Post by Brashbeard on May 31, 2020 1:59:43 GMT
Many eyes were pulled up from tankard bottoms, as if by unspoken spell, to fix upon the runic-patterned midnight-purple cloak of a half-elf as he glided silently across the usually creaking floor of the Yawning Portal. Though his movements were graceful, his eyes darted anxiously from face to face as he passed. In the fleeting moment of their mutual gaze, each passed-by patron felt searched, judged, and ultimately rejected. Finally, the druid alighted at the table of an orc about to toss back a just-delivered ale.
“Yagra!” he blurted out, louder than necessary. “Let us arm-wrestle before you drink... if you win, I’ll buy that ale. If I win, you tell me a true story of war.”
“Aidian,” replied the half-orc, as her eyes lingered on the bubbling beverage, its ascent paused. “You’re not going to cheat again, with your shoulder-pigeon eyeballing me, are you?”
“Gwindor - as you well know - is a falcon, not a pigeon,” said the druid. “She makes up her own mind about whom deserves a piercing glare. To tell you the truth, she makes up her own mind about most things. Rumors of our supernatural bond are highly... exaggerated. Anyway, she flew off to hunt for dinner before I entered the tavern, so you won’t have that excuse for the next few minutes.”
Taking up a yet-uninvited seat, Aidian Jaro extended his arms, each wrapped in a leather gauntlet elegantly inscribed with interlocking designs of streams, runes, and peculiar trees. “Well?” he said, as the orc raised one eyebrow slightly. “I look forward to a tale of bludgeoning and woe.”
Yagra smiled, calmly gripped the half-elf's fist, and allowed for a slight waver in her forearm during the bout, as Aidian struggled against her. After a passage of time that was long enough to avoid grave insult, yet too short to be especially sporting, she slammed his hand backward on the oak between them. Aidian winced, slightly, although his weathered knuckles were in no pain. He felt only disappointment as he fished out a coin and flicked it into a spin on the table. Before it toppled, Yagra gulped a mouthful of ale and slammed the glass with equal force. The liquid sloshed and the coin hopped. Aidian placed his palms flat against the oak, extending his fingers into the wood as if he might imprint his skin with the texture. As he did so, the sloshing suddenly halted. Yagra's ale became as still and flat as mirrored silver, while the coin halted mid-spin in an unnaturally precarious poise.
The half-orc was not amused. "Is this magic?" she asked, as her eyes widened in growing alarm. "You never said..."
"It's not magic," replied the druid. "It's just... habit." He relaxed his fingers, after which the coin fell over. In one rushed motion, the orc quickly snatched it, drained the rest of her ale, and stood up. "You and your bird can keep your tricks," she said. Then, as she stormed off, she turned once more and added, "What does a forest druid want to know of war, anyway?" But, she left the half-elf seated at the now half-empty table, without waiting for an answer.
“Yagra!” he blurted out, louder than necessary. “Let us arm-wrestle before you drink... if you win, I’ll buy that ale. If I win, you tell me a true story of war.”
“Aidian,” replied the half-orc, as her eyes lingered on the bubbling beverage, its ascent paused. “You’re not going to cheat again, with your shoulder-pigeon eyeballing me, are you?”
“Gwindor - as you well know - is a falcon, not a pigeon,” said the druid. “She makes up her own mind about whom deserves a piercing glare. To tell you the truth, she makes up her own mind about most things. Rumors of our supernatural bond are highly... exaggerated. Anyway, she flew off to hunt for dinner before I entered the tavern, so you won’t have that excuse for the next few minutes.”
Taking up a yet-uninvited seat, Aidian Jaro extended his arms, each wrapped in a leather gauntlet elegantly inscribed with interlocking designs of streams, runes, and peculiar trees. “Well?” he said, as the orc raised one eyebrow slightly. “I look forward to a tale of bludgeoning and woe.”
Yagra smiled, calmly gripped the half-elf's fist, and allowed for a slight waver in her forearm during the bout, as Aidian struggled against her. After a passage of time that was long enough to avoid grave insult, yet too short to be especially sporting, she slammed his hand backward on the oak between them. Aidian winced, slightly, although his weathered knuckles were in no pain. He felt only disappointment as he fished out a coin and flicked it into a spin on the table. Before it toppled, Yagra gulped a mouthful of ale and slammed the glass with equal force. The liquid sloshed and the coin hopped. Aidian placed his palms flat against the oak, extending his fingers into the wood as if he might imprint his skin with the texture. As he did so, the sloshing suddenly halted. Yagra's ale became as still and flat as mirrored silver, while the coin halted mid-spin in an unnaturally precarious poise.
The half-orc was not amused. "Is this magic?" she asked, as her eyes widened in growing alarm. "You never said..."
"It's not magic," replied the druid. "It's just... habit." He relaxed his fingers, after which the coin fell over. In one rushed motion, the orc quickly snatched it, drained the rest of her ale, and stood up. "You and your bird can keep your tricks," she said. Then, as she stormed off, she turned once more and added, "What does a forest druid want to know of war, anyway?" But, she left the half-elf seated at the now half-empty table, without waiting for an answer.
