On the Rocks (Pub)

[Moriel]

Nestled in a spur of rock near the base of Mount Doom lay the infamous pub of Mordor. Long has the pub lain in disrepair, but recently crews of snagas have been seen swarming over the place, uncharacteristically workmanlike and productive as they refurbished the place under the watchful eye of Írimë, the whip-wielding Pub Mistress. The outside of the pub has been scrubbed and scraped the remove the excess and compacted layers of ash, changing the color of the pub and setting it apart from the rest of the mountain. A new sign has been erected over the entrance, shiny vermillion on hard black wood, reading: On the Rocks.

Inside, the pub consists of a low rectangular hall, the craggen rock which forms part of the roof above criss-crossed with thick beams that both support the remainder of the roof and from which hang a series of glowing braziers. Their light is supplemented by many strategically placed candles, and the two torches which burn in the wall on either side of the bar. The bar itself is an L-shaped structure, connecting to the wall on one side, with the other open to allow the staff to pass behind it. It is made, suitably, of obsidian from Orodruin itself, and along its length are stools for those who wish to sit at the bar itself as opposed to one of the many round tables scattered throughout the pub. Bowls of crispy elven ear chips are scattered about all the surfaces, free bar snacks to entice the thirsty and their purses.

Above the braziers, in the shadow depths of the pub's roof beams, lurk the Georges. These creatures chatter, hiss, or are utterly silent in equal measure; no one knows quite what they are, somewhere between a ferret and a squirrel, they skitter about the beams that are their domain, staring at the occupants below with glowing, hungry red eyes. Bony with either emaciation or age, they drip malice, and destroy utterly any small creature that dares cross their path. Should the Georges choose to swarm you, you fate would be sealed. And no matter how hard you may try to keep track of them, you can only ever seem to count Six of Seven...

A new addition to the pub is a sign on the back wall that reads “All Fights, This Way” with an arrow pointing to an open doorway, through which can be found a sunken pit and a well-dressed goblin named Bagronk the Bookie, ready to take your bets on those who find it necessary to settle their disagreements in On the Rocks.

All the pub needs now are some patrons…

Pub Staff
Pub Mistress: Írimë (Moriel)
Bartender: Frost
Server:
Cook: Thalionwen
Other??:
Bookie: Bagronk (Moriel)
Random snagas you are free to godmode

Want to work at On the Rocks? Make your case IC to Írimë.


Drink Chart
BLOOD - Chilled blood of the following races, Hobbit, Man, Dwarf and Elf.
BLOODY MORDOR - The fresh blood of a Hobbit mixed with the strongest liqueur Mordor has to offer makes this chilled drink an excellent choice. Hobbit eye to garnish.
TELPERION MIST - A drink not for mere mortals, containing a splendid mix of several liqueurs and a little something secret.
SOTBON (Sex on the Beach of Nurnen) - Awesome ice breaker, dark, powerful - excellent start to any party, served with red or black umbrella.
FIRESIDE CHEBLEY - A concoction of Elvish wine and blood combined with the very best ash that Mt. Doom has to offer
MORDOR MUSH - A collection of alcohol from across the world splashed over a generous amount of crushed ice, a Mordor smoothie.
ORQUILLA SUNSET - 99% alcohol, 1% fruit juice - a shot to end all. (Served in a Shot glass)
SCREAMING RINGWRAITH – Pure Nazgûl Essence, enough said. (Served in a Shot glass)
SILMARIL WINE - A delightful infusion of the grapes of the Silver Tree of Gondor spiced with a hint of Silmaril essence.


House Rules
-OOC comments whited out at the end of your post
-Keep an eye out for Pub Events
-Do not post in #440080
-All posts 500+ characters (approx. 4 full lines of text)
-This is a minion pub so bad behavior is expected, but Godmoding is right out (except the snagas)
-All races welcome, but remember, it's the minions' home turf...


Pub will run 3 Pages/150 posts, or until I feel like starting a new one, whichever comes first

[Sharrásh]

screaming is heard in the distance but seems to be getting closer. Screaming is not a new sound to the black lands of Mordor. But one that travels as this one was a wee bit out of the ordinary. If the pub was full there surely would be a startled bunch of minions as a rather large candle comes crashing through the door. It’s long white stalk crashing against the walls with a bright orange flame still alight at the top. “Holy Sauron where am I?” The flame flickers as the voice speaks. Then another ear piercing scream erupts from the candle. “Where is my body!!!!! WHERE IS MY BODY!!!?????? My black robes are gone.” The candle starts to roll from side to side, it seems to be trying to get up but can’t. “HELP!! I’VE FALLEN AND I CAN’T GET UP!!!!”

[Moriel]

Screaming was indeed far from a new sound in the Land of Shadow, and in fact that dulcet noise was one of Írimë's favorite ways to start the day. But usually it was the distant echoes of a late night/early morning torture session wafting their way into her pub from the Black Pits, not a steady screeching growing louder and louder until it finally burst through the door and filled On the Rocks at a decibel level worthy of a hangry warg. Throwing aside her usual penchant for a silky smooth sinuously sinister entrance, Írimë burst in from the back room of the pub and vaulted over the bar's obsidian top in a swirl of skirts, whip in hand, ready to take on the intruder who dared to disrupt the ashy peacefulness of early opening hours. Rather than a howling horde however, she was faced with... a giant candle. A giant candle? Nonplussed, Írimë's swarthy face crinkled into a frown and she stood, looking down at the candle thrashing around on her floor. "That seems like a personal problem to me," she said to the fallen flame, arching one perfectly groomed brow. Bending down, the Pubmistress scooped some molten wax from the top of the candle and flicked it at a passing snaga. "You! Grab some others and get this.. thing.. upright before it burns the place down. Honestly, the things I have to put up with..." Írimë stalked back behind the bar, coiling her whip and returning it to its frog. Stranger things had happened in the land of Mordor she was sure, but not this early in the business day. A shot of SR would either make it go away, or make the day better. Or both.

[Rivvy Elf]

Orco del Oro

For what seemed like years, having fully relieved himself, Orco del Oro left the outhouse and entered the side door of the pub. At once, a commotion entered his ears, and a surreal sight lay before his large eyes. A life-sized candle, rolled around the floor screaming for help.

The heavy-set, big-boned orc, placed his large palms on his forehead, as a vibration began ringing in his head. The only other sound he heard were the audible breaths entering and exiting his body. The commotion seemed to blur in his eyes, as other voices sounded like mere murmors. Del Oro staggered, struggling to stand, as he stumbled towards one of the barstools. He sat, slightly compacting the stool with his weight, placing both his hands on his face. Sweat began to shine his balding forehead as his eyes shut to calm himself.

"Mistress?" del Oro tried to yell, his voice sounding like a soft echo in his ears, "I'm seein' things... Giant candle thing... gimme a Bloody Mordor!"

[Moriel]

At long last, the sound of the deluge stopped, and the culprit behind it staggered through the door. In the breaths (does a candle breathe? The question was too philosophical for Írimë) of the shrieking candle, the sound of a veritable waterfall had been coming from the outhouse, and the pubmistress remained eternally grateful that she had snagas for dealing with... maintenance. The big orc that stumbled through the side door (Orco del Oro) looked as though he'd already been through the wringer three or five times that day. A pathetic sort of begging, screeching sound came from the stool as he deposited his bulk upon it, and Írimë frowned for the second time that day. Maintenance was falling down on the job, her stools needed to stand up to much heavier things than this lug! "You can have whatever you want as long as you don't sweat in other people's drinks!" she purred malevolently to Oro, mixing up the blood and liquor for his drink with a practiced hand. With a loud pop! she twisted the lid off a fresh jar of hobbit eyes, and dropped one into the drink with a soft plop. Sliding the drink across the bar to Oro with one hand, she leaned the other elbow onto the obsidian bar top and dropped her chin into her hand. "Rough day, huh?"

[Lita.]

Garbanzo Beangurtz

In his tumultuous youth, Garbanzo was one of Mordor's top tier spider venom extractors. That sounds exciting, right? WRONG. It isn't even really that dangerous if you know what you're doing, but somebody's got to do it. Potions don't poison themselves, you know. Or venoms or whatever. Garbanzo didn't ask questions about what happened after he extracted the venom. Mostly because he didn't really CARE. All he wanted to do was be a fighter like his cousin, Legumtz, but truth be told Garbanzo wasn't cut out for the fighting life. Like literally. He was bred with slender arms and dainty, skillful hands for tasks like spider venom extraction. Oh, and sometimes leather-working for armor. He was great at sewing.

ANYWAY. That was years ago and these days old Garbanzo only sometimes mended the armor worn by the strong, youthful, fighting orcs. But secretly he had been practicing axe and fist fighting skill to fulfill his lifelong dream of fighting fang and claw on the front lines. Cousin Legumtz had been teaching him, and as one of his final tests, Garbanzo was being challenged to visit the FIGHTING PIT at the On the Rocks and defeat one challenger in a fight.

"You can do it, Garby, c'mon now," Garbanzo gurgled to himself. "Just pretend they're spiders in there." He stopped right outside the door. "No, wait, that's stupid. Dumb Garby. You love spiders." Just then, a big orc (ORCO) stumbled past him and into the pub. He smelled earthy and reminded Garbanzo of home, which emboldened Garby's spirit. "You can do it," he said as he followed the other orc inside.

After a quick glance around he noted the bartender, Írimë , making a drink, but up ahead was the sign for the fighting pit. Was it written in blood? He couldn't tell, but probably. Before his resolve could begin to fade, Garbanzo lifted his fist into the air and declared at large to the entire pub, "I....WISH....TO FIGHT!" He continued to hold his rather dramatic pose. This was how it worked, right? Fighting and all that. ".....TO FIGHT!" He announced again, this time adding a snarl at the end.

[Rivvy Elf]

Orco del Oro

The ringing in his ears gradually stopped as Orco took a few more deep breaths. Gradually, the background ambience occurred just in time for him to hear "don't sweat in other people's drinks!"

"Yeah yeah," he responded dismissively. His hands removed themselves from his forehead as del Oro caught the slid drink just in time. He shook his head quickly as the three mistresses (Írimë) fused into one. He gazed at her, and a smile slowly appeared on the orc's face as the wrinkles near the corner of his eyes relaxed.

"Bettah day after seeing you," del Oro responded, as he drank a little of the Bloody Mordor, "bettah day after drinking a little o' this!"

His eyes then focused a little on the obsidian table, then saying "had to... get rid of someone today. Givin' away secrets. Can't have that now with the things I'm doin'."

Orco drank a little more of the Bloody Mordor, swallowing the Hobbit's eye whole. He returned his gaze towards Írimë, giving her a small smile:

"So? How 'bout your day? Sorry about your outhouse, by the way, I kinda did a numbah on it. Any fights goin' on right-"

Then all of a sudden someone (Garbanzo Beangurtz) shouted "I....WISH....TO FIGHT!....TO FIGHT! (Snarl)"

WIth that, Orco rolled his eyes, giving a little shrug towards Írimë while doing so. He turned his creaking stool around, giving Garbanzo a bigger smile.

"Let me finish my drink first, and I'll pound your teeth through your head for interruptin' my conversation here," del Oro calmly stated, grinning a little. He then promptly chugged down the rest of the Bloody Mordor and slammed the empty drink on the obsidian table.

[Sharrásh]

After what seemed to be a life time the shrieking candle felt rough hands grab its wax stalk and was placed rather roughly upright. The snagas that were ordered to pick the candle up walked away grumbling and spitting on the floor. The candle almost thanked them but changed its mind it didn’t feel right to do that. The candle looked about the room, this place felt very familiar, yet also different. There was a flicker of a memory that was gone in an instant. The candle stood there and started to talk to itself.

“I feel like I have been here before. Like many ages ago, but I don’t know who I am.”

The flame atop the slowly melting wax base turn this way and that. Not recognizing anything or anyone. The candle took a hop and then another making it closer to the bar. There stood the pub Mistress Írimë, stunning and terrifying at the same time. There were to o tú Er patrons in the pub but no names came to mind, must have been too deep in self thought to listen to names if any were announced. One patron reeked, seemed what ever he was doing before entering the pub followed with him. Then suddenly shouting of I want to fight!! Comes from the other patron who quite frankly looked like he would lose any battle he tried to enter. But that was all beside the true issue that needed fixing. The candle needed to know who it was and why it didn’t have black flowing robes. That memory was clear, it had black flowing robes and the link of wax torso wasn’t ideal. The candle tried clearing its vocals but it sounded more like water being splashed on an open flame. After that rather annoying experience the candle shouted firmly.

DOES ANYONE KNOW WHO I AM?!

[Silky Gooseness]

Long had the pub lain in disrepair.

And even longer had Silendra been lying in disrepute. Or at the very least, something disreputable.

What appeared to have been a heap of rags and old gnawed bones too agèd for even Írimë to bother putting in the soup (and frankly, she was a cheap wench, in Silendra’s expert opinion) stirred and rolled over. A faint cloud of dust, or at least something else mysteriously powdery, drifted up into the air.

“OoOooooorfhhhahhhggh,” said the pile of rags.

A head of what had possibly once been blonde hair emerged into what was surprisingly bright light. Someone was on fire. Someone gloriously coated in wax. Excellent, except this was far too piercing to someone who preferred dark holes. The darker and holier the better. Wait, no, maybe not holier. Definitely not holier.

The heap of rags staggered to its feet. Being undead was taking more of a toll on her every year. Silendra limped over to the bar, ignoring everyone else except the glorious array of bottles on display.

“Three Screaming Ringwraiths and a SOTBON,” she requested.

[Moriel]

"I....WISH....TO FIGHT!"

This melodramatic announcement sounded as if it should have come from some big, burly, manly specimen, but when Írimë looked up to see the bold brawler, she instead saw the spindly form of that venom snatching runt, Garbanzo. “Ohhhh goodie, Bagronk will be delighted,” she said with a grin, imagining the bookie’s delight at spinning the odds on this runt. She was just considering how to respond to the pungent flirtations of Orco when the big lunk became distracted by Garbanzo’s challenge. “Ooooo goodie.” Írimë hissed, sweeping the shattered remnants of Orco’s glass off the top of the bar. “Follow the sign gents, the pit’s a-waiting,” the Pubmistress crooned, jabbing a finger towards the sign, its large arrow pointing the way for any of the many around these parts who couldn’t read.

DOES ANYONE KNOW WHO I AM?!

“NO!!” Írimë bellowed back at the candle. Seizing a bucket of some unidentifiable kind of slop-water from behind the bar, she hurled its contents in the direction of the giant waxwork’s flame. “Have a drink, maybe that’ll help!” She dropped the bucket with a clatter, which was followed by a much softer clatter… something like… bones. Írimë narrowed her eyes at the corner from whence the sound had come, and a gurgling sort of moan came from a pile of rags and rubble she hadn’t noticed on the floor, what with the advent of a giant candle in her pub. Fortunately when it manifested itself into a creature, it was nothing so strange as said giant candle- or perhaps stranger, but infinitely more welcome.

“Silendra!” Írimë sang at the blonde heap of disrepute as she posted up to the bar, with her usual excessive first order. “How positively delightful to see you again. Raising the class level of my patronage, as usual.” Three shot glasses full of clear, slightly smoking liquid and a colorful tall glass adorned with several umbrellas appeared as if by magic before Silendra. Almost as an afterthought, Írimë poured a Screaming Ringwraith for herself. Might as well. “Cheers.” The Pubmistress dinged her glass against one of Silendra’s, and downed it in one.

[Lita.]

Garbanzo Beangurtz

At first, ol' Garbanzo didn't think anyone was going to take him up on his fight. And he wasn't totally disappointed about it because he was sure if someone had jumped right into his face, he would have been waddling backwards to visit the earthy smelling outhouse. As it was, he cleared his throat rather loudly and awkwardly while slowly lowering the arm he had punched into the air. That was when the big orc at the counter spun around to face him, flashing a winsome yet rather ghastly smile. Maybe Garbanzo would be waddling backwards to the outhouse after all.

"Let me finish my drink first, and I'll pound your teeth through your head for interruptin' my conversation here," Garbanzo heard the orc say.

"Oh, by all means don't let me stop you. I-It doesn't have to be right away," Garby said as he sidled up to the bar, aiming for a couple of stools down from the big orc. "In fact, I think I may get a drink myself." He put his hands on his hips so he could subtly flex his muscles. He thought it worked anyway. "I always fight better anyway once I have some blood and alcohol coursing through my veins. What's that old saying? 'Blood at first light, fight better at night.'" Garbanzo cleared his throat again. "Pretty much my religion," he said under his breath as he rubbed the back of his neck. Muscle flex.

He motioned to try and get the attention of the pubmistress. "Before I head down to the pits, I want a bloody mordor, extra hobbit eye," he said. As Garbanzo waited, he nearly burnt his arm from the CANDLE FLAME to his left as it flared up screaming, "DOES ANYONE KNOW WHO I AM?"
Garbanzo leapt backwards, a gurgley, gravelly scream jumping from his throat, and nearly bumped full-body into the raggedy worn creature SIL who was making their way to the bar. Garbanzo jumped to his other foot to try and balance himself out. "Did that candle, did you just...are you..."

"MAKE MINE A DOUBLE." Garby motioned about his drink.

[Rivvy Elf]

Orco del Oro

del Oro's smile lessened as the wrinkles near the corners of his eyes appeared, and a small glint appeared in each eye. While he remained seated on the barstool, he was about to respond but out the corner of his eye there appeared once again the giant candle.

At once the Orco's head began to throb, the surrounding ambience turning into a low ringing as all he heard was the pounding of his heart in his head. He blinked a few times, trying to stay awake as his vision blurred, and whatever Garbanzo, Írimë, and (Silendra) said seemed like a distant echo emanating from the horizon outside the pub. del Oro's body slightly began to shake left and right as his mouth unconsciously opened like a fish. Then suddenly Írimë issued forth water towards the giant candle, and the pub's sounds rushed back to Orco, and he placed a hand on his forehead to steady himself.

No longer smiling, he said quietly to Garbanzo, "go ahead. Let me watch you," then he inched his body closer until it was as close as possible to the runt, "any funny business and your head will be stuck in the latrines before our fight. You understand?"

Orco turned his head towards Írimë, his mouth quickly forming into a grin as he shrugged and shook his head sheepishly,

"Hey... sometimes I don't know my own strength. I'll pay for the glass. How 'bout anotha Bloody Mordor while I wait for this guy to finish his?"

[Reikon Suchi-ru]

Elves usually thought better of venturing to Mordor, let alone spending inordinate amounts of time in a local 'pub' - if you could call it that - frequented by some of the nastiest uruks and trolls this side of the Ephel Dúath. On the Rocks had been out of business for the better part of a decade, but Reikon found it in his best interest to venture to the Black Lands to investigate just what might have enticed some local entrepreneur to re-open the watering hole and supply it with various beverages - some more dangerous than others. The Silvan's trip to Mordor had been uneventful enough, but of course his venturing across the ashen plains of Gorgoroth had always turned a few heads. If those heads decided to remained turned, or ventured too close to the Elf, Reikon simply relieved the orcs' necks of the burden of their heads. It was a simple process with the use of his smoky-black Galvorn scimitar Agarwaen, which the Silvan never let out of his sight.

This trip across Mordor had proven straightforward enough, as Reikon found himself at the threshold of the newly-revamped Pub at the foot of Orodruin, belching flames as was its custom. Several snaga skittered about the exterior of the pub clearing ash and debris which were ever-present threats to bury the establishment. The Silvan paid them no mind other than to deliver a quick, sharp kick to the side of one who strayed too close to Reikon as he made his way to the front door. Snaga were nothing more than curs who could be controlled with the right amount of violent leverage.

Reikon passed into the pub and looked around to survey the patrons before making his way to the bar. It was the usual cast of characters: mostly orcs, a few humans, and not much else. The elf kept one hand on the hilt of his blade as he walked up to the obsidian bar and sat down on one of the stools. He brushed some ash from his brow before looking up at the pubmistress (Írimë).

"I'll have a glass of Silmaril Wine, if you will. It's been years since I've had one."

[Moriel]

So Garbanzo wanted to be drunk for his fight, did he? That was fine by Írimë, so long as he didn’t puke everywhere- and even if he did, she had snagas for dealing with that sort of rudeness. A double Bloody Mordor called for the abandonment of an elegant glass, and so it was that the Pubmistress poured the concoction of blood and liquor into a tankard and topped it off with a few hobbit eyes. Hell, she had just opened a new jar and this was bound to be entertaining, why not be generous? Plus, she wanted to see if the spindly little thing could actually finish his drink without passing out. “Here you go, muscles.” Írimë passed the drink over to Garbanzo with a hissed ”good luck under her breath. Orco, meanwhile was being remarkable civilized, which as a cultured woman, the Pubmistress appreciated. “Aww, it’s no trouble,” she stroked the back of his hand with one swarthy finger, “but you can pay anyway. The Dark Lord loves a generous giver.” A second Bloody Mordor appeared before Orco at dazzling speed.

“Oooo, goodie.” Írimë said for the third time in recent moments, but this time in an entirely different tone. An elf (Reikon) had just walked through the door, and that was always fun. Plus, they were so much nicer to look at than her usual crowd, and usually tipped better, once they got past the crispy ear chips of their kin that were scattered around for snacking on. “Only the best for you, handsome,” she replied to the elf’s request with a wink, and reached up for a bottle of dark win on the shelf behind her. Írimë poured a generous measure into a (scrupulously clean, she wasn’t a heathen when it came to the wine) pewter goblet and slid it across to the elf with two fingers. Folding her arms, the Pubmistress settled them upon the bartop and leaned towards Reikon, her full ruby lips pursed slightly. If Írimë was anything, it was not subtle. “You’re a long way from home… what brings you to these parts?”

[Liläth]

Blossom

When one thinks of an orc, one thinks of a name that incites fear, that fuels nightmares and brings terror to the ears of anyone that hears it....Blossom is not a name one would associate with such a race. Yet, Blossom was her name. Short, curvy in all the right places, if they had such places, Blossom was a delight to many an eye. If one was blind and could not see her of course.

With one meaty hand paused at her hip and the other holding..wax? She barrelled her large shoulders against the heavy doors and forced herself inside, side-stepping a few snagas that happened to be in her path. "Sha!...is anyone leaking?" She murmured, adjusting her white rimmed dark orbs to the dim light that greeted her. Blossom was buxom built and buxom in nature. Cheerful, lively and weirdly upbeat despite the evil lineage that ran threw her veins. Her face was more human-like in shape, oval and well rounded. Her lips were pouts, her nose was squished as most orcs have but more button like. Her ears are slightly pointed but hidden under the rough auburn curls that cascade down her broad back.

Her father was a talented craftsmen, an orc, shaped from forced breeding but her mother was human. They met in some weird death hunt off Minas Tirith where father was with the young orcs to teach them how to hunt and kill humans. For some reason, mother caught his eye. Maybe it was the blood curdling scream of horror or the fact she threw multiple useless items at his head but eventually they fell in love. Gross but that is how Blossom came to be. A product of love..(Gags) rather then death, destruction or forced breeding.

As Blossom continued to maneuver her was across the pub towards the bar, she wiped those meaty hands against her ash- colored leggings to remove the wax. A few meat heads were present (Garbanzo and Oro), a talking candle, a pile of rags (Sil)….and an elf?(Reikon) One would think the talking candle was more of a surprise to her but considering her weird upbringing, the elf stood out more. As she finally reached the bar, she glanced over to Írimë, the pubmistress and said. "Excuse me barkeep? May i have a Telperion Mist?...when you are ready of course." She placed an odd collection of coins on the bar counter, unsure which one would be more suitable for this place but her journey was long and she desired nothing more then to quench her thirst. With a little grunt, she lifted herself rather ungracefully up onto one of the stools and settled down for whatever the night would bring her...

[Silky Gooseness]

If Silendra was raising the class level of the current pub patronage, that was quite something - normally Silendra was only raising the spirit level (generally by listing to one side). Still, as her green eyes swivelled to take in the clientele, she couldn’t disagree with the Pub Mistress. And certainly wasn’t about to until her drinks got poured, at any rate.

Írimë performed with her customary alacrity and Silendra gratefully slid one of the shot glasses off the bar as soon as Írimë had clinked it, and tossed the contents into her mouth. Her eyes uncrossed, slightly. She had absolutely no idea why Írimë had not charged her upfront but she was going to take full advantage of it whilst it lasted. Besides which - Silendra’s hands rummaged around her motheaten garments - what had become of all her silver anyway? She winced faintly. Írimë was likely to take payment out of her hide or in hard labour if she didn’t come up with something.

She hastily downed the second Screaming Ringwraith before Írimë could work this out and take it away.

“Sooooo,” Silendra mused, “I’m fresh out of cash, but I could probably trade you something? I was thinking of doing a horse raiding expedition down into Rohan sometime soon, reckon you’d be up for it? This was originally a Rohir’s body, so I figure I’d have a good enough disguise...”

A clump of golden hair fell out of Silendra’s head and landed with a sad thump on the bar, thankfully not in any of the drinks.

“Ah. Well,” Silendra mused, staring at the wayward strand. “This could be a problem. But last time I went to Rohan they just assumed I was an incredibly diseased waif and gave me some worming medicine and shampoo... Did me the world of good actually, that Mane And Tail: For A Healthy Horsey Coat mix is amazi-”

She was cut off mid thought by Garbanzo bumping into her.

Zoom into the third shot of Screaming Ringwraith Silendra is lifting to her lips. Witness, in imaginary slow-mo, the liquid slosh out of the glass and Silendra’s open mouth forms the word “Noooooo”. Gasp as the spilled drink starts to eat through the wood of the bar.

Silendra shot to her feet and in a completely visceral and natural, not at all unhinged way, attempted to punch Garbanzo in the face. She was emitting a high pitched noise amidst which the words “my driiiiiink” were detectable.

[Narv]

Very little was making sense to Narv.

He was about 80% sure he was a cave troll, 60% sure he was in a pub, and 15% sure he was still alive. The last thing he remembered was heaving himself into the corner to have a little lie down after maybe a few too many pitchers of Orqilla Sunset. He'd woken up a couple times, seen nought but the black void of nothingness, and gratefully dozed off again into the Void. Then, after a seeming infinity of peace, had come from nowhere that horrible scream: WHERE IS MY BODY!!!?????? And slowly Narv had realized to his horror that his own body was very much here and very much heaped in a filthy mound of itself in the corner of On The Rocks. At least the lighting in here [Sharrash] was a little better than he remembered -- yet as anyone who's awoken from eight years passed out on good Orquila can attest, bright lighting is not generally at the top the list of nice-to-haves.

Only one thing in this pub, and thus the world, made sense - someone was attempting to punch someone else. Yes one [Silendra] was some kind of rotting manflesh that was shedding everywhere and the other [Garbanzo] was... Italian? Was that a word? But the punching -- Narv understood that. He had punched, he had been punched, and sometimes other people had even been involved. Like a dying star to a black hole, he lurched forward and collapsed into the cosmic fracas.

"uhh." he said to Silendra and Garbanzo. Then he attempted, with the speed and prowess of a riding lawn mower, to punch them both in the face.

[Moriel]

"You," Írimë leveled her finger at Reikon, bare inches from his nose, "don't go anywhere." It was shaping up to be a busy evening already. The Pubmistress swayed over to hear the order of a newcomer, a female orc (Blossom). She blinked rapidly, then smacked her hands on the bartop and leaned over it, close to the orc woman's face. "Are you sure you're an orc? That level of politeness is extremely suspicious." Írimë's suspicions took a back seat however at the sound of coins clattering onto the bar, and after a quick glance to ensure there was more than enough, she swept the lot into her pocket. With her back to Blossom (it would not do to reveal the ingredients) she prepared the Telperion Mist, then turned and set it before her customer. "Enjoy, sweet thing." A light splash heralded the tragedy that was spilled Nazgûl essence, but fortunately the bar was made of obsidian and resisted much better than wood. Silendra (who was clearly already drunk and imagining things being made of wood) however was not so resilient and lost her head completely, setting of a chain reaction of thrown punches. "Oi!" Írimë shouted, jabbing her finger at the sign ALL FIGHTS, THIS WAY, "Does no one around here read the rules??" It was then that the pubmistress noticed the fallen clump of blonde hair on top of her bar. "Oh that is disgusting." she muttered, and snapped her fingers at a passing snaga, pointing to the foul follicular flop.

[Liläth]

Blossom

‘Are you sure you're an orc? That level of politeness is extremely suspicious.’ Blossom blinked slowly at the questioning of the pub mistress. Her white rimmed gaze shifted from the coins on the counter to Írimë's face which was pushed rather closely to her own. “Well, I have done a few years in a bar myself..” Her words trailed for a moment as she glanced over at the rambunctious patrons who were inhabiting the pub. “While being polite has nothing to do with my lineage, sometimes despite the long hours, the busy nights, it is always appreciated..” Blossom shifted on the stool, watching the beginnings of a fight breaking out between Silendra and Garbanzo while Írimë was preparing her drink.

It was always different here and despite many years of not visiting, it held a ring of home. Unfortunately, Minis Tirith pubs just did not have the same promise of fist fights or death as this place did. Not that she was often allowed there. It might be the home of her mother but she was part orc and her appearance leaned more on her father's side. Thankfully a heavy cloak and a higher vocal tone allowed her to sneak into the pubs for a few drinks while her mother was off gathering for her trade. To this date, she was never kicked out or her deception found out in those lands but thankfully, while she was here, she didn’t have to wear such heavy garments or hide her facial features.

‘Enjoy, sweet thing’ Írimë said, placing the Temperion Mist in front of her. “Much obliged” Blossom sniffed, reaching out with her meaty hand to grasp the cup tightly. As the screams continued, one must keep her beverage close. She did not want the same thing that happened to her as it did the pile of rags who was screaming over the spilled drink. She understood such sadness though. Such loss for such a beverage to not be drunk. ‘Uhhh..’ a voice rang out and with cup to lips, she watched a thing (Narv) barrel towards the fighting pair in a rather slow, blundering manner. Her eyebrow raised as if in amusement and made note to keep her eye on what was now three fighting beings.

[Silky Gooseness]

Carried on the fumes of rage, which were also the fumes of Screaming Ringwraith (a spirit so... spiritual that one didn’t drink it so much as inhale it), Silendra barely turned in time before

whoomph

as a cave troll’s fist collided with the side of her head

and her fist was swinging round (at least it looked like Garbanzo was also in the line of fire here)

and her feet were slipping
and the bright lights were shining
ahhhh the u su a l e ff e ct S of Sc r e ami n g RinGw r a ith


and Silendra was sliding across the floor
into her usual dark
cold
happy
place

silently

[The Good Hunter]

He hadn't felt like he was home until he was here. Frost pushed open the doors the pub with a (only partially unearned) air of confidence. He hadn't blessed this wretch pile of rumble and booze with his presence in ten years. So much had changed since then. He had bought a ship in Umbar and tried to sail around the world, when that failed because it was stupid idea, he had taken to pirating coastal towns until he was bored. As it turned out, he hated being a pirate. He like sailing, he liked his crew well enough, but he hated being a pirate. It was too cliche these days. That's part of the reason he had returned to Mordor. He needed to find a new purpose, an new sense of being.
Mandos' beard! It stank in here, like something had died and instead of getting rid of the body, or throwing it to the kitchen lackeys, they thought they could use it to make a new kind of alcohol. He made a face and spat.
Lazily, Frost wandered to a table, out of the way of the chaos always seemed to gravitate to the center of the pub. They really ought to have a fighting pit there he mused to himself. He missed the noise, shouts and curses, the sounds of wood cracking over someone's head, glass being shattered in rhythmic patterns to match shrieks of pain. Ah! Music to his old ears. His once obsidian black hair was flecked with more grey than he liked. There were a few Elves in the crowd tonight, there always were (Frost could never figure out why they would want to hang out here), and they looked as ageless they always had.
A thought seized him just then, a snaga, short, ugly, and pale faced walked past him and he grabbed it by the neck. "Go get me something to drink. Nazgul essence. Now!"
He released the sniveling thing and began looking around again. Surely there would be a face here he recognized. He looked over at the bar mistress (Írimë), she looked familiar but he wasn't sure. That whip was familiar, his wrist throbbed from an ancient memory. He looked away quickly, doing his best to appear like it was a gawking moron. Maybe I could set up here? I'd need a job first of all. Bartender? He looked at his right hand, two fingers missing from an incident involving idiots and black powder, and shook his head. There must be something.

[Burnt Toast]

Naokis slithered into the pub, trailing his fingers along the tables as he went. Well, slithered was an odd choice of words; he had legs. He had arms. He even had ears. He felt them. Pointy. That was odd. He didn't remember them being pointy. Oh well, details. His thin neck turned slowly as he took in the contents of the room, black eyes flicking this way and that, not watching where was going. All the same, he continued forward, thin lips pulled tightly back into a smile. Practice. Smiling. Did they like smiling here? He couldn't remember.

"Mmmm..." he intoned, trying out his voice as he reached the bar mistress (Írimë). A few other stranger sounds followed, but they probably weren't heard over the sounds of punching and thudding, and breaking things. A fight. There also seemed to be a giant candle (Sharrash). That was odd. "You seem to be short a bartender," he murmured, and without any further statement, he slid around the other side of the bar, and begin pouring various liquids into a glass. A little of this, a little of that, and... he poked a sharp fingernail against his wrist and sliced. Dark blood flowed forth, so accommodating. Perfect. He swirled the glass once, twice. It smelled acrid. Lovely. He took a sip, then set it on the counter in front of him and pulled two small figurines from out of the folds of his draping dark clothing. Setting them on the bar, he began muttering to himself, occasionally picking one up and dancing it toward the other. Most of it was unintelligible, but occasionally two words floated above the rest. 'Now, kiss.'

Naokis took another sip of his concoction, and remained intent upon the figurines. Eventually they would. He was sure of it.

[Narv]

And the world descended once more into grim confusion.

When I said Narv had punched a lot in his time, I now see that there was a certain charitable flourish to the characterization. Certainly he'd thrown a lot of punches. But in living memory, he could not remember any of those punches ever actually.. hitting anyone. They were invariably dodged, generally lithely or deftly or on occasion just nimbly, at which point the other party would deliver some cutting remark and then some other even cuttinger slice with a knife of either i) cursed jade beset with rubies; or ii) rusty steel, depending on whether his opponent was wearing a cape or not. It was just the nature of the genre, he thought.

But then the shedding thing hadn't dodged and his fist actually hit it and it fell down like a thing that had been punched by a cave troll. Unprecedented! Of course, it was as yet unclear whether Garbanzo would be as agreeable as the weird hairy thing had been, and so his fist continued its trajectory in a state of pure, timeless uncertainty. So Narv glanced around the room in the meantime, at the bartender yelling at him to read some lengthy piece of epic literature posted on the back wall, at the people coming and going, slicing their arms and applying for jobs and re-enacting miniature romances (well actually that was all just one person, he realized), his prior action half completed as he waited for the universe to arrive at consensus on its result. This much at least, he realized with desperate relief, was familiar.

[Moriel]

Apparently no one did read the rules, for Silendra flew off her stool as Narv’s fist hit the side of her head, and it was some punch for it send her sliding across the floor once she hit the ground. Whether the blonde monstrosity was (more)dead, unconscious, or merely drunk Írimë couldn’t be sure, but none of these would be particularly unusual. Garbanzo’s fate was as yet undetermined and so the Pubmistress turned her attention to the snaga tugging on her sleeve. “Yes what,” she snapped, and the diminutive orc jabbed a finger at the minion who had just come in and, the snaga reported, demanded Nazgûl essence from it. But before Írimë could respond to this, another new figure had appeared as if by magic and slithered behind her bar? She stared at the thing (Naokis) as he made so bold as to touch her bottles and mix himself a drink, before setting to playing with little figures on top of her bar. ”Now kiss, he said, dancing the figures toward each other. Having had altogether enough of this nonsense, Írimë seized Naokis by the hair and pulled his head back. “Now, kiss!” she mimicked him snidely, and slammed his face into the top of the bar. Catching up the foul concoction that the intruder had made for himself, the Pubmistress shoved it into the hands of the waiting snaga. “Take this to that one,” she pointed at Frost, “and if he doesn’t like it, he can come ask for his Screaming Ringwraith like a civilized beast. And as for you,” she turned back to Naokis as the snaga scurried off to Frost, “just what do you think you’re doing?”



((OOC Toasty: Pubmistress privilege :smiley8: ))

[Liläth]

Blossom

Feet lifted quickly as the flying rag (Sil) slid across the floor to land in an unconscious heap as the Cave troll’s (Narv) fist connected with it. Her eyebrow shot up in question, wondering if she should check on the creature but instead Blossom went to use the heel of her boot to push the rag (Sil) away from underneath her. It would not bode well for someone her size to have something so squishy beneath her.

Two more had entered the pub it seemed. First was Frost who seemed very demanding despite the fact he was missing fingers and the second was a slithering, pointed ear thing that was making its way towards the bar. She dismissed the first rather quickly, it wasn’t that his missing fingers didn’t warrant some curiosity but the second being (Naokis) had now fumbled behind the bar and was making himself a drink. “Eh…” Her left eyebrow raised higher as the slithering being placed two figurines on the bar and was playing with them. Much like a young child would. ‘Now kiss..’ he muttered and proceeded to stare at them intently. Was she watching the beginnings of a romance? A tender moment between inanimate objects?

No, she wasn’t. The moment she was about to ask the slivering thing to bugger off somewhere else with his figurines, Írimë had grabbed Naokis’s head and slammed it into the bar in one fluid motion. She snorted, loudly and lifted the rim of her glass to her lips in an attempt to hide the amusement. While the heel of her boot continued to attempt to push the limp weak pile of rags (Sil) away, like heeby jeeby grossed out kind of flicks, Her gaze shifted back to the inhabitants of the room and she laughed. It was good to be home.

[The Good Hunter]

Like clockwork (or is that candle work?), as soon Frost arrived in the pub his world became a little more weird. That’s why he came here after all. Ten years aboard a tightly run ship made one crave a little madness. Of course, every time Frost came into the pub he got more than a little madness that he bargained for and a few less brain cells. He inhaled the stale mold smell again and smiled. It was a disgusting, rank, and vile, but it smelled like home. He watched a cave troll punch… something, either Frost’s eye sight was going or the light in here was getting worse, and looked mightily pleased with itself.

The snaga then returned, deftly dodging out of the way of the cave troll, and set the shot glass in front of him The liquid glowed with a pale light and seemed to move contrary to the gravity in the room. It sloshed like it was partially live. The snaga said something to him, its guttural, phlegmy voice so distorted it was nearly impossible to understand what it had said. From the fear in the thing’s eyes though, Frost guessed it was a message of warning from Írimë. Before Frost had a chance to respond though, the snaga and slithered off, disappearing amidst the hustle and bustle. He closed his mouth and sat back in the seat.

He noticed a new comer (Naokis), or at least new to him, slither (yes apparently they slithered) up behind the bar and began to… play with dolls? Frost wasn’t sure what to think. On the one hand, they were bold, going behind the bar in Mordor would likely get you killed and skinned and not in that order, but then the dolls made Frost thing that maybe the quality wasn’t so much bold as it was oblivious. Either way, he had to admire them. They looked rather handsome too, the Númenórean made a mental note to talk to them before he left. New contacts or new contacts were always in order. He winced when they had their head slammed into the bar. They had gotten off easy, Frost was sure he would have lost two more fingers if the pubmistress had even thought he might got behind the bar.

That reminded him, he need a job. The Grand Conjuration was tied up in customs down at Umbar and Frost needed an income get it out and rehire his crew. He was going to have to talk to the pubmistress about a job… but not just yet. Her fingers were getting too twitchy with that whip. He down the shot and coughed as the liquor slimed and burned down his throat. He whooped. A little louder than he had intended. Trying to be inconspicuous, Frost glanced around the bar, hoping his outburst hadn’t been noticed. Off on the opposite side of the bar, a face (Blossom) caught his eye. He could have sworn he’d seen that face before. It was loud and smoky in the pub though, and his brain was about to get blitz by alcohol. He couldn’t quite make out if he had seen them before. He probed the depths of his mind but nothing came up but the image of another Screaming Nazgûl. He stood up, nearly unbalancing as the alcohol went straight to his head, and tried to make his way through the miasma that was center of the pub. At best, it was an old friend he could reminisce with over drinks, at worse, it was another broken arm. Worth the risk.

[Burnt Toast]

Well, ow, he thought. Right? Ow? Naokis poked his face, the face that had just been slammed into the bar by the Pubmistress. That was the kind of thing that was supposed to hurt, but he didn't feel anything. How strange. Memories tickled at the back of his mind, but he wasn't ticklish anymore, so he ignored them. His drink was gone; his eyes refocused on a snaga taking the concoction containing his blood to some sort of pirate (Frost). Scooping up his figures, he slithered out from behind the bar, muttering about kisses.

"Many pardons, mistress, just trying to help," Really. He had been. He was distracted by something dark dripping on the floor in front of him. He followed the drip up and up, and looked above his head. Nothing. He reached up toward his face, and his hand came away, covered in blood. Excellent, he thought, and began licking his fingers off. Mmm. Must thank the Pubmistress for the treat. He sat himself back down at the bar, taking the space previously occupied by the odd pile of rags and flesh (Sil), and placed the figurines in front of him.

His long raven black hair swung into his eyes, and he pulled it back with bloody fingers; the better to see you all, my dears.

His eyes flicked about the pub, and he eyed the figure (Narv) who had caused (Sil's) collapse. He wondered what it would feel like to be punched off a stool. He decided to test it out with his figures. Drawing back a pale snaky arm, he curled the fingers slowly into a fist. The arm looked longer than he remembered.

"POW!" He had to make his own sound effect, since his bony fist colliding with his figurine was a teeny weak clatter. It popped off the bar and onto the other side. He tried again, and the second one went flying as well, but haphazardly into the air, and plopped into someone's (Blossom's) drink. He considered, for a moment, fetching the first one, but thought better of it after another look at the Pubmistress. Instead, he pulled an extra from the folds of his clothing, and then turned toward (Blossom), reaching a hand out to dip it into her beverage and retrieve his second figurine.

[Rivvy Elf]

Orco del Oro

Orco chuckled as Írimë smashed Naokis' face on the bar, "that's what ya get for tryin' that," Orco commented, raising his glass to the air to Írimë, "'specially to a strong, independent one like you." Orco then promptly drank half of the bloody mordor, giving a contented sigh. Overall, his mood seemed to have lifted as the chaos continually unfolded in the bar, whether it would be Narv punching people and the people somehow not dodging, or even the frozen Garbanzo.

"Ya know, lemme know when ya stop being scared so we can get on with our fight," Orco told Garbanzo, "maybe I'll tear out only one arm since I'm in a good mood. Though, maybe ya should try to dodge that punch from my friend ovah there." With that, Orco gave a friendly wave to Narv.

"How ya doin'?" del Oro asked Narv, "ya get the money I sent last week?"

Without waiting for a response (it was a rhetorical question), Orco moved to the pile of rags and flesh (Silendra). Shaking his head, he wiped his own face with one of his hands, trying to figure out what to do.

"Anyone got some watah in 'ere?" Orco asked, "cause if not Imma relieve myself on her to wake 'er up"

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

Zarâm

When Zarâm arrived in the pub, it appeared everyone was in the midst of a bar fight. She grinned evilly at the sight. There was something relaxing about observing the start of an all out brawl. There was a pile of rags and flesh on the floor (Sil), but before any further observations could be made, a stiff drink was needed. She slunk over towards the Pubmistress and slapped her clawed hand on the edge of the bar. "Gimme a Bloody Mordor," she demanded. Her eyes turned and looked inquisitively at Naokis' bloody nose, but knew that he deserved it. A basic requirement of the On the Rocks Pub was to come out with some form of an injury or other. If you didn't well, you clearly didn't deserve to be in Mordor.

[Liläth]

Blossom

The slithering thing (Naokis) seemed to recover well despite the fact his face was slammed on the counter. Blood drizzled down his face, if he had something you can call a face and proceeded to lick his fingers clean. Her white rimmed dark eyes remained fixated on the creature as it slithered to sit on a stool close by her. Uhh...does one greet or just observe? For a brief moment she pondered the question but decided that observing was more suited to the current situation. Plus, Naokis seemed to have a few screws loose in his head, not that many of the patrons here seemed to have a stable mindset. He confirmed this train of thought by pulling out those figurines and proceeded to launch them into the air.

The first figurine flew across the bar counter to land somewhere behind the bar. Blossom watched as the thing decided that maybe going behind the bar again was not the wisest cause of action. It was a wise decision of course, unless, having his head smacked into obsidian was a kink of his. ‘Mmm….weird kink’ She couldn’t judge though, her mother did fall for the hybrid orc her father was. Her gaze broke from her new bar stool companion Naokis and shifted to the rambunctious group that was around her. A few orcs, rags, goblins, snagas, wraith and a candle seemed to warrant no interest and barely any curiosity. She could never understand her mother’s choice in a mate but then again, she wouldn’t exist if she hadn’t made that decision.

"Anyone got some watah in 'ere? ‘A voice (Orco) came from behind her and Blossom tilted her head backwards, removing her boot out of the way from the pile of rags (Sil) she was flicking previously. It seemed the pile of rags had someone concerned for her welfare. ‘Well..that was nice?’ Her thick auburn braid dangled rather dangerously as she kept her head tilted backwards, confusion clearly settling across her face. "cause if not Imma relieve myself on her to wake 'er up" annnd just like that, the confusion of someone being concerned passed. For a brief moment, she thought some semblance of kindness existed in this part of the world. Not that she had a problem with kindness of course, she was half human after all.

With her head still backwards, she gave the room one last scan. A thirsty newcomer, Zarâm, had just entered and seemed to be heading towards the bar. She didn’t warrant much attention though, drinks seemed to be the main focus of that one. The missing finger guy (Frost) was shooting back the shot rather quickly and a familiar burn happened at the base of her throat, as if in sympathetic memory. He was coughing, rather loudly before he seemed to glance around to see if anyone noticed. Her lips formed in an amused smile but when his eyes shifted to where she was sitting, she quickly averted her gaze. She didn't mean to stare and hoped that her curious gaze went unnoticed. The scrape of a chair came from his general direction and her ears twitched. 'Elfs blood! maybe the Númenórean man did?' Blossom quickly lifted her head which was tilted backwards, adjusting her braid around her shoulders in an attempt to blend in with everyone else. Her gaze shifted back down towards her drink..her much needed, longed for, desired drink....that now had a FLOATING FIGURINE IN IT?!?!

Those monochrome eyes darted back to Naokis who had his bony hand coming towards her drink in an attempt to grab the figurine from it. ‘Don’t you dare ruin my drink!’ She snapped, whacking the underside of her blade against his hand in an instinctive manner. If it made contact with his hand, it would have stung but if it made contact with the counter, the noise would have been distracting enough to make him pause with his trajectory. ‘Ask first Mop head’ She scolded, picking up the now wet figurine and placed it in front of him. ‘Honestly, just like a child.’ She mused, holding the glass above her head and to the left. There is no way she is letting another figurine drop in it or a hand to ruin a perfectly good beverage.

[Moriel]

Írimë retrieved the small figurine from behind the bar where it had clattered to the floor after being punched by Naokis. Bringing it close to her face she considered it carefully, then her eyes flicked to its strange owners. “Finders, keepers!” she mewled at him, and placed the figurine on her shelf of bottles. She turned from the shelf just in time to hear Orco’s assertion that he was going to ”relieve [him]self on her to wake ‘er up” with reference to the rag n’ bone pile that was Sil. “Oh no you will not!” the Pubmistress shrieked, dropping the whip from its frog on her hip. With a hiss and a crack it had snaked out to coil around Orco’s wrist, and she jerked his arm towards her, to forestall any dropping of trow which he might have been considering. “You’ve done quite enough damage to my facilities already today with your bodily functions thankyouverymuch,” she hissed, snapping the whip so that it uncoiled from about Orco’s wrist, and she shook it at him threateningly as she continued, “If you want to wake her up, trick kicking her like a normal person. And if you need to relieve yourself, take it back to the outhouse. If the floor collapses under you it’s your own faultt. And,” Írimë brightened as the thought entered her mind, “if she’s dead, you can take her there with you and throw her in. Waste disposal two in one.” Smug at her own brilliance, Írimë turned to the newest arrival (Zarâm) who demanded her drink with the usual bad grace of the patrons of On the Rocks. She mixed the drink with her natural flair and dropped the hobbit eye into it from just a little higher than was necessary, causing an alcoholic drop of blood to his Zarâm in the face. “Fresh and chilly sweetheart, drink up before someone pisses in it.”

[Narv]

Well, the punch still hadn't landed and several conversations had started and finished, including one that Narv was apparently involved in, so he assumed that one of those troll type things had happened where you're right in the middle of doing something important like making supper and then you suddenly get put in a mineral state for Melkor knows how long because some distracting dwarf or squirrel or some such plays some vile deceit upon you. It had happened to a few distant cousins of his recently, if he remembered the letter he'd gotten from aunt about it several years ago correctly, which he didn't.

Anyway, he dropped his fist, entirely satisfied with an incredible 50% hit rate on punches for the evening. And the good news kept coming, as he slowly registered what Orco was saying to him. Even the more ossified trolls know that the answer to "Did you get the money I sent last week" is always a conciliatory "No, you probably didn't send it, happens all the time, last week I meant to send a letter to my Aunt Bertrude up Weathertop way and wouldn't you know it it turns out I actually set it on fire instead and forgot, anyway here I am now just put it in my hand thanks take care". Narv was about to unleash this eloquence upon Orco when the orc up and walked away, suddenly more interested in performing some kind of strange hydrological death ceremony on the shedding thing than in giving Narv money. As usual, the pace of the modern financial system had proven too much for a simple troll to make his way. Oh well - Narv had a backup plan. He turned to Írimë, who had mercifully stopped yelling at him to devote his evening to studying the written word.

"Gimme uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.. lava... snack?" That didn't sound right. What were those things that people ate again? Oh well, lava snacks sounded kind of tasty, so it was worth a try. He gestured at Orco. "That one'll pay for it... he owes me."

[The Good Hunter]

The launch of the wooden figurine and it’s subsequent landing in the drink of the orc (Blossom) across the pub stopped Frost in his tracks. All of the sudden, he didn’t think sitting near her would be a good idea. The rage was plan on her face and there was no way Frost going to take the brunt of any of that anger… maybe.

He did feel sorry for Naokis, who upon entering the bar had apparently managed to enrage half the patrons. The thought of stepping in and trying to save him from himself was suddenly interrupted by a strange aftertaste in the back of his throat. It was coppery, tangy, with a hint of lemon that had gone slightly rotten. He looked down at the shot glass he was still hold, there was a smear there that he hadn’t noticed before. He held it up to the light, squinting as he examined it. There were streaks of, what color was that, red? There were red streaks in his shot glass. He looked from the glass to Naokis and back as realization dawn on him. His gorge rose and he nearly threw up. How had…? That didn’t matter. Frost was not a vampire! What madness was this? Nobody makes Frost drink blood, unless they do it by candlelight and doom jazz. He dropped the glass and it shattered on the floor.

Frost was half torn between smacking Naokis over the head and inviting him for a drink. First though, Frost mused, he was going to have to see he survived his encounter with the orc woman. Then there was also the matter of him finding a job here. He looked back at his hand and wiggled his three remaining fingers on his left hand. Surely that would be enough to be a bartender right?

Another snaga, not the one he had abused earlier, rushed passed him carrying a crate full of dirty dishes. “Hey!” The thing must have jumped two feet in the air, Frost chuckled. “Please pass along a message from me to your Pubmistress. Ask her what the exact protocol for asking for a job around is. Don’t tell her now though, she seems rather… busy at the moment and I can only be the focus of some many individual’s wrath at once.” The snaga stared dumbly at him, eyes full of blank mistrust and dislike. “Well go on then!”

[Thalionwen Hunigfolm]

Of course any sort of pub in Mordor would be absolute chaos. Thalionwen wasn't sure what she'd expected. They could get a little uproarious in the best of places, and this was definitely not the best of places.

Definitely. Not.

Still, she walked in the door without hesitation, and rolled her eyes at the sight of some manner of creature (Naokis) seated at the bar with blood already dripping down its face. There was an orc maid there too (Blossom), what appeared to be a pirate (Frost), and in the middle of the floor, what looked to be a rotting corpse (Silendra) belonging to one of her own people. Well, that was disturbing. As was the...giant sentient candle? Bema's horn, she should have known better than to leave Rohan.

But then, near the bar, she caught sight of who she was looking for, and heard words that were music to her ears. Thalionwen's eyes narrowed hawkishly as she strode across the room, hands on hips, with the air of someone who was about to deliver a sound scolding.

"That one'll pay for it... he owes me," an tragically unintelligent-looking cave troll (Narv) had just finished saying. Sidling up alongside him, Thalionwen's scowl deepened.

"OH...REALLY!" she said loudly to Narv, knowing cave trolls were dense at best, and that it didn't do to speak too softly or too fast if you meant to be understood. "WELL...AS IT HAPPENS...HE OWES ME MONEY TOO. A LOT OF MONEY."

Turning to Orco for the first time, she let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Hello, husband. Forget something when they ran you out of the Riddermark? Your wife perhaps? Because you certainly didn't forget my savings."

[Rivvy Elf]

Orco del Oro

"Hehe," chuckled Orco as he lowered his arms to his side, "get ready for a-"

With that, suddenly a snake like thing coiled around his wrist, "ooh what the?" Orco yelped in surprise as his grin turned into a baring of teeth, which closed itself to a more measured glare as he tilted his head and scratched the back of it as he listened to Írimë scold him.

"Two in one huh?" Orco said, his eyes narrowed as he cracked parts of his neck, "seems like you're miscountin'." However, whatever plans the orc had next was interrupted by something... most unexpected.

"Hey! What are you-... Careful there!" Orco yelled, as he began rushing over to go in between his wife and Narv. Unfortunately, due to the orc's big bones, he realized that that could become a mistake as he would probably be sandwiched between a troll and his wife. In a blur, he unbound his coin bag, quickly counted the coins, and put them in front of Narv.

Orco forced a cheerful grin on his face as he quietly said, "a little extra for the trouble."

He turned his head as the cheerful grin turned into a look of bared annoyance, "here? In Mordor? You coulda been killed, or captured, or- Of all places trying to bust my..." then Orco took a deep breath, looked at the ceiling, knowing that what he said was the wrong thing to say. He wiped his face with his hands as he nodded along to whatever she had to say in response.

Orco del Oro gave an attempt at a reassuring smile at Thalionwen, "Look... Thali. Look at me," he gestured using two fingers pointing from her eyes to his. He looked in her eyes and asked, "do you really I think I would leave you behind? Why'd you think I did not wear the disguise? The mask, the helmet, gloves, braces, etcetera for the "flesh-rotting" disease your friends and family believe I have? It was fer business, Thali, the stolen black horses would have been well fed, taken care of, but they saw me."

With that del Oro narrowed his eyes, looking both sides for the moment, and began whispering at Thali, his voice cracking, "I coulda died out there. Left ya a widow. It was either their deaths or your loneliness. But you're now talkin' about money? Is that what this is all about? You hurt me, Thali, you really do."

[Silky Gooseness]

For not that long this time, Silendra had been lying in disrepute. Coming to in the pub was pretty familiar territory for her. First, the green eyes snapped open; then, her fingers combed her remaining hair out of them whilst her mouth opened and emitted the noise “Bleurarruughhhh” as her body gradually resumed a vertical position that these days was relatively unfamiliar to her.

She brightened as she realised she was still in the pub and nobody had even seen fit to piddle on her. What an unexpected bonus. Nobody had thrown any extra drinks on her though, which would’ve been a shame if it hadn’t been for the miscellaneous candle rolling around, which someone should really clean up.

Silendra tottered back over to the bar. Apparently, it was made of obsidian. She examined her reflection with great interest. Spectacular - in every sense. Particularly noteworthy for the stunning black eye she was now sporting. Fortunately for everybody Silendra had absolutely no collection of who had hit her, or why, but fully accepted the fact that she’d probably deserved it.

She dropped down into her original seat and croaked, “Hit me again, Írimë... I mean with more drinks, not a right hook” before she realised that her customary perch was now occupied and she appeared to be sliding into Naokis’ lap. Well it was TOO LATE to change her trajectory now, Silendra had drinks to drink. Hopefully.

[Sharrásh]

As this candle flickered hoping someone would answer and someone did. However, not with the answer the candle was looking for. Then suddenly the flame was put out with an unknown substance tossed by Írimë. Shut back into the darkness this new spirit soon was swirling in memories from the past. This was no new soul, but an old soul being reborn.

In the darkness images flew in the minds eye of this old soul being reborn. Memories of war, making enemies, and strangely even friends. A voice in the deep faintly whispered a name Sharrásh, the consciousness snapped and she remembered. She was Sharrásh a once hopefully well known Nazgûl of Mordor. With that remembrance she soon popped with a loud *POP* and no longer was a new soul candle standing there, but Sharrásh in all her glory and apparently just a loincloth and a strip of fabric holding her small breast in place.

For the love of Morgoth they couldn’t put me in at least a black robe!!! Now I have to find some proper clothing and armor. After all my hard work I come back at the bottom of the totem pole.

Shaking her head she walks towards the bar, after all this she was really going to need a drink.

[Burnt Toast]

Naokis let out a sad hiss when his hand was struck with the flat of a blade, and he was shouted at. He drew his hand back, and pulled the most morose face he could muster, and by that I mean that he drew his thin lips down, tilted his head strangely, and wriggled his eyes, making them as wide as they could go.

Because:
1. He didn’t actually remember how to make sad faces
2. He didn’t actually remember what faces looked like

In the midst of him making the spectacle, the figurine was placed back in front of him. The Barmistress had said “finders, keepers”, about his first figure, and even he knew that was the most final and unbreakable law in all the land. So he focused his attention on the second figurine instead. It came with a chastisement, “ask first, mop head.” He wondered if that was his name. Not his first one, he knew, somehow, that his first name was “Now, kiss”. Those were the main words he remembered, after all. They seemed important. But his second one. People had two, right?

“Now kiss mop head. Now kiss mop head!” He sang it out loud a few times. It had a nice ring to it. But he had to see it written. Pulling out a knife, he glanced around, looking for a surface to scratch on. The obsidian bar looked… hard. Hmm…

He practiced writing his name in his head, which it turns out, was also out loud, “N..A..O..K..I..S.. M..A...A…” He got lost after the second ‘a’ in mop head. He needed to write it out.

His black eyes flitted about the room, and landed on a nearby table. As his eyes registered the writing space, they also took in the finger missing pirate guy (Frost), and the blood smeared glass on his table. So that’s where his drink had gone. He started to slip off the stool, and picked up the figurine in a bony pinchy grip, bringing it to eye height. But he didn’t forget his manners, oh no.

“Thank ye, and for the extra… flavor.” He sang to (Blossom). He licked the drops of her drink off the figurine. Hm. Could use more blood. He gave an awkward bow, his odd neck jerking twitchily to the side, and then starting to stand to make his way over to the pirate’s table. Well, he tried. Before he could move further, the bundle of rags, flesh, and apparently a little bit of hair (Sil)-- slid right into his lap.

“Umm… Ahhhhh… Ahhh! … uhh?” He intoned, utterly befuddled by this turn of events. He was used to sliding. But now something had slid into him? He glanced at the grumpy orcish creature next to him (Blossom), hoping for some help. But before he could ask, there was a loud POP and the giant candle was suddenly not a candle and also had a loincloth.

“Now kiss?” was all he could think to say. That seemed to solve most of his figurines’ problems.

[Thalionwen Hunigfolm]

Well, Thali had never been much of a one for common sense. How could she be, given that she'd ended up in a chaotic, overly-complicated, perpetual disaster of a second marriage to an orc, when her first and suitably Rohirric husband was hardly cold in his grave?

It was that lack of common sense that led her to reach over as Orco (quite shockingly, really) paid off the cave troll without a fuss. Unhesitatingly, she palmed half the coins he laid down on the bar.

"YOU DON'T MIND, DO YOU, BIG FELLOW?" she said to the troll (Narv), patting one of his enormous hands. "ONLY HE OWES ME TOO, NO MATTER WHAT HIS EXCUSES ARE."

Turning her back on Narv, she fixed her full attention on Orco.

"What was I supposed to think?" Thalionwen said reproachfully. "You just up and disappeared after I lent you all that money, and then I heard nothing from you for a month. On top of that, I found out about the horses. We agreed, no horse-stealing if you're in Rohan on my account. I'd never hurt you on purpose, Orco--I hope you've learned that by now--but I've got kids to feed. You knew that going into this. And I knew everything between us would be a mess, but maybe it's more of a mess than I'd bargained for."

Turning to the pubmistress, Írimë, Thalionwen waved a hand, discouragement in the set of her shoulders. "Excuse me, ma'am. I'm not sure what you're serving here, and quite frankly what everyone else is having looks disgusting, but I'll take whatever you've got that's strongest--on the condition that it won't kill me or leave me completely witless. You'll understand why I feel the need to specify."

[Rivvy Elf]

Orco del Oro

"What?... WHAT? You think I can just go the Towah, get an audience with the Dark Lord, have a cuppa beer with him and ask him 'pardon me, your beloved highness, can you please establish a pony express system between Mordor and Rohan?'" Orco responded aggressively in annoyance to Thalionwen, inflecting his voice to sound like a pompous Gondorian nobleman, "what, you want me to go bribe the Black Gate to open their gate again to let me through? That costs money, you know? If I did that, I wouldn't be able to pay you back. So I had to stay here and earn my gold, little choice."

He looked around, spotting a loincloth and a strip of fabric. The orc quickly deduced that this was probably some sort of wraith, and pointed at Sharrásh, "you can back me up on this, can't ya? When was the last time the Dark Lord evah agreed to any of your requests?"

Orco turned to Narv, asking, "how about you Narv? Don't you have family somewhere where that old North kingdom use to be? When one of 'em turned to stone, could you leave to pay respeks or somethin'?"

Del Oro turned and asked Frost, quickly noticing only three fingers. He pointed at Frost, "Hey you!" Orco exclaimed at Frost, "when you lost your other fingahs, did the Dark Lord give them back?"

The big-boned orc then turned to Silendra, paused and opened his mouth to try and think of something, shook his head, and then turned to Naokis. Orco shook his head even more, then turned to Írimë.

"Hey pubmistress," Orco said, "would the Dark Lord accept an audience from you for an outhouse infastructure improvement request?"

His mouth then turned into a baring snarl, "also, if you don't agree with my wife's request, I will pull out your arms and force you to eat them. And I also won't reimburse your outhouse repair expenses if you poison her, ya understand?"

Orco then turned once again to Thalionwen as he closed his eyes, wiping his face with his hand, "look Thalionwen..." he began more calmly, "I didn't mean to leave you like that, and the kids, okay? But this mess? Whatevah this is? It can't come between us. Did I not make a sacred vow that day? Our feelings go beyond whatevah situation your King and my Dark Lord has."

[Liläth]

Blossom

The shattering of a glass shifted her gaze from Naokis who was currently soothing his hand and looking sad? She presumed it was some form of sadness and she almost reached out to pat his hand she just hurt in a comforting manner. The shattering however made her pause and she glanced over again at the Missing finger pirate dude (Frost). Her eyebrow lifted in question because most of the beverages here were suitable and did not deserve such treatment but his facial expression revealed that maybe something was added to the beverage that he did not find agreeable.

It wasn’t any of her business though and she glanced back at Naokis who was currently singing ‘Now kiss mop head’ She felt her head tilt again, a questioning cock as she tried to come to some sort of conclusion as to why she was here again and why this was happening to her. All Blossom wanted to do was grab a few drinks, melt into the background and just watch the chaos around her. No interaction with anyone, just an observer. She liked observing and it was always fun to have stories to tell her mother back in Minis Tirith when she went to visit. Stories that didn’t involve her getting killed, which her temper and smart mouth most certainly would. She had the common sense of course to keep the orc side of her in check but sometimes, unfortunately, it snuck out. Especially in a pub like this. It wasn’t exactly anger that she portrayed earlier but her orc features most likely gave that impression. Exasperation was more like it.

When Naokis aka Mop Head said some form of thank you, it snapped her out of her musing and she blinked slowly. Did it just say thank you? “Uhhh..your welcome?” She murmured and glanced back down at her drink, which was nearly empty due to it’s recent inhabitation of the figurine. She twirled the glass with a sigh before shooting back what liquid remained in it. Placing the glass down, Blossom reached into her tunic to access the hidden pouch she had for some more coins. If she was going to remain here for a bit longer, another drink would be needed. “Another Telperion Mist Pub Mistress, stronger if you can. Thanks.” She said, stacking up the coins on the counter and waited for the Pubmistress Írimë to make the drink strong enough to kill her. Not literally but maybe any common sense she had.

A domestic between a human and an orc (Orco and Thali) was happening behind her and though she wasn’t willing to become involved in the situation her ears did twitch as she captured the general argument they were having. Call it curiosity but the only married couple she knew of that mixture was her own parents. It wasn’t exactly commonplace, that is for sure. The Candle, Sharrásh, popped and changed, now sporting a loincloth and a strip of fabric before approaching the bar also. Naokis was making some weird sounds and she glanced over, noticing that the pile of rags (Sil) who was previously in that seat, had once again reclaimed it. Unfortunately for Naokis, he had just been turned into a chair and though he looked at her with eyes that begged for saving, she wasn’t sure what he wanted her to do? “Uhhh...I wouldn’t stay seated on him if I were you…” She murmured to Sil and as if to prove her point, Naokis said. ‘Now kiss?’ Once again, it wasn’t any of her business but if these two started to make out next to her, she was going to have to knock their heads together.

[The Good Hunter]

Frost felt light headed all of the sudden, the alcohol-blood concoction must have started going to his head. Everyone’s voices sounded like they were coming for a great distance. There was a ringing in his ear that threatened to pierce his skull. Suddenly though, as quick as it had come on, the ringing vanished and everyone’s screaming, yelling voices returned to full volume.
“Witch-King’s balls!” Frost muttered under his breath.
He looked again at the orc (Blossom), he could recognize the look on her face. It said “If you stare at me any longer I’m going to rip your face off.” It was a look he’d seen more than once and had given it a fair number of times as well. He dipped his head apologetically and winked, hoping it would have convey a “maybe later?” type sentiment. He didn’t look too long though, he valued his face were it was.
A tap on the shoulder brought him out of his tunnel vision. He blinked as an orc and his… wife? (Orco and Thalionwen) brushed passed him. The orc turned and asked him about his hand. Frost, still coming out of his inner monologue, didn’t catch everything he said. Had he said something about the Dark Lord giving back his fingers?
“Um… no… I lost them in cannon fight, down south away. Stupid blighter blew my finger off, other one went green and gangrenous. You know anywhere I can get some replacements?”
He whirled around and saw Naokis apparently sliding into someone’s lap (he really likes sliding doesn’t he?). Frost did a double take, blinking owlishly in the smoky air.
“Sil?! Is that you? What the hell were you doing? How were you a pile of rags? I’m so confused!” He pushed his way through the wave of bodies, likely pushing some poor snaga over into a table, maneuvering around to Sil’s other side. There was another snaga, pale skinned and shivering with a combination of fear and rage, behind the bar. “Two Fireside Chebleys!”
With his first genuine smile of the night, he added “What’s a little cannibalism to celebrate old friendships?"

[Silky Gooseness]

Silendra groaned. Not only were drinks not immediately and freely appearing in front of here but her chair had started singing. Quite tunefully, she had to admit. But who was this mop head he was encouraging her to kiss? Blearily she looked behind her into Naokis’ face - looked like he’d recently been punched too. But then, most people in Mordor looked like that, when they didn’t look like people who had suddenly exploded out of candles. Maybe he was the mop head. He certainly looked like somebody had wiped the floor with him. To be fair, Silendra looked like that herself. She waited expectantly for a couple of seconds but during that eternity nobody kissed her. Thanks be to Melkor.

Poking hopefully at the bar and waiting for more shots to materialise, Silendra caught sight of Frost and bounced up and down a bit. Poor old Naokis’ knees. Sil has a bony undercarriage. Quite a lot of her flesh has fallen off.

“Oh,” she elucidated mournfully, “I’m as well as can be expected, given I’m relatively sober. I’m just all raggedy because this body is finally giving way - what’s a poor wight to do? Besides kidnap some poor soul and savagely torture them until they yield their body to my unquiet spirit of course. But that’s just SO MUCH EFFORT, when I could just sort of keep myself tied together with some really good quality twine.”

[Thalionwen Hunigfolm]

Letting out a reluctant sigh, Thalionwen rested her chin on one hand and looked at Orco. She didn't know what it was--the underbite, maybe, or the baldness, or the general overbearing, aggressive demeanor of the sizeable orc, but she'd been putty in his unwashed hands ever since they'd first bumped into each other in the backwater of Rohan and he hadn't eaten or casually murdered her.

She'd never had very high standards.

And given that her first husband didn't even survive a year, just being a living entity more or less met her expectations at this point.

"You've always been a sweet talker, Orco," Thalionwen said with a shake of her head. "Could charm a maiden right out of the Mark with that black tongue of yours. And I suppose I've been too hard on you. But I don't want you coming back to Rohan, do you hear? Not on my account anyway--where business takes you is your own lookout. But if the Cavalry found you and you came to grief because of me, I'd never forgive myself."

Thalionwen glanced about herself, at the mildly repulsive crowd in the pub. She was certainly not in the Eastfold anymore. She'd been born an optimist, though, and from where she sat, things could have been much worse. There was no flaming eye looking down on everybody anymore, to start with. Eyeballs gave Thali the creeping horrors.

"So I think," she said, growing more cheerful as she spoke, "we're better off if I come out here and visit you when I can. I even found myself a job today, down by the harbor! A place called The Slaughter House--it seems to be some kind of hospital, have you heard of it?"

Overhearing the wight down the bar, Silendra, bemoaning the decrepit state of her current body, Thali beamed.

"Oh I can get you a body!" she called out. "There's lots where I'm working, you could take your pick. Whole or parts, though it'll be cheaper if you buy a corpse in its entirety. I don't want to get left with all the undesirable bits, see?"

[Rivvy Elf]

Orco's growing smile quickly turned upside down into a frown of disbelief, as his teeth bared and he scratched his head.

"Wha? What'd you say?" Orco asked disbelief towards Thalionwen, "you WHAT?"

With that, the room suddenly started shifting in the distance and his wife blurred into 3 shifting Thalionwens. Her words toward the rotting Silendra became distant soft horn blasts, as the giant orc held on to his head, trying to refocus. Echoes of conversations faded to soft thuds as his heartbeat pounded his skull until all he heard were the drums of the deep void shrouding and hiding the great emptiness in all things. His blinking slowed, and his eyes closed as the moments went on and on, with his heart drumming, and all the rest of the world light-years away from his conscious.

Then, quickly, as if a dam suddenly lifted from a raging river, reality jettisoned itself once again to Orco as he once again became aware of the pub's ambience and the fact that his wife had presumably taken a job at The Slaughter House. Once he recovered his wits, he tapped Thalionwen on her shoulder with one of his giant fingers.

"Hey," Orco said, "you got a job where? In that place? Why would you- Of all the places-," then Orco paused, exhaling a deep audible breath, before asking, "how'd you get the job in the first place? Waste management is dangerous down there."

[Burnt Toast]

This was getting to be too much, even for him. He liked his song about mop heads, and at least Blossom was polite. That made him feel better. But there was sure a lot of yelling happening. Something about a husband and wife and also money. One of them was an orc. It was LOUD.

The nearly fingerless pirate (Frost) was looking for replacement fingers. That made sense. Naokis wouldn't want to lose his fingers.

Then, something on him moved, and he forgot about fingers, and remembered a bundle of ... bits (Sil) was sitting on him. She was bouncing up and down. "OW." he hissed. She was poke-y. He heard someone (Thalionwen) shout something about having a body for her, for a price. He pondered that for a moment, then suddenly beamed. He had been raised right! (He thought. Assuming he was raised.) He could help this poor bag of bones.

"Wait a minute. No need for quality twine! What about my body? I don't need it all that much. Why don't you take it? I've got nice long raven hair." He swished it, to show off, unintentionally probably hitting Sil in the face. "My nose is crunchy... but I think that goes away after a while." He was pretty sure bodies healed. It was just a little blood, after all. He waited expectantly for Sil's response.

[Moriel]

Quite a lot had happened at On the Rocks since Írimë had given Zarzâmher drink, most of it shenanigans. Perhaps this was why she had gravitated to a dark corner behind the bar, staring into the distance and petting the figuring she had confiscated from Naokis with the tip of one finger. It was simply too early in the day for all this crap to be going on in her bar. In the meantime, the snagas had gotten everyone their drinks, a feat usually punishable by death, but it was also punishable by death to create an environment where the patrons were unhappy, so they had to take their luck. One of the snagas had overheard Narv’s request for a lava snack and taken even greater initiative by running outside, snatching up an unfortunate and unwary lava snake, snapped its neck, dunked it in an acid pool, and run back inside. He had slapped it on the bar before Narv, grinning and squealed “LAVA SNACK!” before scuttling off, in case Írimë had seen. Fortunately for this snaga it was not his actions that pulled the Pubmistress back to reality but the slowly dawning conclusion that the things she had been hearing were not dream but in face reality. Orco was MARRIED?!

“I just can’t even.” Írimë sighed, turning to Orco and bared her teeth right back at him. “Listen mister, I don’t tell the Dark Lord what to do, and you don’t tell me what to do, and you don’t threaten me in my own pub without consequences! You’re cut off!!” A shiver and a chorus of “ooooh”s ran through the various snagas. Írimë loved profit more than a lot of things and it was very rare for her to remove someone’s drinking privileges, especially this early in the day. “As for your…wife, she’ll take what she gets and be happy about it.” The Pubmistress poured a glass of hobbit blood and slammed it down in front of Thalionwen. “Welcome to Mordor, you drink what we drink or you get out. Also, I’m pretty sure there’s a support group for people who made really bad choices in marriage.” Something was tugging on Írimë’s sleeve and she looked down to see yet another snaga. “Yes what?” It cupped its hand and she bent down slightly to listen to its whispers. “Oh really??” she straightened up and stared daggers at Frost, who seemed to have made his way over to the bar now. “Well, you tell him,” Írimë said, tossing the snaga away and sauntering over the the Númenorean, “that if he wants a job, he can ask for one himself like a real man,” she slapped har palm down onto the bar just in case her looming presence of vulpine doom hadn’t done the job of attracting his attention, and leaned practically into Frost’s face and continued mulishly, “and that if he wants to keep demanding drinks, he can say pretty please with a hobbit eye on top.”

[Thalionwen Hunigfolm]

There were a few things in life Thalionwen really hated. The first was wasps. The second was too much pepper in her food. And the third was hearing someone--anyone--insult a person she cared about. Even if that person was actually an orc, and things were complicated, and perhaps she had made a really bad choice in marriage.

Whether she had or not, only Thali got to say that out loud. EVER.

The Pubmistress had already turned away and was speaking extremely harshly to the digitally-impaired pirate man, Frost--really, was there any reason to be so rude to people constantly even in Mordor? It was...it was just...it was enough to make Thalionwen lose her temper.

Reaching out, she swept the disgusting glass of hobbit's blood off the bar with a satisfying crash. To be honest, Thali doubted it was even hobbit's blood in the first place. That sounded expensive, and difficult to import. Chances were, it was only pig's blood being falsely advertised. None of that mattered, though, because she was already scrambling over the bar with what felt like a ferocious looking scowl etched across her face. It was doubtful she looked ferocious compared to the current clientele, but by Rohan's standards, she was positively raging.

Tapping Írimë on the shoulder with more force than was strictly necessary, Thali set her jaw.

"I beg your very rude pardon," she said in high dudgeon, "but no one, and I mean no one, insults my incredibly mismatched husband besides me. I take this as the most grievous of slights and demand satisfaction! So let's settle this the way country maidens of the Mark settle all their disputes--with a knock-down, drag out brawl. Hair pulling, biting and scratching are both permitted and encouraged, at least in the village where I'm from. But no whips, weapons, or funny business. Unless you're scared."

Thali frowned aggressively at Írimë, who, if obviously evil, was at least of a height with her in this land of hulking trolls and oversized orcs. And the Pubmistress was not, after all, a wasp or an overly generous serving of pepper, so Thalionwen felt no fear, even if it would, perhaps, have been wise to.

[Moriel]

Írimë’s head swiveled round with the deathly slowness of a fell beast stalking a wild pig and she looked into the face of the woman who had had the audacity to scramble over her bar -over. her. bar.- and then rap her on the shoulder. Of course. Orco’s horse lady wife. The Pubmistress listened to her rant, capped off with a challenge, with the hand that wasn’t slapped down in front of Frost in a fist akimbo on her hip. “Oh honey,” Írimë drawled, raising one perfectly groomed brow, “You have no idea. You might be pretty brave, marrying that thing,” she jerked her chin at Orco, “but you don’t have anything on me. And fortunately for me, I’m both brave and not stupid. If I threw down with every bitter wench who came in here wanting to fight me, I’d never get any work done. And as much as it would please me to rip your hair out,” Írimë looked Thali deliberately up and down, “I wouldn’t waste my manicure on you.” Sensing danger, a knot of snagas had formed at the end of the bar, awaiting orders, but Írimë waved them off. Instead, she looked back at Frost. “You want a job, big boy? Get her out from behind my bar and we’ll talk.”

[Silky Gooseness]

Offers upon offers! And yet, no offers of what Silendra really wanted: another drink. To be fair, Írimë appeared to be occupied by fending off Thalionwen from climbing over the bar.

Silendra blinked a couple of times at said Thalionwen. OK, so the woman had offered to sell her a body - or even part of a body - but it couldn't be said that Thali knew how to strike a bargain well, if she'd somehow ended up married to Orco. That seemed to Silendra to be a terrible deal.

Of course, Silendra loved making bargains with people who had no idea how to cut a deal.

"How well placed are you to supply -live- bodies?" she inquired tentatively. "A corpse is of no use to me: the point is to possess a living body and then slowly push out the occupying soul. That keeps everything, uh, fresh."

Silendra's chair piped up with an opinion.

"Shut up, chair, know your place which is beneath me," Silendra had just started to say, when she turned around and gave Naokis a proper look. He did indeed have quite good swishy hair. Having swishy hair is very important for being dramatic. It can even replace swishing a cloak.

"Yes, the nose is a bit crunchy," she opined thoughtfully, "and you're presumably male as well, which I don't usually go for, but I am sort of falling apart. Do you really know what you're going in for here though? When people say 'Take my body', they have all sorts of different things in mind, which rarely includes permanent possession by an unquiet spirit."