fed? We can get started. Let's find Fern, shall we?"
« on: October 20, 2015, 03:21:02 pm »
"I can stay a bit and lend my back. I can even sing us some extra strength and speed. But, I will have to move on in a week or so, I'm called to Taur'en. I haven't heard from the others, but I can only presume they'll be coming along. Oh - here - pie!" With a smile and a florish he pulls from his own pack a large blackberry pie, carefully wrapped and sugary enough to stay preserved. It joins a small pile of preserved meats, dried fruit, hard cheeses, and flours. "When I go I'll happily send bird messages to whomever you wish. Give me names, I'll see they are summoned to help at Vale. I'll make sure they bring more supplies as well." He scans the sky. "I think we should build a real shelter here, even just a small wooden one to keep the rain out - there's enough lumber left. What do you think?"
« on: October 20, 2015, 01:41:44 pm »
He can probably hear the bard coming a half-mile away. The song's tempo is contemplative, and the tenor, while not at the bard's younger heights, balances with a soothing depth of baritone on the low end. The song carries over the stone wall along with footsteps, although no bard can be seen.
"Once round the sun I licked your fingers
Snow’s come and snow has gone again
Salt and warm and sticky lingers
Less of now and more of then
Snow’s come and snow has gone again
Words exchanged with interest due
Less of now, and more of then
I see more, and less, of you
Words exchanged with interest due
Rate’s not what it was last spring
I see more and less of you
Low risk does not ease the sting
Before the snow was molten skin
Once round the sun I licked your fingers
Words dry as winter leaves but…
Salt and warm and sticky lingers"
"Good morning Jo!" There is a thump and a sack, stuffed to capacity and with several tears where trowels and small picks have ripped through, appears next to the protector albeit sans hands or a body that carried it. From about two feet to Jo's right; "How goes the restoration?"
He quirks an eyebrow at the conversation, but keeps quiet and steps forward enough to show Vespero his drawing of the creature. "It was on a level perhaps sixty King's feet down. I've never seen the like and I've done some traveling. I'm very close to one hundred percent certain that it's not of Layonara's soil; I've only been to two pits, so I'm not as traveled there. In your experiences, have you seen or heard of anything like it?" After a moment. "Also, I'm still quite willing to obtain new reading material for you. Delighted, in fact. How can I get this to you that doesn't involve excessive climbing? Do you have some magical means?"
If someone were watching him, they'd almost see the light click on. He faces Vespero. "Oh! Right - well, the other option is to provide you with new reading material to your liking, find out from you what else is down there - you hinted at it being most unreasonable with strangers, I believe - and report back with what we found, honestly, but lacking some specifics." He glances at Tyra. "If we said we found killer black puddings, all kinds of jellies, Kenku, all manner of normally - " He stresses the word. "-normally non-amiable beings, and then top it off with whatever's at the bottom, wouldn't it be likely that they'd leave this cave be? I mean, the black puddings alone. We don't have to mention Vespero at all."
"Hm?" The woman in acid-eaten purple and black inches another few toes toward the carpet. She really likes that rug. The bard starts talking as if he's just picked up the conversation and has yet to examine it. "Oh, yes - or I could tell you tales, if you wish - I have a few! I'm happy to oblige, it must be interesting to be a scholar of your kind. Blessed with such long life..." He's still sketching madly, trying to write down anything he recognizes on the many scrolls, parchments and books forming a literal nest around the massive, hovering creature. The room is suffused with calm. He's not afraid. Of course, his curiosity is curled around his tiny, struggling sense of caution, occasionally batting it into submission as another feature of the room or the vade mecum catches his eye. "Perhaps we can trade? I'm not as versed on the history of the Deep as you might be." He flips pages in his journal/sketchbook. "Can you turn just a bit? I'd like to do you in profile..."