Solstice Shenanigans - Holiday Pub!

"Going to Mordor!" Cried Pippin. "I hope it won’t come to that!"
Post Reply
Black Númenórean
Points: 2 528 
Posts: 1866
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 3:21 am
Image

Even in Mordor it's time for the holidays! Winter Solstice is approaching, and minions near and far have downed tools and abandoned their posts to start the party early. Consequences? Meh, we'll deal with those later! Who can work at this time of year anyway?? Pubmistress Írimë has closed On the Rocks up for her winter hols at a manor house near Nan Morlith, but she couldn't resist throwing one more bash before swanning off. A pop-up pub has appeared at the mouth of the valley of Udûn, a large and comfortable tent covered in fairy lights, a brazen pool of light and colorful festivity amidst the arid darkness of the Mordorian landscape. Within the floor is carpeted with many rugs, chairs, tables, poufs, and chaises are scattered about, and a large bar with stools has been erected at the far end. Írimë and bartender Frost along with the rest of the regular staff have the night off (though they might fix you a drink if you ask very nicely), and the bar is manned by a variety of snagas in santa hats. Placards stand on the bar and various table showing a new festive drink menu! Snacks have been placed in similarly labeled dishes on the bar and around the pub with stacks of plates and cutlery beside them, and are self-serve.

The pub has been decorated inside with yet more fairy lights, adding a colorful brightness to the moody firelight of candles and braziers within the canvas walls. Mummified heads of the losers of hoppit darts (the hoppits, obviously) hang from the bottom of the braziers, covered in chains of lovingly cut out paper snowflakes that dangle towards the floor. Several fir trees have been spirited away from somewhere and stood up in the corners of the room, and many nine-branched candelabra hold all the candles, rather than their usual haphazard scattering. In pride of place against one wall stands a large acquired table, with a sign hanging above it that says ‘Presents’. If you wish to anonymously (or not) leave a gift for another pub goer, you can do so here! On one corner of the bar is a large glass jar, with a small doll representation of an elf inside, wearing a gag that looks oddly like a mask. A small sign inside the jar says In Quarantine. Is that the chitter of a George coming from the dark upper recesses of the canvas? It’s hard to tell above the festive music coming from the goblin band in the corner.


Come one, come all, and get your festive drink on! ALL are welcome. It’s still Mordor, but a truce has been called and in the spirit of the festivities, murder is off the menu. Who can resist a good party?



DRINKS
Foaming Fairy - Gin, lemon juice, absinthe, and an egg white shaken to create a foam atop the lurid green liquid. Topped with drops of bitters.
Ginger Scald - Ginger oil, pear brandy, radish flavored wine. Mulled with a hot iron and served after a brisk stir.
Ginger Oil Shots - If the Ginger Scald isn't intense enough for you, try pure shots of hot ginger oil. Will your throat survive?

Peppermint Shots - Put a little pep in your step and clear your sinuses with shots of pure peppermint essence
Mulled Wine - A blend of rich red wines, mulled with nutmeg, cinnamon sticks, star anise, cardamom pods, oranges, cranberries, and honey liqueur
Eggnog - A rich and eggy dairy beverage full of brandy and rum, spices, and citrus zest. Dangerous.
Pumpkin Spice Latte - A new On the Rocks hit, devised swiftly after the introduction of coffee to the premises
Eggnog Latte - Pumpkin Spice can't have all the fun
Absinthe Hot Chocolate - For a sweet and minty kick in the teeth

NIBBLES
Cinder Toffee - Sticky toffees, with a smoky flavor that can only come from the ash of Orodruin
Red Berry Surprise - Bowls of sugared red berries, either to be eaten on their own, as an accompaniment, or to top your drink! Some are tart and delicious. Some are poisonous. Some are hallucinogenic. Some are all of the above. Who knows what you’ll get?
Frosted Elf Ears - Your usual crispy bar snack from On the Rocks, now frosted with festive figures and scenes. There’s even frost-your-own ear stations with plain ears and a variety of frostings and toppings!
Fruitcake - Dense, delicious cake studded with many kinds of candied fruit and peel, glace cherries, soaked and aged with brandy
Saffron Buns - Light, fluffy, sweet buns liberally flavored with saffron
Jelly Donuts - Sweet springy donuts stuffed with raspberry jelly
Lutefisk - A delicacy amongst orcs


Pub will run through January 2 until I feel like ending it! Cut loose, have fun, keep an eye out for pub events!
Feel free to godmode the heck out of the snaga bartenders/servers.



House Rules
-This is a minion pub so bad behavior is expected, but Godmoding is right out (except the snagas).
If you godmode, expect to be godmoded back by Írimë
-All races welcome, but remember, it's the minions' home turf...
-OOC comments whited out at the end of your post
-Do not post in #660033
Image
Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Arien
Arien
Points: 2 263 
Posts: 1843
Joined: Thu May 07, 2020 8:56 pm
Sil

It was one of the rare occasions when Silizlîn had not woken up under a table to find herself still in an ongoing pub. In fact, she had been rudely shaken awake by one of Irimë’s horrible hench-goblins and told to beat it.

“Beat what? Where?” mumbled Silizlîn, lurching upwards and dislodging several dust balls from her hair. How had she gotten here? “Give me five minutes and a bottle of vodka and I’ll beat up anyone you want.”

She leaned against the wall and began to rapidly slide down it.

“Nuh uh UH,” insisted the henchgoblin. “We’re shutting up shop here... Mistress is closing for winter. New pub’s down there if you want it so badly.”

He pointed at a flapping, brightly lit tent... right down the valley of Ûdun. Silizlîn groaned, painfully. There was only one thing for it. Like a moth to the flame, she crawled out of On the Rocks to the music of goblins merrily disassembling things, and made her wavering way to the tent...

[A day or two later, somehow]

A slim hand clutched at the bar and dragged up behind it a figure; lushly bodied, badly clothed, slightly burnt, very dusty.

“Ginger scald. Directly into my open mouth,” Silizlîn ordered, hoarsely. That would do the trick.
cave anserem
Image

High Lord of Imladris
Points: 5 208 
Posts: 2755
Joined: Sat Sep 12, 2020 7:53 am
Hob, Bob, and Reginald the Third

They had stumbled into Mordor, they were after all generally considered shady characters and they had seen a brightly lit tent. The rest of the story was well about to be told since they'd only just found the brightly lit tent. They scampered in and looked around their eyes went wide and hilariously they sat with strange grins on their face.

Before anyone could stop them they scattered. Reginald went to inspect the jar on the table because he was not the brightest and decided to pull whatever the strange thing was and steal it. Hob went for a fir tree to observe the room in an attempt to find the most obnoxious thing that they would be able to steal.

Bob on the other hand slipped up to the bar and literally crawled up Silizlin's back and perched on her head quite brazenly while she waited for her drink. And stared in a most unnerving manner at the bartender as if to demand a ginger scald of his own.

Black Númenórean
Points: 2 528 
Posts: 1866
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 3:21 am
Image

Írimë was d e l i g h t e d with how her festive pub had turned out, and couldn’t wait to see what shenanigans the clientele would get up to. It was her night off, but she was still the Pubmistress, and even if she wasn’t slaving away behind the bar the establishment was a point of pride. She was wrapped in a glittering skin tight (but magically still stretchy enough to allow her free movement without becoming translucent) deep purple gown, and her dark chestnut curls bounced freely. The hairdressers at that new spa weren’t half bad, you just had to go on a day the owners weren’t in! And of course, she had a fresh manicure for the occasion: a sparkling purple adorned her pointed nails, perfectly matched to the dress, and each with a carefully painted white snowflake. Írimë had dashed home after overseeing the final preparations to make sure the snagas had locked up properly, and to retrieve her accessories: a satchel of gifts, and a smooth wooden paddle with several holes in it, which took the place of the whip which usually dangled from her belt (which of course had also been matched to the dress, Írimë doesn’t do anything by half). When she flung open the tent flap to make her triumphant return to the new pub, the first patrons, if you could call them that, were already there. Sil, hauling her carcass up to the bar and ordering a drink and… were those raccoons?? Írimë had seen many strange things in her years of running pubs, but these trash bandits were a new one. The boldest of the raccoons (Bob) crawled up Sil’s back and sat on her head. Not only unsanitary, but lacking in manners and consent! Fortunately, this also presented the perfect opportunity to test out her new accessory. The Pubmistress slid the satchel more securely onto her back, sidled up behind the incredibly strange stacked pair of customers at the bar and loosed the paddle from her belt. Sizing up the raccoon and its proximity to Sil’s head, she took careful aim, drew back, and swung. With a satisfyingly loud noise, the paddle thwacked into the side of the raccoon’s bum and sent it tumbling through the air into a nearby chair. Extremely pleased with herself, Írimë oozed onto the stool next to Sil, facing the room and grinning wickedly as she smacked the paddle against her open palm.

“Who else is ready for their Solstice Spankings?”


((OOC Fuin: Pubmistress prerogative! I know Sil said it was cool after the fact for Bob to climb on her, but let's make sure to check with people beforehand in future before godmoding please))
Image
Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Balrog
Points: 5 867 
Posts: 3513
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
Image
Frost

A new day, a new a drink. That had been Frost’s philosophy whilst working with Írimë at On the Rocks. When She told him about the pop-up pub she was planning on making, he was immediately intrigued, not least was the fact that he was not even going to have to work at it. He could indulge his lazy, self-indulgent side. A night off was the least she could do for him, after he helped her pack for her stay at his manse. Frost had never seen so much luggage. It was going to take an entire warg-driven caravan to carry it all. When he asked what all of it was and where it was all supposed to go, she gave him a toothy smile and a wink. That was enough the satisfy the Númenórean’s curiosity, for now anyway.

He threw open the tent and entered with a Frostian flare to rival all flares. For this occasion, Frost had decided on something festive. He'd seen what Írimë was planning on wearing and, deciding not to compete with something so salacious, went in another direction. A painted green breast plate with leaves and flowers carved throughout, green breeches and boots, a thick, woolen clock dyed green and woven through with holly leaves, and to top the whole costume off, an antler crown and holly berries to make any stag jealous.

“God Jul! The Holly King has arrived!” He shouted to the snagas, who all ignored him as they slaved away (it was their name after all). He looked about the place. Sil, or who he thought might be Sil (she was rather changeable and one never quick knew what or who she was), was already in attendance with something on her head. He tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow. “Stranger things in heaven and earth..” He mused quietly to himself. He set down a large sack on the table demarcated for presents and pulled out four boxes, each with a name written out in exquisite and detailed calligraphy. He eyed the trash pandas already rummaging through everything and was glad he put a spell on the packages. If anyone other than he or the package’s recipient touched them, an electric shock strong enough to fry their insides would inform them of their error. He looked back at the raccoons. He'd never had lightning roasted raccoon before. Maybe it he would tonight.

“Hello darling,” he waggled his brow at the pubmistress, “What might I have to do for one of these Solstice Spankings, eh?”

He took a closer look at Sil, it was definitely her. There was a… hmmm. “I love the new body, a bit bedraggled, but you wear that suit perfectly. I love your choice of familiars too. Most people go for cats or crows, but you’re far too creative for that!”

He sat next to her, on the other side of the pubmistress and ordered a shot of pure peppermint. “Bottoms up!” He downed it, slammed the glass upside down on the counter and howled with delight. “Alright, now we can begin.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
Points: 2 938 
Posts: 2854
Joined: Sat May 16, 2020 9:29 pm
Image
Zôrzimril

Zôr had heard directly from Írimë about the plans for this pub over a lovely, lazy breakfast at On the Rocks not long ago. She was pleased at the prospect, not least because the pubmistress and bartender would be off duty for the evening, with no work to distract them. She took in the sight of the tent from a distance: its silhouette and the twinkling lights were just as she’d imagined. But upon entering the temporary pub, she let out a little sigh of pleasure at the sight of the plush furnishings. Even in the wastes of Udûn, írimë had brought her signature touch.

Dressed in flowing black as always, her one concession to the season was a spiky bracelet resembling a silver branch dotted with lush red berries of ruby. A hooded cashmere cape trimmed with fox fur—all in black, of course—was draped across her shoulders and fell down to her knees. The garment would have swallowed anyone who stood less tall or who moved with less vulpine grace, but on Zôrzimril, it lent yet more luxury to her usual smooth presentation. Zôr withdrew from within the folds of the cape several small drawstring pouches, each neatly labeled with a small parchment tag. She laid them on the table of gifts, then swept toward the bar. She pushed the hood from her head, revealing long, dark curls.

At the end of the bar, she placed her order with the snaga on duty. “Mulled wine, I think.” Glass cupped in two hands, she inhaled the steam rising from the heady drink, savoring the scents before tasting the beverage. After a first satisfactory sip, she stirred the contents of her cup idly with the provided cinnamon stick.

The familiar smack of a paddle caught Zôr’s attention, and she sidled up to the scene. “Getting started early, are we?” she asked the pubmistress, one brow arched with interest. “Or was that a less-than-recreational scolding?” Leaning against the bar, she gave Frost’s arm a squeeze and winked at Írimë.

“Don’t you both look lovely,” she said. The third person in their midst, though, caught Zôr by surprise. She nearly choked on another sip of mulled wine. “Sil? That can’t be you, can it?” The woman before her was a stranger, her mouth hanging open for easy consumption of drink (and momentarily wearing a live raccoon for a hat), yet there was somehow no mistaking the true soul within this new form. “You look absolutely incredible, love. Fully reinvigorated and restored! I’ll drink to that.” She downed the last of her mulled wine. “Another!” she called to the snaga behind the bar.

“Shall we take advantage of the, er, more comfortable seating?” she asked the group, gesturing toward a set of poufs and a chaise not far from the bar.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Arien
Arien
Points: 2 263 
Posts: 1843
Joined: Thu May 07, 2020 8:56 pm
Silizlîn

Silizlîn shrieked involuntarily as she felt a set of small, nimble claws lightly digging into her back. Something had vaulted onto her head.

Alas! Her eloquent scream was stifled; an obedient snaga had produced a glass vessel and was diligently funnelling the requested Ginger Scald directly into Sil’s open mouth. The urgent noises of protest she was making subsided into an atrocious gurgle, followed by a pained, choking splutter as she fought to keep the concoction down, her eyes slowly turning red and crossing, comically.

A faint wisp of steam emerged from Silizlîn’s ears.

“Urgle,” she suggested, before shrieking again - even more hoarsely than before, as the ginger had caused her throat to swell up slightly - as Írimë’s paddle whisked briskly over her head. There was a wet-sounding sort of thud, and something squeaked. Silizlîn frantically waved her hand over the top of her head. It was empty and un-sat upon, but she did feel faintly... itchy.

She dragged herself up using a bar stool and whirled around. Her cloud of dark hair, raccoon-mussed into a new kind of elegance, followed her in slow-mo. The said raccoons - or at least a couple of them - were nonchalantly eyeing things. One was giving a distinctly appraising glance to one of the fir trees that Írimë had seen fit to drag in here. It was certainly making the place smell nice.

In her moment of scald-raccoon induced horror, Sil had quite missed the two new visitors to the pub, who were looking quite at home already. Silizlîn relaxed slightly, the radish wine warming her insides. “‘Lo Frost, ‘lo Zôr,” she managed hoarsely, although what with the three of them around and Írimë’s paddle-wielding she wasn’t sure whether the throuple might start “entertaining” themselves shortly. Silizlîn brightened slightly at the idea that this would then give her unfettered access to the drinks.

“Yes, it’s me - sort of,” she continued. “I got a new ride when Naokis had a nasty accident. My new host is a bit more obliging, if slightly burnt.”

She examined a weal on her wrist before shrugging. Sil got most of her bodies from the Pits, and the price one paid for a quiet host soul was usually punished flesh.

“No familiars,” she continued, scratching her scalp, still unaccountably itchy, “but, uh, I think I may have acquired a couple of new... pets?”
cave anserem
Image

Balrog
Points: 5 867 
Posts: 3513
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
Image
Frost

Adjusting the crown of antlers and holly, Frost settled himself more comfortably in his seat. He was a like a cat, making sure the feel was just right. Once he was finally in a perfect spot (along with the addition of the marvelous Zôrzimril), he snarled good naturedly. “I suppose I could be persuaded to move from this spot but,” he stretched languidly and smirked, “it’s going to be very good argument.” His eyes glistened. He sat up suddenly and slammed a fist on the bar top while glaring at one of the snagas who looked abjectly terrified before he broke into a snarky, mean-spirited smile. “Do be a good and get me one of those foaming fairies. Today feels like an absinthe kind of day.” It had been a long time since he’d tasted the essence of the green fairy and in entirely different company. Absinthe with anyone usually turned into a wonderful bit of revelry. “In fact, make one for everyone. The green fairy is sure to visit one of us before the night is over.”

Forgetting the snaga entirely, the Númenórean turned back to Sil and took a closer look at her newest acquisition. He squinted. Did he recognize it? It was, as she said, a bit burned out, but he could swear he saw something in the eyes. He shrugged though, if this person had been an unwilling resident of the Black Pits it was possible he’d simply seen her in passing. “Might I suggest some lavender shampoo for the…” he mimicked Sil’s itching “it works wonders, I can personally attest. As for your new… pets?” he wasn’t quite sure if she meant the raccoons scurrying about and make nuisances of themselves (as raccoons are wont to do), or something else that was unseen at the moment. “As long as you don’t try to befriend that craban that hangs around the pub and tries to peck people’s eyes out, I think you’ll do alright.” As if summoned, Frost thought he heard a loud squawk outside. That was just his imagination, right? The bird didn’t follow them here did it? The bird was amusing when it was trying to tear his eyes out, but that did not mean he wanted to deal with the bird today.


Image
Arthûr

Generally, he didn’t like the idea of a pub. He’d been dragged to far too many in his days at university and been forced to endure the copious amounts of alcohol, comradery, and general buffoonery that was part and parcel of a pub. Art enjoyed nothing more than a quiet library or coffee shop where he could read and sip some tea in peace. Pubs were also frequented by his brother Regdûsh and his insufferable friend Fleeg. But Yule was around the corner and this pop-up pub seemed themed enough to drive both of them away. He entered the tent, looked around nervously and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Neither of them was here. He whispered a quiet prayer of thanks to Thuringwethil and stood sheepishly at the bar. He shouldn’t have been so sheepish, he admonished himself. He was bigger than nearly everyone in the bar and at least twice the size of the snagas running around. He placed both hands around his neck and gave himself a quick massage then adjusted his pince-nez. “I’d like a cup of peppermint tea, if that’s not too much to ask for, and a plate of lutefisk?”

The snaga wordless took his order and, having ordered, the giant (and less hairy than his younger sibling) orc took a seat as far from the action as he could find, hoping for a bit of peace and quiet. Once seated, he opened his jacket and removed a book from the shoulder holster and began reading. To his horror, some of the pages had been torn haphazardly out! He groaned miserably. He flipped through the book, accessing the damage. The last few pages were filled with ‘R-e-g’ over and over again. Arthûr cast his gaze to the sky. Perhaps he was going to need something stronger than tea tonight.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
Points: 2 528 
Posts: 1866
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 3:21 am
Image

“Holly King!” Írimë cried with delight as Frost burst in, all adorned with antlers and greenery. She eyed him greedily as he set out his presents- one of them, at least, must be for her. “Oooohh yes, let us begin!” the Pubmistress crooned wickedly alongside her pretty bartender’s howl, beginning to rise from her seat with a lift of the paddle- but Zôr joined them before she could really get down to business. “Recreational scoldings are the best kind.” Írimë replied, waggling her perfectly shaped brows at her counterpart, “And more comfortable seating seems a wonderful idea. After all, it’s my night off. I’ll just rid myself of this while the help is making us those foaming fairies, hmm?” She oozed back off the stool and swayed over to the gifts table, sliding the satchel off her back. Írimë took her time withdrawing and placing each neatly wrapped and elaborately ribboned parcel from her bag, not because of a duty of tender care, but so that she could spy on the contents of the table already there. Flinging her satchel to one side when she had finished, she sauntered over to a large, long, low, luscious chaise. Plucking up a cinder toffee form a nearby table in passing, Írimë sprawled elegantly onto the chaise, her back against the corner of the armrest, one foot on the floor, and the other leg draped onto the couch itself. She popped the toffee into her mouth and chewed languidly, extending a hand to take her foaming fairy from a scuttling snaga, even as she flapped the other a Frost and Zôr (heck, and Sil if she felt like it). “Come my pretties, have a seat.”
Image
Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Black Númenórean
Points: 2 938 
Posts: 2854
Joined: Sat May 16, 2020 9:29 pm
Image
Zôrzimril

“It may be a bit burnt,” Zôr agreed with Sil, “but that’s nothing a bit of finery and some oils can’t spruce up.” Growing a bit warm inside the well-lit tent, she removed the weighty cape from her shoulders and held it out for Sil to see. Beneath the cloak, her flowing dress was sleeveless. “You’re most welcome to this,” she offered, draping the cape over a barstool. “Add a bit of style to your new form - it’s a lovely blank canvas with just endless possibilities.”

Zôr caught up a new glass of mulled wine where it had appeared on the countertop and sidled up beside Írimë. “Of course they are,” she agreed, a wicked smile playing on her lips. “It’s a shame when they’re anything but, really. I do hope you’re actually taking the night off from these, ah, more mundane scoldings, though, and leaving the dirty work to the snagas.”

She sipped her wine and savored the tingle of spice upon her tongue. The alcohol had begun to warm her, quite pleasantly in fact, from inside out, and she watched with amusement as Írimë sprawled luxuriously upon the chaise she had suggested. When Frost settled in on his barstool and stretched in mock defiance, Zôr gladly accepted the challenge of moving him. Eyes alight with humor, she turned to face him squarely. She traced a fingertip along his jawline, calling to mind a moment in a burned-out shack from what seemed like ages ago, before pulling him in for a deep kiss. Drawing back only slightly, she smiled and murmured, “My darling, I think you know just how persuasive I can be.”

Zôrzimril moved away as suddenly as she’d leaned in and, her mulled wine in her left hand, snatched a tray laden with four foaming fairies from a passing snaga with her right. She added her wine glass to the tray and, balancing the drinks skillfully, swept over to the chaise. She deposited the tray onto a small table nearby, then sank onto the plush cushions beside the Southron pubmistress - eyeing the two figures still at the bar all the while. “You’ll have to join us if you want your next round,” she called to both Sil and Frost.


Image
Mig

Mig the Bookie slunk along through the night. For once, he was unladen: no massive book of tabulations and debts, no weighty sack of coins. Just himself, Mig, and the pipe clamped tightly between his teeth. It had been a long week, and he was ready to blow off some steam. It had been too long since he’d met up with his old frAt BrO Art, and he’d caught wind that Art could be found tonight in quite a strange location: a pop-up pub in the valley of Udûn.

He lifted a tent flap and stepped into the makeshift pub, blinking rapidly to adjust his weak eyes to the brightly-lit space. He could see a group gathering around a long couch and waved his hand vaguely, dismissing them for the frolickers that they were. Instead, he approached the spot where the massive form of Arthûr sat hunched, predictably, over a book.

Art!” Mig croaked. “You crusty old so-and-so, always bringing books into pubs.” He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, then noticed the untidy scrawls across the pages of the book. “You sure it was a good idea to teach Reg to read and write? He surely hasn't got enough impulse control to resist signing a bad contract. What makes you think teaching him to sign his own name is productive for anyone?” Mig shrugged. “Ah, well. Our brothers aren’t even here! Let’s raise a glass to that, at least.”

He snapped his long fingers at a snaga wiping dry a glass behind the bar and waved the little creature over. “Ginger scald.” Turning back to Arthûr, he continued, “I’ve been up for the last thirty-six hours witnessing the most pathetic fighting you’ve ever imagined. But that’s not even the worst thing I’ve seen in the last week: did you hear that Reg and Fleeg have opened a SPA?” He produced a crumpled flier from his pocket and shook his head in disbelief, both at the audacity of their idiotic siblings and to express his shock that they’d managed to secure a loan large enough to cover the cost of premises. He nodded his thanks to the snaga who served up his beverage and removed his pipe from his mouth to take a small sip of the piping hot liquid. “What d’you say - should we boycott it? Or shall we take a peek at the disaster it’s surely shaping up to be?”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Balrog
Points: 5 867 
Posts: 3513
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
Image
Frost

Frost adjusted his antler crown in a show of mock defiance as Írimë and Zôr both tried to lure him away from his stool. He took a sip of his absinthe drink and savored the bitter flavor and the strong scent of star anise (reminding him of his tutor). He, of course, had every intention of joining his two lady friends but he did have an image to project, and he wanted to milk their persuasive abilities for all they were worth. The trace of Zôr’s finger down his jaw reminded him of a long ago (or maybe not, who could tell with these sorts of things) night in Rohan. He didn’t remember much about that night, Írimë had been there, he was certain of that, and Sil, though it wasn’t Sil as she was now. Was there someone else? Ah, Khaulzîm! He had better show at some point tonight, or Frost would have to make a special delivery, maybe… maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. He took another sip and grinned. The alcohol was strong, it was already starting to make his mind wander.

What did bring his mind back into sharp focus was that kiss. He inhaled her scent sharply before her lips touched his, igniting the experience even more. It was a fast, powerful kiss and it did the trick. After she broke it, he grinned wolfishly at her. “Well,” he drawled. “I suppose with persuasive abilities like that, I am powerless to resist.” He took a final sip, draining his cocktail, and moved with feline grace to the chaise next to Írimë and sprawled himself languidly over the comfortable furniture. “Oh my! I haven’t felt something quite this comfortable since, well that little pajama party you threw.” He cast a heavily lidded gaze at the Southron pubmistress and purred. “I daresay, something this comfortable deserves another drink and perhaps a toast. Hey!” his voice suddenly snapped as a snaga slunk by, trying to go unnoticed. “Get me another foaming fairy, I want to make sure the green fairy visits the pub tonight and the only way to ensure that is copious libations.” He grabbed the with mocking tenderness when the drink was served. “To the new year, may we flay it and slay it as we did this last one and may all the hidden riches be uncovered!”


Image
Arthûr

Mig!” The giant orc stood up from his quiet little table and clasped the goblin by the forearm before executing the old secret frat handshake. “It’s good to see you, you dry roasted fart!” he laughed good naturedly and sat back down. His eyes returned to the book, “R-e-g” scrawled across the page in letters that could have been seen from the bar and sighed. “I didn’t think he’d break into my house and decide to use my books as practice. I even gave him parchments to work on too. And look. Look!” he pointed to the “R” which, of course, was backwards. “I can’t think what possessed me to teach him. I thought giving him a little knowledge would go a long way to make him less… Reg, but that was clearly a failure.” He closed the book and grumbled. His first edition of Chaos out of Order: A Study in the Ancient Rhetorics of Melkor and Their Practical Applications in the Modern Era was ruined. And it had been signed by the author too! He couldn’t bear to look at it. “Damnable fools! What did we do, Mig? Did we commit some heinous, unforgivable sin when we were lads to be cursed with such idiot siblings?” He took a sip of the peppermint tea and decided quickly that it was not going to be enough. He raised a hand and a snaga took his order of two ginger scalds.

“A Spa!” he coughed and laughed, though whether that laugh held genuine amusement or was an attempt to stave up misery even he didn’t know. “I say we peak in after a week and see if they’ve killed each other yet. Who do you think their secret investor is, eh? Can’t be someone much brighter than them. Reg and Fleeg? A spa? And they decided to build it in that old creepy haunted ruin? If they don’t kill each other, the ghosts will I bet. You remember when we went there? Initiation night? Frat master said they were only lettin’ two people in that year and there were eight of us. Only the survivors got to join. Oh, those were the good old days, my friend.” He took a bite of the lutefisk and closed his eyes. The fish was soft, the jelly consistency was just right, and the smell? It brought him back to when his mum would make it for him. “Say Mig, how’s that new place you’re workin at? Necromancer’s Guild you said? Can’t imagine there are too many necromancers around here anymore, let alone enough to make a guild.”


Image
Illska

What? Was he a joke to her? Did she not take him seriously? He cawed and ruffled his feathers until the poofed enough to make him look twice his normal size. How dare she! He cawed again and pecked at the door. It was closed and no matter how many times he pecked at it; the door did not budge. Illska was in a foul temper. He was hungry and if no one came out of the pub, he’d have no eyes to peck out. This was an outrage! How could that pubmistress do this to him? Him?! Illska the Craban! He flapped his great wings, beating them against the door. It still did not move. He cawed again, louder than before. Nothing. He was beginning to suspect something was amiss, and that he’d been made a fool of. With an indignant squawk, he burst into the air. He always felt better hen he was flying. He could think as he soared through the dark, shadow ensorcelled skies, weaving in and out of the ash clouds like a phantom. He spied a lonely snaga seemingly in the middle of nowhere. If he could smile and lick his lips, he would. He dove, plummeting from the firmament with all the speed of a galloping horse. He slammed into the snaga at full tilt, throwing the orc to the ground. Before he then had a chance to recover, Illska pecked at his eyes. The orc screamed in dismay, trying to shoo the bird away with grubby hands. Illska cawed. When the orc, blood weeping from his empty eye sockets tried to attack him, he fluttered out of the way and let the pathetic thing trip and tumble into a rocky ravine. He waited until the snaga hit the bottom and then pounce again, this time ripping the tongue out of the screaming worm’s mouth. He gurgled, blood pouring from the wound until he coughed and fell backwards. He sputtered a few times then lay still. Satisfied with his hunt, Illska gulped down the tongue and took off into the air again. Where there was one snaga, there was always another. Wait. What was that? It looked like a tent. What was a tent doing out here in the middle of nowhere? The craban swooped down to get a closer look. He could smell… yes! He found her! He landed outside the tent and squawked a challenge. He waited, watched a goblin pull up the flap of the tent and enter, the cawed his challenge again. She would hear him! She couldn’t hide in her precious, delicious smelling tent forever. Hopping back and forth, he poked around at the tent flap, testing it to see how it reacted to his assault. It was not like the door of the pub that swung open for him. This material gave too much. He pushed again and, not expecting the give to be so much, tumbled into the pub. Angrily, he fluttered up to the bar and cawed loudly at the woman seated there, demanding the pubmistress appear and atone for her crimes.
Last edited by Akhenanat on Thu Mar 11, 2021 4:44 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Arien
Arien
Points: 2 263 
Posts: 1843
Joined: Thu May 07, 2020 8:56 pm
“Lavender?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. Originally a rich amber, they were increasingly streaked with green as Sil made her presence felt in Izlîn’s host body.

“Where are you getting lavender from these days? Nothing so pleasant grows around here for miles,” she said with interest. “Have you taken up trading? Or was it a gift?” Her lips quirked into a little smirk. It was the season, after all. And apparently the gift giving had already started: Írimë had appeared with a promisingly fat satchel, and Zor was adorably offering Sil her cloak.

“It does look lush,” she murmured, briefly looking over it for anything suspicious (force of habit). Observing no poison needles or nettles, Sil swung it around her shoulders and luxuriated in Zor’s leftover body heat. “The trees smell nice, as well. Where on Arda did you have them imported from?”

Nobody answered her right away as they were too busy smooching. Sil sniggered slightly to herself and finished her scald before she followed the foaming fairies over to the pouffe. Sil could always be relied upon to follow her nose. Especially if she could scent spirits.
cave anserem
Image

Black Númenórean
Points: 2 938 
Posts: 2854
Joined: Sat May 16, 2020 9:29 pm
Image
Zôrzimril

Perched on the chaise, Zôr smiled as Frost, then Sil migrated over from the bar. “Kind of you both to join us here,” she remarked. “It’s quite the cozy little gathering our beloved pubmistress has put together." She nodded her respect at Írimë. “Of course, we’d expect nothing less.”

Zôr could not ignore the fact that Sil looked positively fetching in the cloak. This new figure suited her. “And where once we had sequinned bumflaps, we now have the height of luxury! You look incredible.” Zôr lifted a foaming fairy from the tray and offered it to Sil (Frost had quite capably already ordered more). “I do hope this new body of yours can hold its liquor as well as it can handle that cape.”

Grinning, she raised her own glass to join Frost’s toast. “Tell me, love. What exactly are you expecting this green fairy will bring us?”

Image
Mig

Ah, the old frat handshake. Mig knew it like he knew the lines of his ledger - that is to say, he knew it backwards and forwards, right side-up and upside-down, awake and in his sleep. How many years had it been since he and Arthûr had been two nervous undergrads, embarking upon their initiation? He smiled toothily, gripping his pipe in his pointy teeth all the while. “It’s been too long!” he sighed as he and Art sat.

Mig squinted in the candlelight to see the pages to which Art was pointing. “Mmm, yes,” he muttered, observing the untidy scrawl and the backwards letter R. “Your intentions were impeccable, no doubt. But it’s probably best not to teach Reg any more than he already knows. He’s got more knowledge than that tiny brain of his was made for. A tiger can’t change its stripes, and all that.” Mig, of course, being utterly unsuited to adventuring or exploring, could not have known first-hand what a tiger looked like. He had, however, seen some in the encyclopedia at the Cirith Ungol University library (he’d read through the entirety of the T volume by the second half of his second year). Access to that library and all its treasures was all he needed to make him both worldly and learned, in his own esteemed opinion.

“What did we do?” Mig echoed his pal. “Nothing! We did nothing, you old dingus, and you know it. It’s just as you say - we’ve been cursed!” Here, Mig pounded a frail fist on the table; the glasses of ginger scald jumped with the impact. “We were just minding our own business, growing up to be a fine orc and goblin, respectively, when those two dunderheads came along.” He was really clenching his teeth on his pipe now. He removed it and took a long drink of his scald, which had finally cooled down a bit.

Mig’s eyes glazed over dreamily when Art invoked the memory of visiting the haunted mansion in which their idiotic siblings had now developed a spa. “Those were the days!” he cried, raising his glass in a toast. “Let’s hope they wind up dead, by whatever means. It’ll mean less trouble and more inheritance for each of us, I'll wager.

“Ahhh, the Guild! Well, now, I’m glad you asked,” Mig went on. “No necromancers to speak of, though there have been some strange characters, to be sure. Mostly it’s been the typical barbaric fist fights. The sands are something else, though. You ought to come make a study of those! Never heard of anything like ‘em in all my school days, but they’re something special. You should’ve seen the way they positively ate up this one little fighter - a mortal, by the look of her - who had no business being there at all.” He chuckled to himself. As tortuous as it could be to witness some of the less-skilled fighters, he did quite enjoy it when those he’d been rooting against fell to their knees and were set upon and torn to shreds by the hungry sands. His laughter intensified when he recalled how the winner of that particular bout had tried to make a sale mid-fight. Something about unique and stylish clothing. A tear of mirth rolled down his cheek.

“Really, though, I suspect there are some heavy hitters involved behind the scenes. I just do the counting and payouts, mind.” He sipped thoughtfully on his drink and smacked his lips. The spice of the ginger provided just the right kick for a nerd’s night out. “But it’s more than just your everyday hordes of orcs watching these fights.” He shrugged. “No one’s bothered me yet, though, so what does it matter? But what’re you up to these days, eh? Besides embarking on misguided charity missions like teaching Reg to read?”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Black Númenórean
Points: 2 528 
Posts: 1866
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 3:21 am
Image

With Zôr on one side of her and Frost on the other (for they had both evidently managed to seat themselves next to her despite her sprawl, a most impressive feat indeed), Írimë found herself quite satisfied with life. She poured her current drink down her throat with one hand and petted Frost’s hair with the other. Sil joined them on a nearby pouf, inquiring about the trees. Írimë winked at her. “A girl has to have some secrets- including her import routes.” Just as the Pubmistress was about to make some clever remark in response to Zôr’s question about what the green fairy might brings, the cozy atmosphere was disrupted by the harsh cawing of- no, not just a raven, but a craban!

“Illska!” Írimë snapped, and hurled her empty class at the overlarge corvid causing a racket on her bar, “What do you want, you feathery nuisance? Beat it, before I feed you to the snagas!”


Image

While Illska had been busy ripping a snack out of the unfortunate snaga outside, a decidedly more ominous figure had passed through the tent flap and into the pub. Not one you might expect to see there, but he had agreed to meet an old friend, and both of them could go in for all sorts of queer amusements when the mood was on then. The towering, twisted, burning-red boldog-eyed Maugân of the black host, Swiltang the swordmaster, had come to join the festivities. He strode across the room to the bar where the two cretins, Mig and Arthûr, sat gossiping. Granted, they were not as cretinous as Fleeg the Fool and Regdûsh, but they weren’t that far off, either. Still, Swiltang was in what one might call a festive mood, and he growled “Gentlemen,” at them as he passed them by. Arriving several seats down from them at the bar, he rapped his knuckles on its top. A snaga in a santa had turned face him. Swiltang stared at it. “You’re a disgrace to all orc kind,” he sighed finally, “and that’s saying something. Get me a shot of ginger oil, a mulled wine, and some lutefisk.” The snaga was at least efficient, and the order arrived swiftly. Swiltang was just downing his shot of ginger when the carbon (Illska) arrived, flapping onto the bar next to him and screeching. He looked at it in time to hear Írimë’s answering screech, and leaned slightly to his left to avoid the glass as it whizzed past his ear. “You heard her,” he drawled to the bird as he turned around to face the room. Lounging against the bar, Swiltang sucked a bite of lutefisk through his teeth and took a deep draft of wine, eyeing the trio sprawled on the chaise.
Image
Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Balrog
Points: 5 867 
Posts: 3513
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 11:02 am
Image

“Lavender,” drawled Frost as he turned his attentions back to Sil, “is usually found up north. I don’t have a specific supplier yet, but” he winked at her “I don’t anticipate the lack of suppliers to be a problem. If there’s a demand for it, I’ll find a way to get it here. I always do.” He took a sip from his absinthe cocktail and pondered Sil’s next consideration. “Hmmm, gift or trade? Gift or trade?” He placed a finger over his lip as he thought. “I think, the first shipment should be a gift. That’s how a good negotiator does it. After that, I’m sure we can work out something…” A wicked smiled peeked through and vanished in an instant. “Tell me though, what are the perks of this new body of yours? Any good secrets? It doesn’t look like it’s crumbling and falling apart yet. How is it you find such interesting vessels? I might have to break into that market, it seems very… profitable.”

“Fairies,” the Númenórean began with a grandiose sweep of his hands as he began his little story, “always bring something good. Whether or not it’s something we can handle is always the question. You see,” he took another small sip of the anise spiced drink, “fairies are not the cute besparkled creatures that the Tarks and Strawheads make them out to be. I can’t be certain, but I think they are similar to elves in some way. They are far, far more conniving though. They’ll never lie, but they’ll only tell the truth half the time. Tricksy little buggers, though they aren’t really that little. I met one once, called themselves ‘The Everdusk’ or something lavish like that,” he chuckled, then shivered. “They take themselves very seriously, even if they hide it behind a façade of joviality and frivolity. I think, my dear, if one shows up tonight,” he swirled around the contents of his drink with lazy, practiced indifference, “we should demand it tell us a good story. There are so few of those these days after all.”

Frost deliberately ignored the craban, past encounters with the supposedly princely pest had told him that the less attention he gave the beast the better. Írimë, however, had different ideas on how to deal with pests. He couldn’t deny the effectiveness of her methods. He watched the glass fly through the air and smirked as his gaze landed on the newest arrival to the little pop up pub, the tall, gnarled form of Swilitang himself. “Well, well, well,” he intoned, stretching his arms until his elbow shifted with a satisfying POP. “If it isn’t the greatest warrior this world has ever known. What brings the subject of so many elven nightmares to this humble little get together? I’d invite you to join us, but the chaise seems to be getting a little crowded. I would recommend the foaming fairy though, it might relax your tightly wound ass enough to relax after five thousand years.”


Image

“A tiger?” Art broke into a loud guffaw, “Reg’s more a gorilla than a tiger. But your point is well taken old friend.” Art, similar to Mig, had never actually seen a tiger, having lived his entire life within the confines of Mordor, but had seen enough pictures in dictionaries and encyclopedias to know that it was some sort of impressive cat. Reg was many things, an impressive cat was not one of them. For that matter, he didn’t really know what a gorilla was either. There was a creepy taxidermized creature in the Cirith Ungol State Library that was labeled as a gorilla. It looked eeriely like Reg if he fell in a mud pit and somehow became more intelligent. Those eyes though… Art shuddered involuntarily. Taxidermy was creepy, there was nothing that would convince him otherwise.

“Dead by whatever means! Now that’s something I could toast to!” Art’s face split into a wide grin, his white teeth sparkling intensely. He picked up his tiny cup of tea, clinked it against Mig’s, and took a sip. “It’s time for something stronger I think. What do you say? What about an absinthe hot chocolate for the season? Before we know it the season will be over and summer will be here again. It already feels like we’ve been wiling away all winter in the pub anyway.”

The Guild was doing well, even if it was droll and barbaric. That was good. Art wasn’t much of a fighter, but if it helped out an old frat mate, then it was good enough for him. “I’ve heard about that sand. Mostly rumors though. Is it true that it actually ate one of the fighters? Left nothing but the skull with a bit o’ meat attached? Scary stuff mate, scary stuff. I think I’ll make my way down there after a while, hopefully we can witness a good fight too. Could you imagine me arriving to have to watch a spider eat some raccoons? I could go anywhere in Mordor to see that!” he guffawed again and took a sip of the absinthe hot cocoa. “What have I been up to?” he adjusted his spectacles. “Little of this, little of that. I might be up for a professorship at the old Spider Halls. I heard Professor Snerghash was retiring, or that he was gonna be forced to retired soon. They’ll need a new philosophy teacher soon enough.” He grinned and took another sip.

“Oh… that stuff is strong,” he commented, adjusting his glasses. “Coulda sworn I saw… sweet blasted heath! Is that…” Art’s eyes bulged as he realized who had walked into the pub. It was none other than the legendary Swiltang! He’d never met him of course, Art was usually as far from the army as he could get. But he’d read the orc’s biography, Killing: An Artform, a least a dozen times. Now there’s an orc to model oneself after. Even though he wasn’t a fighter, he admired Swiltang’s leadership and intelligence, something rare in orcs and goblins these days, if his mushroom-headed brother was an indication. “Ah…” he coughed “Sir.” He acknowledged, then turned back to Mig. “Holy shire balls! That’s fecking Swiltang!” he said in a harsh whisper.

Image

This was completely unacceptable! He was a goddamned king! These little wretches were barely squiggling worms compared to him! Ignoring him was only increasing their peril! He cawed, fluffing his wings angrily. They were going to recognize his brilliance one way or another. He hopped from one foot to the other, spreading his wings as wide as he could. Illska, King of the Crebain, would not be denied his…

He dodged the glass, flung from the far end of the room and heard it crash behind him. How… dare… she! That pubmistress was going to be in for it. He cawed even louder than before, and prepared to launch himself at her with the full force of his feathery fury. Then he stopped. Had he misheard her? She had just offered him a snaga to feed on. He squinted, tilted his head 90 degrees to the right and chirped. Had he misjudged her all this time? He must have. He folded his wings back and did a little bow to her, a way of apologizing for his outburst and thanks for the snaga for him to feed on. It was a very acceptable gift. He quirked his head up at the orc who’d just appeared and spoke to him. Who was this? Illska tilted his head and cawed curiously. He hopped another step over to the orc and peered at him. He’d never seen an orc with red eyes. Who was this?

Not waiting another second on unimportant points, Illska spread his great, midnight black wings and launched himself at his gift, the snaga wearing the dumb red and white helmet. It was a poorly constructed device that offered no protection, Illska tore through it with a single stab of his beak. He began cawing, flapping, and tearing with claw and beak. The snaga screamed and tried to escape, tried to pull the giant bird off him, but the bird was moving too fast, inflicting too many wounds too quickly. Illska was covered in blood and gristle by the time it was all over. The snaga slumped on the floor, his eyes devoured and his tongue ripped out. Not wanting to anger his newfound ally, Illska presented the tongue (pieced with a shiny bit of metal) to Írimë as a token of his thanks. He squawked and fluffed his wings.


Image

He hated pubs. They were frivolous wastes of his time. If he wanted to drink, he’d bloody well do it by himself. The idea of drinking with riff raff plebs made his blood boil, made worse by the fact that one of his descendants was in this very pub. The only time he’d associate with such a rabble was in the army, and his army days were long over. Still, he knew he didn’t have a choice today. If he was going to be able to meet with his old mentor without having to pass through half the Black Host, he was going to have to do it here. There were less eyes here, and he preferred to remain as anonymous as he could. The secret that he was alive was not one he planned on letting out. He entered the pub like an oily shadow, barely making the tent flaps move as he twisted around them. He was smaller than the average orc, but much taller and sinewy than the goblins that bore his name now. Red eyes peered through a thick black cloak. He peered around, assessing the situation as he would have on the battlefield. There weren’t any dangers here, not to him at least. There was a pile of bodies on a chaise that looked as though it was able to snap and break. That was going to be a sweaty, confusing mix of limbs and flesh later, unless he was mistaken in his study of human mating rituals. He sneered in disgust. He glared at the orc and the goblin in the corner. He’d never seen either one, but he could sense his blood well enough. Oh how the mighty had fallen! He’d once led a horde of true goblins into battle, thousands of years ago now, and ripped through elves like they were tissue paper. Now, his glorious race, the race he created, was reduced to wearing toads on their head and talking about… college and university. It was hard for him to keep his calm. He could throttle them if only he’d let down his hood. His fingers twitched as the reached for the hooked swords on his back. No… no… now was not the time for such an outburst. But he was going to have a talk with that goblin, and he was going to set him bloody straight!

There he was. Swiltang was lounging at the bar. Surreptitiously, Fleeg the First sat on the stool next to him. He glanced over the counter at the dead snaga and shrugged, unconcerned. “Mulled wine, and some lutefisk. Now.” He said to the snaga that appeared and started dragging the body away. The creature looked terrified, his eyes widen than tea saucers, but he did as he was commanded.

“It’s been a long time, old friend,” the goblin said as he took a sip of the wine.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Post Reply