On the Rocks (Pub)

[Volgavia]

Had it been 15 years, or 15 minutes? Looking around, there were some faces he didn't recognize - but surprisingly a few faces he did know. And these faces seemed much older now. He himself though was just as youthful as ever. His orcish skin still a lovely shade of puke, bulging eyes still as opulent, and teeth still as wonderfully gnarled.

Seeing Silendra, he rushed to the bar to get a drink, and rushed up behind her, ready to give her a drink. She seemed busy in conversation, but he would risk her wrath in interrupting.

"Mistress Silendra, a drink?"

[The Good Hunter]

Well that all went to hell rather quickly. Frost has just made his way to the bar, offered an old friend something to drink when a brawl between the Rohir woman (Thali), the one inexplicably married to an orc?, and Írimë, his perspective employer nearly broke out.
“When it Mordor…” he mumbled to himself with a smile. With a few deft steps, Frost maneuvered his way through the patrons and the snagas until he stood between the two women. With arms outstretched, he put on his best smile, the one he reserved for negotiations that were about to go sour. It was the kind of last resort he employed before rapiers were drawn.
“Ma’am,” he tried to make his voice as silky and reasonable as possible. “I do believe that it might be time for you and your… husband to see some of the other sights we have in Mordor.” He turned to face her fully, and produced a small pouch made of maroon velvet. “Has your husband,” he tried to suppress a cough, “ever told you about the Spawning Pools? They can be quite romantic under the correct circumstances. Take some coin with you and try the hoppit cookies. My treat. I hear they are fantastic over there.”
He extended the pouch to the woman in his right hand, his left lazily perched over his arming sword. “What do you say?”
Frost had a very bloody feeling in the back of his neck.

[Rivvy Elf]

"Oooh!" Orco yelled repeatedly at the combination his wife's, Frost, and Írimë. What choice words and actions towards the barkeep was kept in check as he nodded in pride at his wife. But once Frost rudely butted in. His eyes darted back and forth between the pair in fury.

"You!" Orco shouted at Frost, as he lifted a nearby chair with one of his big-boned hands, "Your treat? Your treat? Who you think you are? Without permission? IN FRONT OF ME? IN FRONT OF MY WIFE? How about I rip your spine and use it as a whip? Or pull out your scalp and use it as a wig? You get out of the way of MY WIFE, or that hand on your arming sword is going to be a stub! You understand me you <black speech curse that is redacted due to its profanity>?"

[Thalionwen Hunigfolm]

Well, things were certainly getting very interesting. Thali had high hopes that the current shouting going on between Orco and Frost might lead to some exciting violence, followed by an opportunity for her to ply her healing skills and charge both of them a premium for the service.

In the meantime, she slid back onto her bar stool and gave Írimë her best, most apologetic smile.

"Look, I'm sorry about all that," Thalionwen said. "I know better than to let myself get heated over a man...orc...creature. But it's been one of those years, you know? The truth is, I like your business, I like your style, and I really like your hair."

Taking a fistful of the coins she'd recently acquired from Orco-by-way-of-Narv, Thali slid them across the counter.

"That's for my drink, and the glass I broke, and whatever tab my unfortunate husband's run up," she said, shaking her head at Írimë prettily. "And I'm Thali, sort of from Rohan, sort of from nowhere at present. If you hand me a rag, I can clean up my own mess--your snagas will only miss half of what I spilled, and your prospective bar wench over there"--she gestured to Frost--"seems a bit busy at present. To be honest, I've got my doubts about him--he has the pretty face and the figure for the job, but do you think he can handle the orders? Doesn't seem like there's much going on upstairs."

[DEATH]

So Death walks into a bar and the bartender says, "Why the long face? What's up with you? You look like somebody just died. Hey Mister, I've got a bone to pick with you! Reaper? I hardly know her! No shoes, no shirt, NO SERVICE!"
And Death sings, with a tinge of melancholy, "IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII ... AIN'T GOT NO BODY, NO BODY. CARES FOR ME. NO BODY. CARES FOR ME. LIFE GOES ON WITHOUT ME (BUT ITS END REQUIRES MY ATTENDANCE)."

(No. That didn't happen.)

Death enters the pub known as 'On The Rocks', named appropriately for its position on some rocks. The sign says "Resently reefur-biched," but it's hard to tell. The decor is drab, most of the chairs look wobbly, and there is an odour of ... waste? rot? disease? All of the above. DEATH cares not for this place. Except for that bar. Magnificent. Polished obsidian, blacker than the blackest knight. Harder than a cryptic crossword puzzle. More unforgiving than a Flat Earth Society internet forum. A fine slab, suitable for the Grimmest of Reapers.

Striding across the floor, Death notes the activity around him. A cave troll engaged in conversation with an orc and a human female. THREE YEARS, THIRTY-FOUR YEARS, A WEEK AND A HALF. A seafarer with fewer than the regulation number of fingers. FIVE YEARS AND SEVEN MONTHS. A robust orcish female. THIRTEEN YEARS COME JANUARY. A scrawny looking minion in a loin cloth. TWENTY-ONE YEARS. A thing with claws at one end of the bar. SEVENTEEN WEEKS. A Rohir body, falling apart, occupied by a wight spirit. OVERDUE. A mop-headed creature, species unknown. ABOUT FORTY-FIVE MINUTES. Mistress of the Pub. SURPRISINGLY, SIXTY-THREE YEARS.

A motley collection to be sure, but Death was unperturbed. Worse company he had kept, most certainly. And it was a worthwhile endeavour to do the rounds once in a while, to make sure he hadn't missed anyone. Approaching the bar, he notes the poise shown by the pub mistress in both retaining an air of indifference and lowering the unemployment rate in the area. "I WOULD LIKE..." Death casts an eye over the menu as though unsure what he wants. His gaze flicks up to meet Írimë's eyes and he continues. "YES. THAT'S IT. I WOULD LIKE ... A WORD."

[Moriel]

Frost seemed to take to his task with relish. Unfortunately for him, his flirtatious tactics had the predictable result of angering the woman’s husband, and Orco immediately began screeching at the Númenorean with very creative language. Írimë would absolutely give him credit for the whole whip/spine idea when she stole it. What was unexpected, however, was Thalionwen sliding back over the bar and onto her seat, cool as you please! “You are so right,” the Pubmistress commiserated with the Rohir, “no man.. orc.. whatever… is worth getting that worked up over.” She flipped her hair nonchalantly at the complement, and nodded sagely. “Sulfur steam, it works wonders.” Sweeping the coins off the blood spattered counter, she deposited them into her purse. “That ought to cover it. And don’t worry, we do a thorough clean at the end of the night. If you hang around here long enough you’ll learn there’s no point in cleaning too much too early.” Írimë fixed the woman a new drink- Silmaril Wine this time, and set it before her, glancing over at Frost. “Hmm. Might be a while before he hears the title of wench, even if he is nice to look at. Let’s see how he handles your hubby. Hmmm…. you know Thali, you could-“ but the Pubmistress was interrupted in her provocative leaning across the bar towards Thalionwen by the arrival of Death, speaking in a very shouty tone. “A word? What kind of word? Can’t you see I’m busy here?” Írimë flipped her hand at Thali. “How about… payment?”

[DEATH]

The Pub Mistress seems somewhat irritated by His request. Something about being busy.

Death waves a hand and the activity in the Pub appears to halt. It has not, but has slowed to the point of imperceptible movement. THIS IS BETTER. YOU WILL NOT BE SO BUSY FOR A MOMENT OR TWO.*

PERHAPS YOU HAVE SEEN A MAN. A WIZARD, OF SORTS. HE HAS BEEN MISSING FOR SOME TIME FROM THE PLACE HE IS SUPPOSED TO BE. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WIZARD?

ALSO, DO YOU SERVE CURRY? I WOULD LIKE TO ORDER ONE, IF YOU HAVE ANY.

Another wave of the hand and activity resumes. On The Rocks is the same honest working Mordorian’s pub it has always sometimes been

*A note on Death’s voice. Death may seem to be shouting. This is not the case. When Death speaks, listeners are not really aware of hearing the words as much as they are aware the words have been spoken. It’s kind of a thought transfer.

[Silky Gooseness]

A drink! At last, someone was offering her a drink. Silendra brightened considerably. This was even better than being offered a free body and a discount off a corpse. “Absolutely,” she said with enthusiasm to Volgavia, before blanching - well, sort of; her capillaries weren’t all that well connected these days. It was HIM. Most people wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary for the newcomer, especially in Mordor, where if you met a sinister stranger, tall, hooded and cloaked, you either

a) avoided them, or served them drinks, because they were Nazgûl
b) attempted to mug them, because they were a badly disguised Elf

But not this guy. Silendra abruptly unseated herself and dived under a table. Her debt to Írimë was nothing compared to ... well, let’s say, the bodily equivalent of not returning your library books for two hundred years.

[The Good Hunter]

Frost had been in delicate situations before. He had once been able to negotiate the acquisition of a new mast for two thirds the original asking price from a village in Near Harad, after failing to seduce the mayor, and her husband. But this, this might be a little more delicate than that. His absolutely, completely innocent attempt at conversation with the Rohir had apparently enraged her husband (Frost was still trying to work that one out) to the point that he was about to attack Frost. He had to act quickly. A look over to Írimë revealed he was on his own. Great.
He had to admit, the orc’s insults were well thought out and imaginatively original. Better than he would have expected from most of the Black Land’s denizens. His smile didn’t falter.
“My humblest apologies, Orco was it?” He tossed the velvet bag in the air and it disintegrated, revealing the illusory magic. “Why don’t you put that chair down. Let’s talk, you and I. I never meant any disrespect to you. Of course not! I would be a fool to insult such an intelligent and robust a creature such as yourself!” Frost maneuvered behind the bar and poured two Elf Bloods, setting one nonchalantly at the end of the bar. “Tell you what, I’ll drink this Elf Blood here, and that one down there well… maybe someone can figure out what to do with it later.” He took a sip and put on his best smile. Maybe he could get out of this with his spine intact. “Tell me, how did the two of you meet? I can’t imagine they were quite normal circumstances.” Frost looked Orco over again and grinned coquettishly, ignore the rather unique breath and teeth, and he wasn't too bad to look at, maybe he could pull this off. “Tell me how such a fine specimen of orc won the heart of a Rohir. I imagine that is a tale worth a few Elf Bloods.” He took a sip and rolled the dice.

[Burnt Toast]

Naokis was about to respond to Sil when she dove under the table abruptly. He finished his thought aloud anyway, "I mean, I'm in. I've been through worse, I'm sure. As long as I can still drive once in a while, and you can even choose when, I'm good." He looked around to try and see what she was trying to hide from.

Oh.

Well, he had never met Death before, but he was pretty sure that was who this was. Come to think of it, maybe he had? He had no idea where he had been before this pub, so who knew.

He leaned down from his chair to whisper to Sil. "I mean, if you've got trouble with this guy, might as well hop into this body now. 1. Beautiful raven hair. 2. Not so recognizable?" Though, he figured, her body was pretty deteriorated. Maybe Death would recognize her shining out of a body's eyes. Who knew.

[Volgavia]

Volgavia was eager to see someone he knew, and shocked when she abruptly dove under the table. Why was this woman avoiding him? She definitely looked a bit different than he remembered - maybe it was the passing of time, maybe it was something else. Her outwardly features didn't seem to him as minionish as he remembered, but he unmistakenly recognized hear soul.

Unsure of what to do next, he paused, waiting for Sil to emerge. Instead though, he saw someone else lean down to talk to her! It must be quite the party down there. He slowly bent down, ready to crawl under the table too. His now apparently ancient bones creaked as he bent down. Did his joints used to pop like this? What was happening to his body?

From his vantage point on the floor, Vol noticed a new presence. It was odd, he didn't at first see Death with his eyes. Perhaps he was imagining it, but it was moreso he felt a lack of warmth coming from an area in the room. Not wanting to stick around, he quickly scurried under the table. "Mistress Sil", he whispered loudly. "No need to hide from me! I know my fearsome attitude can be enough to intimidate Eru himself, so I'll try to tone that down." He grinned gleefully, eyes sparkling with the tiniest glints of moisture welling up in them from the excitement.

[DEATH]

Death's attempt at conversation with the Pub Mistress is interrupted by a minor commotion not far away. To the casual observer, there would appear to be three fewer patrons in the establishment. The slightly more discerning observer might note a table shuffling about a bit, as if on its own. True fans would not only have predicted this, but would also have documented, detailed histories of Silendra's prior encounters with Death, floor plans of On The Rocks, and complex theories about the nature and origin of Naokis.

Absent an immediate answer from Írimë (to be fair she does look quite busy), Death strides over to the table under which a crowd is gathering, and folds himself down into something approximating a crouch. Three pairs of eyes focus on him as he asks, WHAT ARE WE ALL DOING, GATHERED HERE UNDER THIS TABLE?

Silence greets him. OH HO HO. THAT WAS A JOKE. I KNOW WE ARE ALL UNDER HERE HIDING FROM ME.

Again, silence. SILENDRA, YOU OUGHT TO KNOW BETTER. I AM PATIENT, AND ALL THINGS COME TO ME IN THE END. ON THIS OCCASION, HOWEVER, I AM NOT HERE TO COLLECT DEBTS. PERHAPS YOU AND YOUR, AHEM, FRIENDS MAY BE OF ASSISTANCE TO ME. He had not cleared his throat. All listening knew without question that they had heard him say AHEM.

I SEEK A WIZARD. OF SORTS. YOU WOULD KNOW HIM BY HIS ROBES AND HAT, WITH "WIZZARD" MISSPELLED ON THE LATTER. HE MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE A SUITCASE WITH HIM. LOTS OF LEGS. ON THE SUITCASE, NOT THE WIZARD. HE WOULD HAVE BEEN MOVING QUITE FAST. HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? IF YOU CAN ASSIST ME IN THIS, I MAY OVERLOOK ... He waves an arm in the general direction of all three of Silendra, Naokis, and Volgavia ... WHATEVER THIS IS.

[Silky Gooseness]

Silendra peered out from under the table...

... into an infinite blue stare.

It was flanked by the apparently innocently curious gaze of Naokis and the cheerfully oblivious grin of Volgavia. That didn’t improve it much.

“You could do a bit of work on your oh ho ho, Lord,” Silendra mumbled to herself. “Just a bit of, you know, oomph, and you could develop a really rich and fruity laugh... Anyway...”

She coughed pathetically. Bargaining with Death is almost as good an idea as challenging Death to a card game, or having a fiddle contest with Lucifer. But sometimes it’s unavoidable.

“Look,” said Silendra, in as reasonable a way as she could muster given she was half-under a table, “I know how these things go, Lord. I’ll tell you I’ve seen a few Wizards, with spelling skills both great and marginal, and that they’re at Isengard; and then you’ll rush there, and miss them when they show up here twenty minutes later. Or is it the other way around?

At any rate I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you might be better off staying here and having a curry in the hope he shows up. And his box-with-legs. If there’s a way for malignant spirits to start possessing items of furniture and storage items, I want to know about it myself.”

A philosophical question arose in Silendra’s booze-addled mind: would it be possible to possess an Ent and then have an armoire made out of it? A few centuries spent quietly storing items seemed much less stressful than her current existence. She could really see herself as a rich cherrywood wine rack.

Failing that, Naokis would have to do.

[Thalionwen Hunigfolm]

As a perfectly ordinary-looking cloaked figure entered the bar and caused a great deal of unwarranted consternation, Thali sipped her Silmaril wine and beamed.

"Oh!" she said to no one in particular, "this tastes SPARKLY!"

Draining half the glass quickly, she caught sight of Frost, that wretched pirate bar wench, practically throwing himself at Orco. Thali's eyes narrowed. As Írimë seemed temporarily distracted, Thali sidled over to Orco and Frost, taking care to bring what was left of her Silmaril wine.

Why you no good, two bit hussy, she thought at Frost as he suavely attempted to engage Orco in meaningful conversation. Or Thali might have said it out loud--the very sparkly wine was starting to make her feel uncommonly sparkly too, and it was hard to tell.

Sliding herself up onto Orco's lap, she glared at Frost briefly before transforming that glare into her sparkliest sparkly-wine smile.

"Yes, heorte min," Thali said, reaching up and gently toying with one of Orco's lumpy, misshapen ears, "why don't you tell this pretty little man how we met?"

[The Good Hunter]

Well this was awkward. No sooner had Frost seemingly been able to calm down Orco, than his wife Thali stormed over in a similar fiery and explosive mood. He was beginning to feel that this relationship was less strange than he had originally thought. They complimented each other quite well. Both of them had a bloody sense of propriety and colorfully visceral vocabulary. If he didn’t turn this ship around he was likely to lose more fingers.

“I am so very flattered that you think I’m… pretty,” he chewed the word with a bit of ironic devilry. “I do, though, think that my intentions here have been a little misinterpreted. My fault of course. I would never want to come in between such a lovely couple such as yourselves.” He took a long draft of the Elf Blood in front of him, nearly draining the glass. The intense flavor rushed to his head, making him see stars. “Join, perhaps. But no, never get in between. I’m not a home wrecker after all.” He leaned back in the chair and tented his hands underneath his chin. This could end in one of two ways, either he was going to survive this and have a very good time, or he was going to skinned and roasted and his body parts were going to be used in a black market organ scheme. There really was no in between with this crowd. Frost liked it that way.

[Rivvy Elf]

"Did I say that you could talk?" Orco responded to Frost, though seemingly not threateningly as pleasure revealed itself on his face as he softly brushed Thalionwen's hair with one of his big-boned hands, then gave a quick peck to her forehead, "my wife here wants me to tell you how we met, so best respect her wishes or I'll make your molars look like your incisors!"

"Anyways," Orco continued....

"It happened on a starry night when the moon hid in the clouds. I was off on a trip to meet an associate in Dunland for some waste management business. When all of a sudden I hear a noise. A few noises actually. Okay, a commotion. It was horrible. There were these orcs playing jump rope with the intestines of this poor prone horse on the ground. Brown like the fertile Nurn, red flecking on its black hair, an innocent horse that was just living, just on playing on the plains. And those monsters pulled out its organs like they were playthings!

I saw red, "It was an innocent creature! You monsters!" I yelled.

Let's just say I don't remember much about what happened next. What I do remember is that, you know, the orc group that killed the horse? All torn apart by me, their body parts scattered all over the place. I think I even had a piece of their leader's throat in my teeth. I remember being covered in my own blood, cradling the horse in my own hands, whispering sweet nothings to her ears as time passed. Soon enough, I pass out.

Then I wake up in some place I don't recognize, and I saw the most gorgeous person I laid eyes on: my future wife."

[Thalionwen Hunigfolm]

"He means me," Thalionwen pointed out helpfully to Frost, taking a sip of her Silmaril wine. For the most part, she didn't like stories of how people met, but she did like this one on account of being in it herself. And while she doubted Frost really cared to hear it--his eyes seemed to be glazing over--he certainly wouldn't risk irritating Orco again with Írimë still in earshot.

"I'd been on my way home from visiting my first husband's grave," Thali went on, undeterred by the look on Frost's face. Truly though, he was much less pretty with his jaw all slack like that, she'd have to find a way to tactfully point it out. "We'd only just buried him two weeks before. And then on the road, I nearly drove my cart into a party of orcs doing unspeakable things to some hapless mare they'd come across. Well, I turned around as quick as I could and hid myself away for fear of the same fate befalling me, but there was no way past them. I'd have to wait until they lost interest and carried on.

"Or I thought I'd have to wait. Out of nowhere, this one," Thali nudged Orco with her shoulder, "turned up and started raging over what had been done to that pony. Not really what you expect of an orc, if you've grown up in the Mark. There was an all-out brawl, everybody tearing into everyone, and then only he was left, looking like death warmed over.

"Thing is, I saw enough of death and dying in the War to last me a lifetime, and it had only just come knocking at my door again. Enough was enough, so orc or not, I brought him home, and patched him up, and shackled him to the wall of my barn--better not to ask why I had shackles in there already.

"So I kept him there for a few days, chained up in the barn. Only thing is, he kept asking to help. And the pony liked him. And when my girls escaped from the house and got into the barn, they just clambered all over him pretending to be trolls, and he didn't eat them or nothing. So by and by, I let him go, thinking he'd just run off as soon as I had."

Thalionwen paused, pondering the fact that in the end Orco had run off, whatever his reasons for it. A bit of sparkly wine would take the edge off that--but no. The glass was empty. Just like her heart and her home had been, the day she woke up and found her singular spouse had gone.

[DEATH]

Death gazes impassively as Silendra mumbles an almost-quiet-enough critique of his laugh (surely she recalls that His hearing is VERY GOOD). Death is a little crestfallen as He believed His laugh to be developing quite nicely. He makes a mental note to KEEP PRACTICING, while ensuring that He keeps all this to Himself. It would not do to reveal any weakness, especially not in this place. He makes a show of listening intently as she proposes an alternative to His current pursuit.

Certainly the theory is sound. It is entirely likely that any rushing off to another location will result in His quarry appearing in this very Pub shortly after He leaves. The Wizzard has been something of a thorn in his side many times before and has an uncanny knack for being in the wrong place at the right time. Or the right place at the wrong time. Or something. A slippery sucker is what he is.

VERY WELL THEN. I SHALL WAIT HERE FOR TWENTY MINUTES. He doesn't so much stand up as unfold, moving to a nearby chair where he sits.

And continues to sit, silent. Seconds pass, or perhaps they are minutes. It's hard to tell. It is possible that from this passage of time the phrase "awkward silence" was born. Finally he asks, THEY HAVE CURRY HERE, YOU SAY? I COULD MURDER A CURRY.

Another brief pause. IT'S NOT ... ONNA STICK, IS IT? ONLY I HAD A RATHER PECULIAR GENTLEMAN TRY TO SELL ME CURRY ONNA STICK IN OS-GILIATH. IT WAS NOT PLEASANT.

[The Good Hunter]

Frost laughed uproariously at Orco and Thali's tale and slapped the table with his good hand. “Truly? Truly? That’s how the two of you met?” He took another sip of the Elf Blood, giving a moment’s pause to consider again whether or not this was cannibalism or vampirism.

“That is a fascinatingly weird tale. I’ve seen a lot of strange things since my return to Mordor,” he swung a look over at Naokis and his figurines for emphasis, “but the love you two share is by far strangest of all. I do mean that as a compliment,” he added hastily, “to both of you.”

Frost took a deep breath and put the best smile he could, the one with the glint in his eye that he reserved for royalty. “But it seems to be growing late around here. I don’t think I’m being untoward by letting you both know that my old manse is still in good repair, the servants have kept it up nicely in my absence. It is a little ways from here though, but has a wonderful view of Nan Morlith in the morning. I would hate to think after all this,” he waved his hands about, “that you could miss something like that. And I make a magnificent morning scramble to chase away any hangover we may incur after a raucous night of fun.”

Frost took a final draft of the Elf Blood and set the glass down purposefully. “So you two, what do you think of my offer?”

[Thalionwen Hunigfolm]

The trouble with wine, sparkly or otherwise, was that eventually, it made everything fuzzy. And then wobbly. And then very, very tiring. The sparkles had all gone, and from a distance Thalionwen heard that bar wench, Frost--he'd been pretty, hadn't he? she couldn't really remember--saying something about a house and servants. Then she was fast asleep, snoring ever so gently in Orco's arms, and dreaming happy dreams of difficult-to-suture wounds.

[Rivvy Elf]

Orco smiled at Frost but it did not reach his eyes,

"I don't think you get it," Orco said in a matter-of-fact voice, "and if my wife were not asleep in my arms, I would pull your stomach out and force you to lick it.

You have a lotta guts to insult my residence. What, my house not good enough for me? For my wife? Ya think you're better than me? That's rich. So rich." Orco shook his head and brushed a stray hair out of Thalionwen's eyelids.

[Moriel]

A great deal of very strange things were happening in her pub today, Írimë reflected as she observed the goings on. There was Death which was unusual enough in and of himself, but at least for the moment he had decided to go bother someone else. Nonetheless, it was wise to keep Death happy, and so the Pubmistress had sent a snaga to the kitchen with vague instructions on how to prepare curried hobbit. Silendra, for reasons known only to herself, had chosen to throw herself under a table. Something about the latest newcomer (Volgavia) had scared the undead girl witless, and that was interesting. But what was more interesting was whatever the hell was going on between Frost, Orco, and Thali. She and the Rohir woman had been getting along splendidly when Death came along and interrupted, and they had BOTH wandered off. Írimë strolled her way casually along the bar until she was in such a position that she could eavesdrop of the strange trio (Orco, Thali, Frost) as they swapped tales and propositions. And as Thali… fell asleep. Well that was disappointing. Almost as disappointing as the fact that none of the flirting around here but sleepy lady’s had included Írimë! Tired of this state of affairs, she swept from behind the bar and promptly plopped herself down in Frost’s lap. “A manse, you say?” she asked, throwing her arm around his shoulders, and using her other hand to pick up his glass of elf blood, licking a stray drop from the rim. “Tell me more. Consider this your job interview.”

Meanwhile, a snaga had appeared from the kitchen, bearing a steaming plate of something that was both chunky and grainy and smelled of.. something. It bore the plate to Death, and extended it towards him with a bow. "Hobbit... curry.."

[The Good Hunter]

Frost threw up his hands in frustration. It was not being turned down that so annoyed him, consent was very important after all, it was the attitude of the orc in front of him. No matter how Frost tried to compliment him and his wife, the creature seemed eager to take offence and see everything as a slight, which Frost has never intended. He simply knew where his home was, that’s why he suggested it. The woman had fallen asleep, rather quickly, but in light of her orcish husband’s puffery, maybe that been a good thing.
Before he could completely respond to the orc’s ridiculous accusations with a flyting of his own, Írimë popped into his lap and suddenly all thoughts of the orc and his wife drifted away. The pubmistress was even more lovely up close. Hints of lavender and mint and underneath that, the blood of all her past victims. A heady mixture. A mischievous smile began to reappear on Frost’s lips, along with a soft chuckle.

“The manse? Well it’s a marvelous thing. The walls are built from Ithilien marble that I had… acquired let’s call it, right from under the noses of the rangers. It’s quite lovely, bone white stone capped with red tiles on the roof. The inner court yard could probably fit three pubs inside easily. There’s an amphitheater around on the south side with enough seating for, well not many, too many of these denizens would spoil the many performances. But, onto the manse itself. Three stories tall with seven very luxurious bedrooms, each with a balcony overlooking the courtyard, curtains of rare imported silk and bedsheets even softer. I have a room in the center devoted completely to portraiture, commissions from all over the world, a kitchen that would set any chef in Middle-Earth to salivating, a growing library of various occultic interests, and the master bedroom of course, but I need to save some mystery otherwise you’d never need to see it.

“Now though,” he turned his attention back to Orco and his sleeping wife(Thali), “I would suggest you stop repeating the insults hurled at you when you were tossed out of the Black Host for being too soft. I’ve learned many things on my travels abroad, one was how to make the most succulent sausage out of the intestines of orc. Strong stuff, gamey but not overpoweringly so. Does very nicely with rice and bay leaves. I wonder, sitting here now, what I could make here. Perhaps, if your intestines prove unremarkable, I’ll stuff them into a horse and see if your wife notices the difference when she wakes up.”

[DEATH]

Death sits and waits, patiently and expectantly, for the wizzard to show up. The bustle around shows signs of abating as patrons become either drunk enough to slow to a near (or in some cases full) stop, too drunk to fight, or otherwise occupied.

A goblin approaches bearing a bowl filled with steaming meat of some type, which he offers to Death with a subservient bow. AH. THE MUCH-TOUTED MORDORIAN "HOBBIT" CURRY. HOBBITS BEING FAMOUSLY COMMON IN THESE PARTS. I TRUST THAT A CASUAL INSPECTION OF THE YARD WOULD NOT REVEAL A HORSE CARCASS OR TWO? NO MATTER. MY THANKS TO THE MISTRESS FOR HER HOSPITALITY.

Death tries a mouthful of the dish. YES. LIKE A RED HOT ICE CUBE. Whatever the other ingredients, the "curry" aspect is assuredly present and certainly not the worst tasting thing He has ever tried. He continues to eat.

Silendra and her companions Naokis and Volgavia appear somewhat subdued. Death is not what we would describe as proficient at social interaction, however He presents His best approximation of a cheerful visage (which could be more accurately described as an intense, terrifying, expressionless gaze) as He attempts what humans often refer to as "small talk". Staring directly at Naokis he asks, WHAT ARE YOU?

[Rivvy Elf]

"Wait wait, so you're now saying your cooking's better than mine? You have five seconds to shut your [redacted] mouth before I throw something at you. I'd done so already, but my wife has traveled far, and I'd rather not wake her." -Orco responded to Frost.

[Thalionwen Hunigfolm]

"Too many loud noises," Thali said fuzzily, as she woke and patted Orco's livid face. Slipping to the floor, she squinted up at Frost.

"You can season that one all you want," she told Frost solemnly, "but he'll still be tough as shoe leather and salty as seawater. Also, I don't think either of you knows how to cook. No matter how the two of you shout about it, I bet you just hide in the kitchen while a servant does the cooking for you. And Orco burns everything, no matter how hard he tries, bless him. I can cook though, and I'm hungry, so I'm going to make us some eggs. Írimë, eggs? Heorte min, eggs? Pretty wench, you're too skinny so I'm making yours anyway, you don't get to choose."

And yawning widely, she wandered off to the kitchen, which still smelled strongly of curry.

[Burnt Toast]

Naokis decided that maybe the best option right now would be to crawl under the table with Sil. Someone else (Volgavia) was whispering to her now, and seemed to know her. Before he could reply to said individual, Death started in again.

He tried covering his ears, but the voice continued at the same volume, vibrating coldly in his chest. He shivered, and tried to shake it out of him. This was not pleasant at all.Though, he supposed, it was nice to know that he could at least feel something. Probably. Probably that was nice.

Unable to block it out, he was forced to listen as Death told them he was searching for a wizard of some kind. With two z’s. And a suitcase with legs? Odd sort of thing, but who was he to judge. He shrugged, to no one in particular.

Sil was responding to Death now, but he couldn’t hear her. That was odd. He suddenly remembered he was holding his hands over his ears, and removed them just in time to hear something about possessing furniture. That sounded all right to him. Maybe they could work that into this whole body meld thing.

He began musing to himself about the whole situation, vaguely noticing that Deathwas now ordering curry. He wondered if he liked curry. But he was pulled out of these thoughts by a sudden question slicing directly through him, compliments of Death: What are you?. He gave a start, and tried in vain to un-ice his insides. He was feeling rather colder by the minute.

He opened his mouth to answer, but realized he didn’t have one. At a loss, he pulled out his two figurines that he had left, and began to act out a story he knew, for Death. It involved lots of funny voices and a lot of burping. It was one of his favourites, and he was sure that Death would like it.

It ended with him jumping up and down and shouting, ”Now, kiss, mop heads!” That was his favourite part. He was sure it would be Death’s, too.

[Silky Gooseness]

Silendra could smell curry. Fresh(ish) hoppit curry. Did everyone around here have an emergency spice rack except her? Perhaps she should invest in one herself.

Curry, however delightful, cannot hold the entirety of Death’s attention.

Silendra winced as The Reaper focused on what was looking like her best chance of real estate for the next ten years. Naokis had happily crawled under the table with her and was practically snuggled into her robe. Well, she was planning to get much closer than that.

Politely, she waited for him to finish his monologue - although there was a lot of antiphonal squeaking involved - with his figurines, mostly on the off chance The Reaper was actually interested in this and took exception to her interruption. As soon as Naokis had finished his climactic yell of “Now KISS, Mopheads”, Silendra seized his hand and hissed into his ear.

“Let me in!”

[Liläth]

Blossom

Blossom was far more focused on the task at hand to gain another beverage to notice going ons in the pub around her. It seemed that everyone was focused on one thing or one another and it was not her place to pay attention to that. However, the sudden change in time caused her some pause. It was brief, a moment of course but it shifted her current attention on her need for a drink to the robed being (Death) who had entered and was demanding a curry of sorts.

Her monotone orbs remained fixated on the creature who had moved over to a table that everyone was suddenly cowering underneath before following him as he moved to sit at one as well. He seemed familiar. No, not familiar as if she had met him but familiar nonetheless. Whispers of the name death seemed to be thrown out in the rushed conversations around her and her eyes narrowed. When she was but a bairn, Death had come for her but Death had let her go. Maybe it was him, maybe it was another, she might never know but It wasn’t often that one such as she is born and allowed to live. Though she did exist and thrived, much to the surprise of her father.

The missing fingered man (Frost) had moved behind the bar and seemed to be trying to break up a fight that was coming from the human female (Thali) and her orc husband (Orco). It wasn't necessarily them fighting each other rather than them fighting others. They seemed to suit one another and maybe, the times had changed enough that this didn’t seem like such an odd thing here. Blossom mused to herself, her hands brushing one of the loose locks of her thick auburn hair that had escaped the hasty braid she previously placed it in.

It seemed to have calmed down of sorts, the pubmistress Írimë was curled up in the lap of Frost. The human woman (Thali) was sleepily wandering off in search of curry. A pleasant smell. The pile of rags (Sil) and the child-like creature (Naokis) were both snuggled as if trying to absorb one another and death seemed to be focused on the meal that was given to him. Calm was not necessarily a good thing in mordor but it was calm nonetheless.

The coins she had placed on the counter had disappeared and another Tempest was placed in front of her. A snaga scurried off to continue whatever it was doing and she gave her thanks. Mentally of course before lifting the cup to her lips once more. God. All this cuddling and touching was so foreign to her that it was tiring to watch. It wasn’t that it was offensive, just a misplaced ideal that served some personal purpose or gain. Alcohol made far more sense to her then anything physical between two beings. Just as brief of course but far more satisfying.

[Moriel]

“Hmm, sounds lovely!” Írimë murmured, running her finger around the inside of the rim of the glass, collecting a smear of blood. But all too soon he had stopped describing the opulent surroundings that she had decided she definitely needed to see, and moved back to insulting Orco. “Oh don’t be tedious,” the Pubmistress flicked her finger down the bridge of Frost’s nose, leaving a red streak in its wake. Fortunately at that moment, Thali awoke from her… well Írimë wasn’t sure what had induced her slumber, but it had been slumber. And apparently, she was craving eggs. And offering to cook them for all concerned? Normally Írimë wasn’t one to just let people waltz into her kitchen, but in this instance, she would let it slide. “Make mine over easy! And some toast!” she called after Thali, leaning back across Frost’s lap to shout out from behind his other side. “You’re hired! As for you,” the Pubmistress slithered off of the Númenorean’s lap and onto the chair beside him, “You haven’t told me what job you’re after in, or what.. appropriate skills you might have”

[The Good Hunter]

This was more like it! Frost had forgotten about the orc (Orco) sitting across from him at the table as soon as he opened his mouth again. The Númenorean was sure it was some sort of threat the orc had heard thrown at him and thought it was smart enough to repeat. Frost heard nothing but static noise from that side of the pub. His eyes were only on the pub mistress now. He spent a half second berating himself for not paying more attention to her early on. She was stunning. Frost, with his full attention finally on her, barely knew what the say. He’d flirted with princesses and pirate queens and warchiefs and been as eloquent as an Elven poet, yet now all the words in his head seemed hard to come by. Thankfully, the Rohir wife of the orc decided that moment to wake from her… nap? slumber? and invited herself into the pub’s kitchen to make some eggs. Bold Frost thought, holding his breath to see what Írimë might do. When she didn’t let the whip at her hip fly Frost was even more astonished.

“I take my eggs soft boiled, if you don’t mind,” he called through the doors. Was it his imagination or had she called him a wench? Frost chuckled to himself.

“My skills,” he drawled as she slipped of his lap. “Are suited to a great many things I’d think. In this particular instance. I would have to point to this first,” he made a flourish with his hand and indicated to his face. “I think you’ve said it yourself, I am rather handsome?” A roguish smiled twisted the corners of his mouth and was complimented by a slight lifting of the eyebrow. “But second, and likely more of actual use in your wonderous pub, are supply lines I can bring. I have a smuggling operation, mostly alcohols and foods, that I think your pub would greatly benefit from. I have people that can get you the freshest fruit, picked that day in Minas Tirith if you’d like. Even some of the more sanguine of your wares, hobbits and blood and all that, I have ways of procuring new lines of transport that are less likely to be noticed by the snobs at the Gates. I know how to get things into the Black Land quickly. All I ask in return is to work with you. I daresay I could make a good bartender, if given the chance.”

[Thalionwen Hunigfolm]

The pub kitchen was an absolute disaster, but nothing woke Thalionwen up like a new project. And Írimë had something about being hired, which to Thali, was all the invitation she needed.

"Hello, you!" she said to an extremely startled-looking snaga in an apron. "I'm the new cook!"

The creature was vainly attempting to wash burnt curry out of the bottom of a pot with what looked like a twig, and at the sight of Thalionwen, it dropped the stick and bolted.

"Wait, come back," Thali called after the snaga helplessly as it ran out a back door and into the Mordorian night. Bema's horn, creatures were flighty here. With a shake of her head, Thali rummaged through some cupboards. There were plenty of black-shelled eggs, which, when subjected to a quick floaty test just to be on the safe side, turned out to be fresh. There was also a crock of strange brown beans, labelled "BEANS FOR DISGUSTING BEAN BREAD--TASTES LIKE DEATH." But whether these beans made bread that tasted like DEATH or not, there didn't appear to be any other loaves about the place. And Írimë said she wanted toast. Having never made DISGUSTING BEAN BREAD before, Thali decided she'd soak the beans first, and since she was getting a late start on them, that she'd do it with simmering water instead of cold. So she set a pot of water to warm, and when it had warmed enough, poured in some of the odd beans.

With that done, Thali turned her attention to the eggs. Soft-boiled for the pretty Numenorean, Frost, over easy for Írimë, and maybe something special for Orco--he wasn't exactly having the easiest night, poor lamb. Thalionwen had a nice little cheese she'd brought along from Rohan, tightly wrapped up in her satchel. And whether or not the "crispy elf ears" lying about in abundance were actually elf ears, they certainly smelled a lot like bacon.

"Soft boiled, over easy, baconandcheeseomelette," Thali muttered under her breath as she clattered about with (dubiously clean) pots and pans. But she was only halfway through fixing the eggs when a tantalizing aroma distracted her.

"What is that?" she asked out loud, wishing the snaga had stayed so she'd have someone to talk to besides herself. Sniffing about, she found that the source of the delicious smell was the beans she'd been soaking. The hot water had gone a dark, sludgy brown, but it certainly smelled nice. Perhaps the beans were being used incorrectly??? Tasting a bit of the bean water, Thali found it a little bitter, but still quite appetizing.

"Needs milk, and something sweet," she said. The beans themselves looked unappealing, and were much, much bitterer than the brew they'd created. Tossing them away, Thali found some miraculously unspoiled milk and added it to the bean water, along with a grainy white substance she'd seen small orc children eating with great relish on the street one day. They'd called it something with an S, that sounded like Black Speech. Supit? Sumar? ...Sugar? She was sure it had been that last, whatever it meant. But it tasted lovely, so she added some to the hot bean water, experimenting with the ratio of milk and sugar until she found a truly delicious balance.

By then the eggs were finished, so Thali plated them, took out a platter, and brought the whole lot to the front.

"Here we are!" she said breezily to the waiting trio. "Eggs over easy for Írimë--there was no bread, sorry, but I can make some tomorrow. Soft-boiled for the wench--I mean Frost. I didn't know how many you wanted so I made half a dozen, and if you don't eat them all, you can give the troll down the bar what's left. Sort-of-bacon and cheese omelette for Orco, who deserves it, I'm sorry I shouted at you before about the money, heorte min. And lastly some of this for everyone!"

She pushed full mugs of the bean water over to each of the three and waited expectantly.

[Rivvy Elf]

"Thanks hon," Orco replied, still red in the face at Frosty, but less red because it seemed the other person finally got the hint and backed off. He noisily breathed out, and then inhaled the scent, as saliva began appearing on the corners of his mouth. A droplet of saliva began appearing on the lower left corner, and his tongue slowly went from left to right as he anticipated the robust succulent taste of the "bacon" and cheese omelette.

Given that he had no utensils, he stabbed his fingernails within the omelette, using his other hand as a knife, messily separating a gooey cheesy piece out of the omelette, containing a generous amount of "bacon," in which part of its grease still bubbled on the surface. He removed his stabbed fingernails, stabbing it now into the isolated piece of omelette, lifting the gooey morsel to his mouth and chewed.

The explosion of flavor and intensity showed as Orco nodded and made a facial gesture as if saying 'not bad.' In reality the explosion of flavors melded with the growing saliva, as his incisors first ripped part of the piece, then his large canines tore and shredded the eggs and bacon. The creaminess and soft texture of the egg melded well with crisp saltiness of the "bacon," providing a combination of flavor and texture that would rival the very cooks of the Shire. Finally the molars did much of the rest of the work, chomping and grinding the omelette piece into small bits for Orco to easily swallow. About 10 more seconds of this occurred, and Orco looked up at Thalionwen,

"Let me know if anyone says your cooking is bad, Thali," Orco said, "I'll defenestrate them outta da towah."

[DEATH]

Death watches as the strange creature Naokis opens its mouth and then closes it. No words pass. This is perplexing.

After a moment, the creature produces two small figurines from somewhere about its person and commences moving them about, all the while muttering incomprehensibly. "Nd nao ter d'boa byyyyyyyy slea. Dance (burp). Ibemanny uf yoo. Grrrrat meny uf yoo!" Or something similar.

As this performance continues, the Oddling (Death has made this word up in His head and He is quite satisfied with Himself. It seems fitting.) becomes more and more animated. Death continues to watch. It doesn't make sense, but He has seen many things in His time that make no sense and this is as entertaining as any of them.

"Mer givn hup ev seeyn yar gin. Mer GIVN HUP!" "Oooooh nerp." BURP. The sing-song lilt of this creature's voice is somehow soothing to Death's ears.

"Now, kiss, mop heads!" Jumping up and down, shouting. As the performance comes to its climactic end, Death notes Silendra grasp the Oddling's hand and whisper in its ear.

WONDERFUL. THIS STORY PLEASES ME. I'M SURE I COULD WATCH IT OVER AND OVER AGAIN. HOWEVER, I BELIEVE YOU HAVE ANOTHER REQUEST. AND IF THE ODOUR PEELING OFF THAT DECAYING ROHIRRIM BODY DOES NOT DECEIVE ME, IT IS AN URGENT ONE. PERHAPS I SHOULD LEAVE YOU TWO BE FOR A TIME. TO ... GET TO KNOW ONE ANOTHER BETTER. AHEM.

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

She glared at the bartender for splashing some of the delicious drink out into her eye. And quickly drowned the drink. The drink must've stronger than she thought for Zarâm had absolutely no idea what was going on in the bloody pub, but then, it was likely that no one knew. That was the nature of bar fights, and apparently reunions with spouses who had wandered off? The beverage now over, Zarâm decided that preserving her life was of greatest importance and so decided to avoid whatever the commotion was going on in the main part of the pub. Noticing that the kitchen door was open, she slunk inside where to her great surprise, the random human female (Thalionwen), who was united in matrimony with one of the craziest orcs in the pub, stood stirring a multitude of pots. And lots of smells came from all of them, the majority of them completely foreign. And none of them stank like the usual maggoty bread.

"Hey, you!" Zarâm shouted at the woman, "what's cooking? And why does this place smell so weird?"

[Burnt Toast]

Naokis was so engrossed in his story that it was rather an understatement to say that he was startled by Silendra grabbing him by the hand and hissing in his ear. He jerked in surprise and bonked his head on the underside of the table.

Death was responding to him now, telling him that he was pleased with the story, and something about odour and decay. The combined sensations of ear hissing and inner death dialogue was getting to be a bit much for poor Naokis, but this was just the beginning.

"Um, come in?" he managed, his overloaded brain almost uncertain who he was responding to. And then--

a flash of heat
then ice
and then suddenly-- more thoughts than he had ever had, flying through her (his? whose?) head. Something new was happening.

And then Naokis blacked out.

[Narv]

Narv looked at his lava snack.

How long had he been doing that?

He wondered, sometimes, what it was like to be cousin Bert. Whether it was like anything at all to be in that state of pure minerality, or whether it was just a featureless blinking out into the Void -- or whether, he couldn't help but think, it was indeed an experience in itself, suffocating and eternal, as petrifying as the etymology of the word implied. I mean, he didn't actually think that, but he did the cave troll equivalent which is kind of a frowning and grunting and scratching of the outer thigh. And did they ever come back? In troll lore, which is like regular lore with unintelligible roaring instead of citations, it was said the effects could indeed be reversed, though the secret groans and belches had long been forgotten. Perhaps the trollwives knew - but they too were but a shadow of a memory, their thin wisps of lichen highlighted in the red light of Orodruin by a fringe of white ash, their bellies glistening like old concrete, oh, hoom-- wait no no no hold on, what? No, none of that of was right, surely. Narv gathered himself, washed out the unfavourable residual treeishness with a passing Snaga's Orcqilla, and resumed looking at his lava snack. How long had he been doing that?

Where was he? Oh right - and if they did come back, ever, Bert and Willie and all the rest of his frozen brethren, alchemized by some dark miracle back into the organic, what then? Would the interval feel like an instant, neurons carrying on their same paths unaffected by their centuries of stasis? Would a thought started as Isildur the Pilferer made off with the Dark Lord's choicest accessory, finish undisturbed when the Prophesied One uttered the fabled snort of transfiguration, in some yet unforeseen age of Middle-earth? Or would some part of the awakened soul (?) bear the weight of time's passage, and feel its age despite itself, like hot acid scraped over too much lava snake?

Narv looked up. What hour was it? He thought Orco had just said something to him, as had some horse woman?, but it all seemed long past now. And the dead thing with the hair was back up and sidling up to things. And death, Death had come to greet them all. But Narv was not disturbed by this. No, it is not Death that trolls fear, when the sky begins to lighten in the east and the plains lie barren for miles around, no shade in sight in this lie-dream they call a Land of Shadow. No, in those moments when the darkness starts to recede and hot streaks of sunlight contort every crag and boulder into some horrifying image of your future, all a troll learns to fear is Time.

He turned to the nearest non-blacked-out being, who happened to be Zarâm, and and attempted to convey the contours of this angst. "Uhhhhhhh," he said. And he took a bite of lava snake.

[Silky Gooseness]

Silendra’s heartbeat slowed to normal as The Reaper, ever gentlemanly, coughed politely and turned away. Melkor’s bells, the weird story Naokis was telling had apparently captured His attention. What on Arda was in his head?

Well, it was time to find out. She let the heartbeat fall,
and gathered up her spirit.
The invitation was accepted.

Those poor fools who accept the Houseless are rare; normally, there is a bond that is built up between them that lasts longer than the duration of one pub brawl or a round at the bar. But if Naokis was willing, that was all that is required to step over the threshold. The Houseless and the Friend will dwell as one: until the Houseless strengthens its spirit enough to push the original inhabitant out. Or finds a new dwelling.

The rags and bones clattered to the floor. Silendra has always worn red skirts and it puffed out like a bloody blossom. There was a smell of ash, and a few tufts of golden hair wafting.

a long, indeterminable time passes

hello
welcome to our new place
there’s lots of space in here
although there’s also a lot of clutter that needs to go, We think

Very slowly, Silendris sits up and opens their eyes. They immediately bonk their head on the underside of the table again.

“We need a drink,” they croak.

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

Zarâm warily eyed the troll (Narv) who had appeared behind her. Like any troll, he was big and ugly. It appeared he might be the only other conscious being in the pub, besides the weird lady cooking things up in the kitchen. "Rough day?" she said, the random hairs resembling eyebrows raised in confusion. Trolls were indeed strange creatures; wonderful to have in battle, not so great when stealth was required. And who knew what they were like when drunk.

As much as Zarâm enjoyed a bar fight, why else would she be here in this pub, she valued her limbs a little too much to get close to a possibly drunken troll. So, after acknowledging that she too was actually conscious, and no knowing if the troll would (or more likely could) respond, Zarâm turned back to the kitchen, But before she could say anything to the weird female, the rags and bones got up from the ground and said something about needing a drink.

[Moriel]

He definitely wasn’t wrong, Írimë considered as Frost professed his own handsomeness, and indeed, his smuggling operation did sound like it would be a boon to the operations of On the Rocks- and he hadn’t made one single mention of charging for those services, which was even better. “I think you’re right,” the Pubmistress purred, reaching out to poke Frost’s chest with one perfectly manicured finger, “You’re hired.” At that moment Thali reappeared with the food and Írimë subsided into her chair rather than engaging Frost in further congratulations on his newfound employment. She took up one of the mugs of.. whatever it was that the Rohir had made. Írimë looked at it doubtfully, a sort of uninspiring murky brown color, but it did smell rather… delightful, unlike so many other things around Mordor. She sniffed it again, then raised the mug to her lips and took a sip. Immediately her eyes stretched wide as the delicious flavor flooded her senses, and something else, some underlying something, perhaps magical, certainly chemical, that sent a sort of buzzing through her blood. “This. Is. AMAZING!” Írimë gasped after she had swallowed, pointing frantically from the mug to Thali and back again. “What is it? You know what I don’t even care, just never stop making it. You win, you’re the favorite new employee.” She turned to Frost with a mock sorrowful look. “Sorry pretty wench, I’m pretty sure that means you have to listen to the cook.” Írimë took another deep swig of the miraculous bean water, her brain already spinning with ideas of how to make it alcoholic.

[The Good Hunter]

When the plate of soft boiled eggs was set in front of him, Frost’s stomach growled. It was as if it knew what had just been put in front of it. Frost inspected the eggs for a moment, suddenly aware that these could very well be lizard eggs. Not that that would have been a problem of course, Frost had gotten used to eating all sorts of strange things as a resident of Mordor. He eyed the steaming liquid warily. It smelled earthy and nutty with hints of vanilla. His mouth salivated as if triggered. He took a hesitant sip, keeping his eyes on Thalionwen as he did so. The flavor was different from the smell, a little bitter but felt as smooth as silk going down. He looked over at Írimë who seemed to be having the same thoughts.

Then to his horror, the pub mistress placed the Rohir over him! She was favorite just like that! Yes this… bean water? was good, really good in fact. Damn this stuff was amazing! Frost’s train of thought crashed for a moment as the world around him seemed grow into sharper focus. All of his senses felt heightened. The smell of stale schwarzbier and other things not worth mentioning filled his nose. The edges of the darkness that wrapped around the pub’s interior like a blanket suddenly grew sharper and more defined. His fingers tingled with energy and

What a second. Frost’s thoughts reconvened and the horror of the situation returned to him. With the single serving of this magical heated beverage, the Rohir had completely outmaneuvered him and become Írimë’s favorite. He could never allow that! He needed to be the favorite. His eyes widened as the realization washed over him, leaving him cold for a moment. He took another sip of the bean brew without thinking. That really was good.

What to do? He patted his down his tunic, desperately searching for...

There it was. He pulled out a little bottle from a pocket hidden away on his side and uncorked it. The vaporous smell of alcohol drifted up and burned his nostrils.

“This is very, very good Thalionwen. Really.” Frost took another sip. “I saw this trick done a few times when I had occasion to drink tea, a similar beverage, but not nearly as rich and wonderful as this.” He demonstrated, pouring a measure of the alcohol into the delightful concoction. “They call it whisky, something they made up in the peat bogs in the north. Gives anything you add it to a real kick. Would you like a bit?” He turned to face the pub mistress. It was the best he could do with what he had on him. He had a bottle maniacally green alcohol at home but that wasn’t going to do him much good here. Whisky was going to have work it’s wonders.

[Burnt Toast]

Naokis-- No. That wasn't right.
That's not ... our name..

Silendris.
That's right.

The head bonk was unpleasant, but then, the whole world was... a bit much right now. They rub their head. Well, an attempt is made. One arm moves, and the other sits still.
Naokis peeks out from within the meshing of thoughts.

Is that my arm?
Hello? he whispers inside, is anyone else home?
And then Silendris grabs hold again; and he fades into the background. They are something new, now.

"A drink," they repeat, and then attempt to stand.
One half cooperates, the other doesn't.
The other kicks in, and the first side quits.

This is going to take some doing.
Too much clutter in here.

Somewhere in the back, Naokis shudders a bit, and mumbles something.
Silendra smiles.

The figurines are on the floor in front of them.

[Thalionwen Hunigfolm]

"I'm cooking eggs!" Thalionwen shouted at Zarâm, just before the big troll, Narv, caught her attention. "And it smells like strange beans I found--do you want some eggs and bean water?"

"Well thank you, heorte min." She beamed at Orco as he complimented her cooking. "Just make sure you say that nice and loud next we're visiting your mother, alright?"

And then, Thali heard something that was music to her ears.

"Sorry pretty wench, I’m pretty sure that means you have to listen to the cook," Írimë said, after effusively complimenting Thali's strangely appetizing bean water.

Hiding a sly smile, Thalionwen watched as Frost suavely poured some manner of alcohol into the mug she'd given him and offered some to Írimë, as well. But before he could lace the bar mistress's beverage with whatever was in his hand, Thali gestured down the bar, to where the newly-conflicted Silendris was approaching, and repeatedly demanding a drink.

"Oh look, wench," Thalionwen pointed out. "That...creature...wants to be waited on. I've done my job--isn't it about time you did yours?"

She gave him an expectant look.

[Moriel]

“Whisky, you say?” Írimë’s eyes glittered greedily, and she snatched the bottle right out of Frost’s hand. “Ohhh yes, this I know, my sister sent me a barrel from way up north. Bypassing the delicious bean water entirely, she set the bottle to her lips and took a healthy swig. “Ahhhhhhhhh,” Írimë exhaled, the fumes burning both throat and nose as the liquor traced its course downwards, scoring a path through her chest. “Delicious.” She did then pour a dollop of the amber liquid into her mug of whatever-the-hell-this-was that they really needed to come up with a name for. Thalionwen chose that moment to point out that someone was, in fact, asking for a drink. The Pub Mistress glanced around, noticing for the first time that Silendra had gone- where was the decomposing wench, anyway? But then Írimë looked more closely at the figure that had been Naokis, and her lips curled upward. Looked like the dreadful thing had found a new vessel. “Yes, wench,” she echoed the Rohir, nudging Frost with her toe and jerking her head at the being, “Go get them a drink, oh and find out what their new name is. Doesn’t do to fall behind on these things. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of this for you,” she finished with her most dazzling smile, shaking the bottle of whisky at him.

[The Good Hunter]

Frost was nearly indignant, opening his mouth to speak when he looked over to the person at the bar. Was that Silendra? No, no it was Naokis. No. No, it wasn’t Naokis either. But it was. It was both of them. This was… unexpected.

“I will be back in a moment but in the meantime I hope enjoy the whisky. I have a few bottles of the stuff back in my manse.” he said with a smile dripping with charm toward his employer and prospective partner. He gave a practiced, simulated smile to Thalionwen. She was smug and not for naught. She had singlehandedly introduced something completely unheard of to the menu here, likely changing the course of food in Mordor.

“I have hand it to you Thali, you might belong in Mordor after all,” he bowed and flashed a dangerous, half unfriendly smile before turned with a flourish and a bow.

Behind the bar, it took him a moment to get his bearings. He had been on this side of the bar in many places, just never to serve people drinks. He leaned against the bar, doing his best to try and figure what exactly who, and what, this new person (Silendris) was.

“You want a drink, eh? Well we have quite a few. Did you have anything particular in mind? Something to set your insides ablaze? Or perhaps something just to take the edge off.” He studied the face more, trying is best to do so without looking obvious. “Tell me, you look rather familiar. I might have had one too many Elf Bloods, but I could swear there’s something familiar about your face.” Those eyes. Where had he seen those eyes? There was something about the moment that made him nervous. He liked knowing everything that was going on. Unfortunately, he lived in Mordor and there were things here that bordered on unknowable. Nothing a few drinks wouldn’t help though.

[Allacan ob Burzum]

A snivelling, wretched creature approached the front door of the pub and hesitated momentarily. A mistake, for two well-muscled Snagas passing by caught sight of it’s cowering visage and stopped for some games. A tussle from one and a casually kick from the other saw the creature bloodied and toppling into a muddy ditch at the roadside. Knowing better than to attempt to stand while they still lurked, throwing rocks and spitting down at the crumpled shape, it tried its best to remain still while the cool muck soaked into its ragged clothes until at last they tired of the game and wandered on.

“A master... find master and master will protect us from worthless brutes like them. Find someone better, cleverer, learn and listen. Much better to be beaten by one, than at the mercy of everyone.”

It dragged itself hand over foot out of the ditch and tried to scrape the worst of the muck off before heading back to the pub door with newfound determination. Stepping in, it was momentarily blinded by the change in light even in this dimly lit place, and wavered on the doorway, tapping its chest and uttering one word by way of introduction. “Grobby”

[Silky Gooseness]

“Yes. We want a drink,” says Silendris confidently. This is definitely something they can internally agree upon - and they’d like something for their internals to find agreeable, too. They inhale - sucking the air behind their new/old teeth. A delectable aroma is unfurling into their nostrils, sending new and exciting signals to their synapses. Silendris has heard them refer to this as The Bean Juice. A stimulant - and some alcohol, a depressant - this is sure to be the perfect balancing concoction for them.

“We’ll have some of that,” they suggest, pointing, “and some of a wine too?

And if you have any thimbles, my friends can have some too!”

They’re talking about the figurines again.

[The Good Hunter]

“You want some of that stuff too, eh?” Frost leaned over the bar and smirked at the being that looked like an amalgamation of two acquaintances (Silendris). “I’ll duck back into the kitchen to get you some, assuming our dear pub mistress hasn’t drunk the whole pot already. And as for the wine,” Frost waved his hand toward the back of the bar, “we have quite a good amount of that here.”

With a quick bow, Frost ducked into the kitchen and poured some of the hot bean water concoction into a clay mug, after emptying out the dead beetle husks that had somehow accumulated inside it. He took a moment to inhale the smell again, the smell of light and life and wakefulness. He was almost tempted to take a sip, but not even this delicious brew was worth getting fired on the first day.

He brought the cup back out, shielding the mixture from slipping over the sides, and set the mug in front of.. whoever this was. He picked up wine glass from under the bar, blew the dust out and examined the wall of alcohol. They hadn’t specified what kind of wine they wanted so he got to pick. What kind of wine goes good with boiled bean water? Frost was no sommelier but he was sure something red would go down nicely. It was also the closest bottle at hand and he did not want to keep his first customer waiting too long. He uncorked the wine and poured into the glass, adding an extra flourish with a twist of his wrist and pushed the glass next to the coffee.

“Enjoy! And as to the other request,” he fumbled around his pockets, patting himself down until… there it was. “I’ll trade you this thimble for your name. Deal?”

Just then, as he leaned back over the bar, something, or rather someone, caught his eye (Grobby). Was there supposed to be a new snaga coming in today? They looked pitiful, which was saying something given the general state of snaga in Mordor. “Hey! You!” he pointed at the wretched creature. “Get over here and get to work. I’m not going keep you around if you just stand in the bloody doorway! Git!”

[Thalionwen Hunigfolm]

"Frost, be nice," Thalionwen said reproachfully--words surely never uttered in Mordor before--as the bar wench berated the newly arrived snaga. "The creature's pathetic enough without you making it weep. It's sure to be an ugly crier, and none of us want to see that."

Some odd compulsion pricked at her as she put her head to one side and regarded Grobby. Reaching down, she balanced on one foot at a time and pulled off her plain wool stockings, which were mildly pungent after several days of wear and riddled with numerous holes.

"Here," Thalionwen said to Grobby with a frown, holding out her used stockings. "I'm not sure why, but these are for you. You look like you could use them."

And as she was giving things away anyhow, she pulled a fistful of thimbles from of her pocket and dropped them in front of the strange creature that seemed to be an amalgam of Nai-oh-kis and Silendra.

"There you go!" Thali said. "You're sure to lose just one. And I've got lots more at the Slaughter House--I keep plenty about to make sure I don't prick myself when I'm sewing on someone dead or decaying. Don't want to catch the flesh-rotting disease, now do I?"

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

Zarâm

"Eggs?" asked the orc in shock, after the troll had left, "what are eggs?" She had hardly experienced any sort of exquisite cuisine in her life. Maggotty bread and rotten meat composed the diet of the majority of orcs. Before the strange woman (Thalionwen) had a chance to answer the question, a new, pitiful looking, snaga (Grobby) entered the pub and was quickly rounded on by someone referred to as Frost, who was promptly scolded in some very unusual words by the woman. The woman then proceeded to give her stockings to the dischievled snaga. Clearly she wasn't from Mordor. Zarâm only knew what stocking were because of the stall she ran in the Black Market and knew that no one in the Black Land would be caught dead in a pair.

This place was quickly getting wild, and it was clear her drink was wearing off. It was time for a drink, food (perhaps those eggs would make a change from stinky bread), and then … hopefully some chaos.