Lord of the Rings Fanatics Plaza

Írimë had spent absolutely ages planning this party, and so it was with a self-assured smugness and smirking features that she sashayed down from her rooms above the pub to open it for the evening. Though she had made all the plans, of course, snagas had been hard at work all day putting everything into place, and On the Rocks had been transformed to her exacting specifications. With a languorous gesture of her arm, she indicated to one of the snagas flipping out a snuggly looking blanket over a pouf to open the doors. It scurried to obey, and with a clatter removed the lock and bar, and placed a lantern in the window next to the doors. It didn’t do to fling the doors open in welcome this close to an active volcano, but that was the impression the Pubmistress liked to give. Tonight she had discarded her usual corsetry, skirts, and ruffles, for a set of hazel satin pajamas that slipped, whispered, and clung to her voluptuous form as she moved. Both the sleeves of the buttoned top and the legs of the flimsy trousers were three-quarter length, leaving a considerable amount of shapely olive-toned forearm, ankle, and calf exposed for all to see. Her hair too was unencumbered by bindings, and tumbled down her back in dark chestnut waves. Írimë swayed to the brazier where her caffeinated concoction sat keeping warm, and ladled herself a mug. It was never too early to indulge. Sidling back over to the bar, rather than move behind it to take up her usual position, the Pubmistress, using one of the tall stools as a prop, slid her behind up onto the top of the bar. She leaned back, crossing her dangling ankles, and leaning back onto one hand, as the other brought the steaming mug to her lips. She sipped, feeling the drink’s tingles in her spine, and waited to see who would answer the call.

Mornings always came to early. After 76 years of life, that was one of the things Frost had come to accept as brutal, unadulterated truth. Even in the blasted lands of Mordor, mornings came early. He was rattled awake by the sound of rummaging, cursing, and crashing about (as it turns out Írimë likes to get an early start getting herself ready very early). When he rolled out of bed, he saw the sun wasn’t even up yet. Though it was Mordor and the thick cloud cover (not to mention the ash from the volcano right on top of them) so the sun would have been difficult to see at high noon. It was not long after the pubmistress made her grand entrance that Frost followed and, though his was not quite so grand and luxurious, he was still met with an impressive sight. Along with all the normal accoutrement of the pub he found all sorts of pillow and blankets and potato shaped things he assumed were what Írimë had called a beanbag. She was very serious about this pajama party theme.

As she had insisted, Frost dressed for the occasion. Normally, he did not wear pajamas, something she no doubt had already guessed by now, normally he allowed his form the freedom from all fabrics but, as that might cause too much of a stir too early in the morning, he agreed to put on a pair of black silk pajama bottoms stitched with his family’s crow motif inlayed into the fabric. He did, however, refuse to wear anything else (other than some slippers because he’s not stupid) and the pubmistress had not put up much resistance to that stipulation. Without the interference of a shirt, his newest tattoo (yes there was another one now) was clearly visible. A massive corvid figure with it’s vast pinions outstretched decorated his left side, its wings wrapping around to his chest on one side and just between his shoulder blades on the other.

What was that glorious smell? Frost was not used to things smelling quite this good first thing in the morning in Mordor. It was the coffee that Thali had introduced into the pub, then subsequently got everyone addicted to it. Írimë was brewing a pot of it. The smell filled the common room with a delightfully nutty and… pumpkin(?) smell. He shrugged. When it Mordor it was best to just go with things. Speaking of going with things, Frost anticipated quite a crowd today. The news of the pub’s theme today had been spread far and wide. He expected Taeth to be here, and potentially Zôr as well (because despite having technically only started working here recently Mordor made time weird and wibbly-wobbly-elfy-welfy and peering through the fourth wall was permitted from time to time) Zarâm had made a promise to be here as well. Would there be some tension? Maybe. He smirked at that. Perhaps some of his old male friend companions would show up as well. It had been a very long time since two men fought over him.

“Hello darling,” he drawled as he sidled up to the bar. “You are looking impressive today. Care to share some of that coffee? Two cups. I’m sure when Sil wakes up they’ll need a good pick-me-up.”

THUNK

Silendris’ head hit the bottom of the table as they sat up. Fortunately, Naokis had quite voluminous hair, even if it wasn’t quite as flickable as Frost’s, and Silendris had built up quite the tolerance for head bumps even in the short few weeks they had been occupying this body. They blinked their eyes and shuffled out from the table, where apparently they had fallen asleep during the Hoppit Darts contest, whereupon they blinked more. The pub looked positively COSY. Silendris recoiled, even more so when they glanced down and realised they were wearing a shockingly fluffy one-piece outfit. Had Taethowen been experimenting with their design? Who’d even dared to dress them, not that brat Grobby? Gingerly, they felt around - at least the bumflap was still in place. Slightly reassured, they wavered up in front of the bar, where the ever present and ever smirking Írimë was presiding as usual.

“Yes. Some of that,” Silendris croaked, pointing at the vat of deliciousness brimming in front of them, “but put in a good glut of brandy for us, there’s a good mistress.”

The night before, Taethowen had laughed, softly, when Frost had said something about a pajama party at On the Rocks the next day. She'd bitten her lip to hold back a secretive, mischievous smile, suddenly glad that she'd left on particular item tucked away in her trunk. Not that hiding the smile mattered when Frost couldn't seem to stop kissing her.

She checked her hair one more time, piled up into a loose, messy bun on the top of her head, before slipping on a simple pair of black leather flats and then a short cloak--midnight blue, in the lightest weight of wool she'd been able to find--which fell just a few inches below her knees, with slits in the side for her arms. Her legs and arms were bare, but fortunately it wasn't a long jaunt over to the pub, and the air was warm. She honestly didn't need the cloak... at least for temperature control.

On the Rocks wasn't overly crowded yet when she slipped inside. Írimë, Frost, and Silendris were all at the bar, and for a moment Taeth was distracted by several delicious, sweetly spicy scents wafting through the air. Her mouth watered, but that might have been equally due to Frost or to the smell of food and drink. An amused smile escaped her as she realized that Sil had received her most recent prototype of the jumpsuit, this time made of soft, brushed flannel and a slightly looser fit for comfort and movement. She hadn't expected Sil to wear it in the rather warm pub, though. Hopefully the poor creature wouldn't overheat.

Waiting for a moment when Frost's gaze moved in her direction, Taeth let a teasing smile cross her lips, eyes shining eagerly, as she reached up to undo the ties on her cloak. Taeth would never have dreamed of wearing something like this in public in Rohan. Maybe in Mirkwood, but not in Rohan. But from what she'd seen of the way women in the more well-to-do houses liked to dress in Umbar and even the dresses she'd glimpsed the last time she was--briefly--at On the Rocks (before the never-to-be-repeated bout with Nazgul Essence), made her think something like this would fit in just fine in Mordor.

Just as the ties came undone, Taeth grinned and turned away before letting the cloak slide down her form. For just a brief moment, all that could be seen was bare neck--she'd left her Rohirric medallion safely locked away at Frost's home today--and the gentle slope of neck into shoulders. There, scattered across the tops, were irregular, semi-circular lines of new, reddish-pink skin. They shone in stark contrast to the rest of her flesh, lingering and perhaps permanent mementos from the very first night she'd tumbled into bed with Frost.

Then the cloak slipped lower. Sheer black lace slipped into view, barely clinging to her shoulders before it hugged snugly to her shoulder blades and stopped in a scalloped edge. Taeth caught the cloak before it hit the floor and set it on the back of the nearest chair, making sure there was enough time for Frost--or whoever wanted to see, really--to observe the back of her... pajamas. The scalloped edge of lace overlapped black silk, which fell from just under her shoulder blades to just below her knees in a delicate rolled hem, carefully stitched to be as invisible as possible so that where the silk ended seemed as smooth as the edge of water along a quiet lake.

After a brief glimpse over her shoulder, catching Frost's eye with yet another sly smirk, Taeth slowly turned to face the bar again. Across her chest was a crow, spanning shoulder to shoulder. It was crafted of shimmering, black lace, heavily embroidered to give it shape and depth, and seemed almost as if it might come to life and fly away. The feathers at the wing tips curled delicately around her shoulders, connecting to the sheer lace on the back of the nightgown. The shape of the wings followed the contour of her bosom, the lower edges of the feathers softly curving to cradle her flesh. Each feather was tipped with a small, obsidian bead, which acted as a fastening point for the silk skirt, but allowed just the barest glimpse of skin along her ribs.

The body of the crow lay flush against Taeth's sternum, its tail fanning out across her torso, just below her breastbone, the silk skirt--which fell to mid-thigh along the front before curving down to meet the length in the back--appearing to be a natural extension of the tail feathers. The crow's head, turned to one side as if cradled to her heart, had a gleaming ruby for an eye.

When she stepped forward, her right thigh peeked out through a slit in the skirt, and sharp eyes might catch a glimpse of a similar scar there to the ones across her shoulders.

Taeth stepped up to the bar, and peered curiously at Írimë's drink. "What is that?" she asked. "It smells positively delicious. Though if Sil's is going to be doctored with brandy, I'd love some whiskey in mine if you have it."

She turned to Sil then, with a smile, subtly peeking at Frost from the corner of her eye.. "I see you received my latest adaptation, though it's more suited for winter. Isn't the flannel soft?"

“Isn’t the flannel soft?” asked Taethowen. She looked a trifle pleased with herself.

“Yes,” admitted Silendris wistfully, their fingers stroking the velvety grey fabric. “So... snuggly. There’s hardly anywhere to hide a blade though without it looking suspect, so we feel a bit, uh, exposed.”

Their eyes slid over the fancy embroidered crow that was embellishing Taeth’s assets before quickly blinking away. The fact of the matter was that Silendris normally had blades strapped to their thighs, where a simple slit cut into the pocket of any outfit meant easy retrieval without spoiling the lines of the slinkiest outfit; but since sliding into Naokis’ body there was just something about his demeanour that meant Silendris found it hard to go for their blades without people just side-eying them for apparently fiddling with themselves in public.

“Erm, so, that’s lovely what you’re wearing there,” continued Silendris with desperate brightness and in an attempt not to sound like a pervert. Frost was nearby, and it was far too early to start a fight (or an invitation to a group frolic, depending on his mood). “We don’t suppose you’ve got a version of the one-piece in something like that?”

"Nowhere to hide a blade?" Taeth's eyebrow quirked, and she leaned in just slightly to whisper. "If I can hide a blade in this outfit, you can definitely hide one in yours. You just need the right kind."

Taeth blushed just a little as Sil's eyes dropped to her chest. She didn't necessarily want everyone's attention, but she knew to get Frost's attention, it was simply a side effect.

She cleared her throat. "Ah... I imagine I could figure out something similar for the one-piece like this. But the crow is a... limited edition piece. One of a kind."

Frost was quite fetching in his black silk pajama bottoms, and truth be told they did leave very little to the imagination. Skirting the rules just enough to comply… no wonder she liked him so much. Írimë tilted her head to once side as he approached, admiring the latest addition to his collection of tattoos. She had been meaning to question him as to his artist and how they could do such magnificent work so quickly, but it hadn’t exactly come up the previous night. “Why thank you,” she purred in response to his compliments, and then rolled her eyes. “Sil is always in need of a pick me up, despite seeming distinctly less dead these days.” Obligingly (the preceding evening had put her in an especially good mood after all), the Pubmistress slid down from the bar and back to to vat of Pumpkin Spice. As she was filling the mugs, a resounding crack sounded from beneath a nearby table, heralding the awakening of Silendris. Írimë sloshed a hefty measure of brandy into one mug, sliding it across to Sil as they approached the bar, and handing the other to Frost. “Bottoms up, darlings.”

It was at that moment that the first guest from outdoors came in- Taethowen, wearing a truly elaborate confection of black silk and lace, the crow across her chest echoing that etched into Frost’s skin. Was she imagining the Rohir’s possessive look as her face fell upon Írimë’s pretty bartender, lounging there bare-chested? Probably not. Would it be prudent to point out that Frost had just come down from Írimë’s own chambers? Also probably not. It was only her business what he did in his free time inasmuch as it affected her pub, and starting off the day with a raging catfight wasn’t what Írimë had planned for this party, so she merely allowed her eyes to sweep over Taeth’s form and commented, not without appreciation, “Scrumptious.” Ladling out another mug, and crowning it with a splash of whisky, she set it down before the Rohir. “One of a kind you say?” Írimë asked, eyeing the crow on Taeth’s bosom, “Nonsense, I know a tailor at the Black Market who could copy it in a matter of hours. A flock of crows could pop up in this pub before you know it. Not Illska though, I don’t think crebain even know what pajamas are.” The Pubmistress lifted her free hand, reached out, to allow one finger to run languidly down the part of Frost’s new tattoo that was closest to her. “Following the leader, the leader, the leader,” she said in a singsong voice, before raising both her eyebrows and allowing the bottom half of her face to disappear into her own mug as she sipped deeply of the sweet concoction.

Zarâm arrived to the pyjama party a little hesitatingly. The last time she had been in the pub (only the day before) she had accidentally flung a glass of Elf Blood on Írimë. By some miracle she had lived to tell the story. And now she arrived at the pub, which had been completely redecorated and actually looked rather inviting and everything looked very comfy. There were some delicious aromas in the air, including that new drink that had recently been invented: coffee.

When Zarâm stepped into the pub, she realised that several other guests had arrived as well. Frost, as handsome as ever, stood shirtless next to Taeth who was wearing an outfit that was so skimpy it shouldn't even be considered to be pyjamas. Silendris too sat by one of the tables, looking decidedly more conscious than she had been the last time Zarâm saw her. And of course, Írimë looked positively gorgeous like usual.

She looked down at her outfit which consisted of a light cotton pants and hoodie. The colouring was an off white, but the print was certainly to get the attention of everyone in the pub as she was currently covered head to toe in unicorns and rainbows. These pyjamas had a secret inner pocket, and as per usual, Zarâm had slipped one of her many knives into said pocket. It was never wise to be without a weapon, especially in this particular pub.

"Something smells delicious!" she said as she waltzed into the pub, her new outfit giving her a strange bit of courage.

Brandy sounded fantastic! Frost winked at Sil as they appeared (almost as if it had been on cue). “Darling you always have the best ideas! Coffee and brandy for me too, maybe a little extra brandy in mine. Life is always more fun with the edges are blurry.”

Taethowen walked in (again it was almost as if everything was on cue) and Frost had to stop himself from wolf whistling as she glided into the pub. When she removed her cloak, he decided holding back wasn’t worth the trouble and howled voraciously, grinning wickedly. “Speaking of life being fun…” he maneuvered out from behind the bar and looked over Taeth with a smirk and an appraising eye. “You look like a ravishing murder!” He chuckled to himself, mentally patting himself on the back for the corvid pun. “You put a lot of work into this, you really are a fantastic tailor.” He looked to his new corvid tattoo, touching it reflexively and waggled his brow, “I do love a good crow.”

He looked back to Írimë, “You’re right, I do hope that little monstrosity stays out and keeps his creepy one liners to himself tonight. I have a shipment coming in from Rohan tonight. I was able to smuggle some of their infamous “Doctor Pepper” or whatever it called (they are quite odd) and some whisky to help it go down.”

The next delightfully wonder to enter the pub was none other that Zarâm! His planted a kiss on Taeth’s lips and went to greet the orc. “Zarâm! You look as rare and wonderful as the unicorns you wear, and I’m quite certain we can make some rainbows fly tonight, eh?” With a highly intricate bow, Frost took the orc’s hand and kissed it delicately. “I am so happy you chose to join us for the evening. Some coffee? Maybe with a dollop of whisky or brandy?”

Silendris, they/them

“You have a hidden blade?” Silendris exclaimed incredulously. They scooched their stool a little closer to Taethowen and began peering at her with slightly worrying intensity. “Where?!” Their fingers twitched with the impulse to pat Taeth down. Sil delighted in concealed weaponry, even more so than getting handsy with lovely ladies. Mercifully, at this point Silendris was distracted by Zarâm waltzing into the pub and utterly upstaging them with an outfit printed with fanciful horned horses. Was this a new breed they were producing in Rohan? Crossed with Mumakil perhaps? Silendris would have to ask Taeth - one of those would certainly be useful in a cavalry charge.

“You look nice,” said Silendris a trifle sulkily to Zarâm. As comfortable as Sil’s outfit was, and exquisitely sewn, it didn’t seem to be quite as trendy as everyone else’s... had there been a sale on for black silks and satins? Plus, it was getting a bit warm in here - or maybe that was down to the fact Silendris had just necked their alcoholic coffee. Their pupils widened immediately.

“We feel GREAT,” they announced enthusiastically to nobody in particular. “Would anyone like to see our figurines?”

Delight sparked in Taeth's eyes as Frost came out from behind the counter to look her over fully, and she couldn't help the blush which crept up her neck as he praised her tailoring skills. She'd not truly had a chance to show him more than any of her most basic work until now.

"Wouldn't you mean we make a ravishing murder?" she grinned, gaze dropping to his side, following the movement of his fingers. "I do believe a murder of crows is plural, after all."

At Írimë's comment about the Black Market tailor, though, she merely laughed. "They could certainly try to copy my work." Any attempted mimicry of the crow that took only mere hours would be a poor imitation, indeed.

Zarâm wandered in then, and Taeth gave the orc woman a smile right before Frost kissed her then went to greet the orc. Taeth turned back to Sil, and gave an amused smile as they cried WHERE?! more than a little incredulously over the knowledge of a hidden blade.

Taeth took a sip of her foamy, spiked drink, her eyes glittering. Slowly, she licked the foam off her upper lip before responding to Sil. "It is a hidden blade," she answered. "If I showed you where, that would spoil the fun."

"Pa-what, excuse me? Pajamas? Fascinating concept," Zôr had said with disinterest when one of the locals explained the idea of "attire one wears while sleeping." The topic had arisen when the other informed her of the upcoming party at On the Rocks. The last time she'd been to the pub (not counting the numerous stops during hide and seek games with Frost, which had been both furtive and delicious), it had been to torment hobbits. Tonight's theme seemed . . . fluffier. She hadn't been sure what in her wardrobe might suit for such an occasion, but she did her best.

Warm light from inside the bar fell over her when she opened the door and stepped inside. Her pale skin glowed and the smooth fabric clinging to her form shone lustrously. She was dressed from head to foot - well, no, not quite, not everything from head to foot was covered, but still, you get the idea - in black silk, as usual. The outfit had actually been the work of about fifteen minutes' quick crafting with a luxurious silk sheet imported from the East, her dagger, and some delicately tied knots.

From one of the narrow ends of the sheet, she had cut a long strip about the width of two hands for use as a top. She had draped it over her neck, crossed it in front of her throat, and wrapped the trailing ends around her chest before tying them behind her back, where the remaining wisps of silk hung and drew the eye to the spot where her low back swayed outward. The rest of the sheet had been folded in half once, twice, three times until it was a suitable size to tie around her waist, creating a long skirt with a slit up to her hip. The silk was liquid against her skin, just as it had been when she'd stretched out on the large bed upon which it had been spread.

The room was filled not with the metallic tang of hobbit blood tonight, but with an aroma that immediately suggested to her the idea of cozying up with someone for a long period of hibernation. The source of the smell was a steaming vat behind the bar, so she made a beeline for it, eager to try some of whatever had sent the intoxicating scent into the air. She saw many familiar faces as she swept across the room, Silendris in a bumflap onesie, Frost in matching black silk, Taethowen wearing something elaborate that was decidedly not pajamas, Zarâm in clothes that belied her fellow fire-starter's true interests . . . It was all a lot, so Zôrzimril delayed greeting anyone in favor of first procuring a beverage. She walked silently on soft black sandals, beloved for the ease with which she could kick them off without a thought, preferably whilst being pulled into someone's bed. At the bar, Zôr nodded to the proprietress, noting the way the woman's pajamas clung to her curves in much the same way Zôr's improvised outfit did to her own.

"Good evening," Zôr said, leaning an arm against the bar and speaking to Írimë. "Be a dear and ladle me a glass of whatever is in that vat, won't you?" Perched delicately on her seat, she crossed her legs so that, thanks to the slit in her skirt, one long leg was visible nearly in its entirety.

Several alarming crashes and clatters sounded from the alleyway outside On the Rocks, a moment after which the door burst open (volcano be damned) to reveal a rather bedraggled-looking haelend. She smelled strongly of horse and sun-baked grass, and wore a high-necked and long-sleeved nightgown, the hem of which brushed her ankles. Attempts had obviously been made to clean it, but it was indelibly mud-stained and tattered, almost as if someone had worn it to wander the length and breadth of the Riddermark in an ill-conceived Cavalry exercise.

Or something like that.

"I'mhere, I'mhere, Imadeitforwork," Thali blurted out to Irime. By rights she ought to have shown up well before the door opened, to fire the ovens and get a few things prepped for the day, but...it was hard to be 8 places at once. Just getting there at all had been rather a nightmare.

At the sight of the pub's inhabitants Thali froze on the threshold, her face going beet red.

"Well of all the--" she muttered to herself, before storming across the large room, nearly tripping over several large poufs and stacks of blankets on her way. Ducking around behind the bar, she swept into the kitchen and slammed the door shut behind her.

"--JUST TOO MUCH OF EVERYONE. WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO LOOK WHEN--" she could be heard muttering loudly to herself. There came a clamorous sound of pots and pans, followed by the smell of a charcoal fire, after which Thali reappeared in the doorway.

"If you want food, I'll make it to order," she told the inhabitants of the pub in general, keeping her eyes resolutely fixed on the floor. "Just...slide a note under the door or shout, or something. Meanwhile, I'm baking a cake. I'll have one of the snagas bring it out when it's ready."

With that, she vanished again, and the muttering resumed.

"--SHOULD HAVE KNOWN, SHOULDN'T I? DEAD BODIES ARE FINE, I DON'T MIND THEM, BUT LIVING ONES ARE JUST--"

More clatters. A smell of something dark, rich and sweet, and "OH, WELL THAT'S RATHER NICE, I THINK."

Grobby, kobold, they/them (or he/him when he finally figures that out)

There was initial a subtle shuffling noise from close behind the agar as it was fired up, then to its side the gentle clinking of glasses and the creaking of wood being forced into shapes it would prefer not to, but on this occasion reluctantly inclined. Quiet noises that might have been overlooked if one was banging pans and shouting curses. Then a small, red-scaled, lizard-like creature wriggled out from beneath a narrow gap beneath one of the cupboards with great effort, uhffing and huffing as it did so. Eventually, it managed to extricate itself and stood up on its hind legs in the manner of a humanoid, yawning and stretching its little clawed arms into the air, its open mouth baring row upon row of vicious. It blinked its wide eyes, rubbed them with fists, and re-adjusted to concave segment of grey egg-shell that rested on its head in the manner of a hat, a little more snugly that it had the day before. At its side it gripped a dirty tea-towel much in the manner of a comfort blanket, but it was otherwise entirely naked - not a hint of stitch or cloth covered its scaled body.

It glanced about, a little upset by the shouting of its Momma who appeared to be in a very angry mood, the noise having woken it from its afternoon nap after the earlier exciting events of the day. It pattered on little clawed feet to the kitchen door, opened it a crack and glanced out into the main room of the pub beyond, its eyes glancing from face to face looking for one in particular. "Pop-pop?" it said querulously in its high-pitched, scratchy voice, before taking a few steps into the room, hugging its tea-towel close and looking around nervously as it peered around from behind a stool. "Pop-pop Broom Broom?" It glanced at Taeth momentarily, the turned away dismissively when she was not the person they sought. They spotted Zarâm dressed in a colourful outfit that would definitely require further inspection later, and offered her a toothy smile that might have been a greeting, or might have been a grimace, or both. But continued to peer around the space seeking out that one super special person that they sought comfort from after their unexpectedly abrupt wake-up.

Silendris, they/them

They leaned in slightly closer to Taeth, eyes travelling her body. No obvious lumps or bumps. Perhaps the crow’s beak was a disguised blade somehow? Hmmm. “We do hope we get to find out where it is,” they said, enthusiastically, forgetting to specify that this definitely wasn’t an invitation for Taeth to stab Silendris.

At this point Zorz and Thali entered, almost together. Silendris’ eyebrows shot up appreciatively at the ... black satin bedsheet? and Thali’s Angry Waif ensemble, compounded by much muttering as the latter strode into the kitchen. “Do you need a hand?” they yelled after Thali helpfully. They were fairly expert on dead bodies after all.

The pub was starting to fill up with both old and new faces. And everyone seemed to be embracing the unique theme of the evening. Soon after Zarâm had made her interest, Frost approached her and kissed her hand. "I figured after the adventures with the horse lords, I might was well embrace my travels through my clothing. And whatever do you mean by rainbows flying? It sounds very adventurous."

An individual that Zarâm did not recognise (The Whisperer) walked into the bar and complimented her on the look, though Zarâm narrowed her eyes. Something about this woman was a little off putting, in the best of ways. Whether it was a true compliment or an insult was yet to be determined, but she would be wary of this woman for the rest of the evening. Strangers in the pub were always a cause for concern.

Though it did not take long for a very disgruntled Thali to show up and storm into the kitchen, muttering something about dead bodies. Before Zarâm could call out to her friend, the woman disappeared into the kitchen and considering the woman's mood, it was probably unwise to follow her. Though she was temporarily distracted by the reappearance of the creature Grobby. The creature smiled, or perhaps snarled, up at her. Zarâm gave it a curt nod, still not entirely certain how to interact with it, before turning towards the bar. She had already been in the pub for far too long without procuring a drink.

"Give me some of that coffee drink, Frost" she said with a grin, "though is there an alcohol you could mix with that?" While waiting for a drink, she chanced a look around and noticed that her pyromaniac friend from Rohan (Zor) was also present in the bar. Things were sure to be interesting tonight, though hopefully the crebain would stay away from her eyeballs (and hopefully the entire pub) this evening.

Caladlethril, pretending to be Nazâris


Caladlethril hid among the rocks near the On the Rocks Tavern, the site of her failure, and considered her next move. She had had absolutely no idea what she was getting into when she had decided to infiltrate Mordor, what was she thinking? A memory from long ago tickled at the back of her mind. Estë, chiding her for never thinking things through.

Well, Caladlethril saw the Valar's lack of impusliveness as a weakness. Sometimes, when you had a feeling, you just needed to act on it. And her feelings had led her here, to this pub. And...pajama night. She hadn't even known people in Mordor wore pajamas.

Cala had spent her time since her last appearance at the pub traveling around as discretely as possible, trying to get a good look at the other humans that were allied with Mordor. She had a pretty good idea of what she wanted to look like now, and held up a mirror to finish putting her illusion together. Plucky, her temporary lizard familiar crawled into her lap, peering at himself suspiciously. "It's just a mirror, Plucky," she gently told him, and set him down so she could do finishing touches. She invoked her magic as a member of the Istari, and watched as the illusion rippled up her body. Her skin changed from fair to a dark, almond color, and she watched as waves of dark, thick hair appeared on her shoulders, hanging to her waist. This particular kind of illusion, one she specialized in, was one that would give anyone who touched her the sensation that what they were touching was real, as well. They would feel her hair as if it was really there, something that had taken her ages to figure out, and she was quite proud of it. She applied some rouge to her lips, batting dark brown eyes at the mirror, admiring her features. She'd never been pretty on her own, but the face that stared back at her was beautiful. Satisfied with her work, she quickly undressed and slipped on a small top that fell to her belly button made of soft cotton, held up by two small straps over her shoulders and low cut in the front. The dark green fabric looked lovely against her skin, and matched the grey cotton shorts that she pulled on to match. It was hot in Mordor, after all. She tucked her other clothes and Plucky into her small satchel, then entered the pub like she had just happened to walk by and decided a drink sounded nice.

As it was, something smelled absolutely divine. She couldn't ever recall a scent more welcoming, and likely would have stopped for the smell alone. She recognized several of the faces as she entered the pub, walking confidently towards the bar (and that smell!) though she'd have to take care to keep from acting like she knew anyone. She scanned the room, noting the other patrons.

Nazâris' jaw nearly dropped when she saw the nightgown (if you could call it that) that Taethowen was wearing. She hadn't seen craftsmanship that fine outside of the elves. It was all she could do to keep from staring at it, wondering how long it took to craft such a beauty. Grobby was there too, clutching a dirty rag that made her heart pang with some kind of motherly feeling. She suddenly felt the desire to bring that poor kobold a toy. Perhaps she could arrange for one to be brought for her next appearance.

Nazâris recognized Zarâm as well, and noted the pattern and coloring with a shock. Truth be told the pattern was quite cute. Nazâris strode up to the bar, where Frost and Irimë were lounging. Nazâris inwardly sighed as she saw the two in their themed attire. Was there anyone in this pub who wasn't attractive? It was almost unfair, and sure to be distracting. Even Zô's outfit was positively fetching.

"I couldn't help but smell that delightful concoction you've brewed," she remarked, nodding her head towards the cauldron and sliding a coin across the bar at the same time. "I'd love to get my hands on a mug of that. What's it called?" She batted her lashes in what she hoped was a confident way at Irimë. "I'm Nazâris. My crew just finished delivering a shipment to the Black Markets, so we decided to stay here a few days to relax. The dry heat does wonders for my complexion." She smiled at Frost, Taethowen, and Zôr as she took a stool at the bar and helped herself to a marshmallow. "I have to say," she commented towards Taethowen, "That might be one of the lovliest outfits I've seen yet. The wings on the crow in particular are amazing. How did you come by such a thing?"

“And what a murder we would make,” Frost said, emphasizing every word with a wicked grin and a playful snarl at Taeth’s comment. It was true after all though he had a few more corvids about his person that she did, unless there was somewhere special she had placed one and he simply hadn’t found it yet. He looked her over once with an appreciative but lecherous eye and a waggle of his brow, laughing softly at his own thoughts.

“Would anyone like to see our figurines?”

The familiar sultry buzzy voice of Sil count his attention just as he was about to turn (how they managed to be sultry and buzzy was a mystery but, this was Mordor and his was not the question why, but to do and hopefully not die). Figurines? Frost scrunched his brow a moment, trying to remember what they were… oh! Right. The corner of his lip curled upward in a sort of half smile. “I would love to see them. How have they been doing since I last say them? Any new developments?”

Again, something caught his eyes, a flash of silk and movement at the front of the pub. And in walked Zôr. Unconsciously, Frost’s eyes swept over her form and he inhaled sharply. Hellooooooo! In his brief glance at her, he couldn’t quite tell what it was that she was wearing. Was that a… yes! It was. There were patterns in the silk that he thought he recognized. Absently, his fingers traced the lines in the air. He knew where those sheets had come from. He thought they looked much better wrapped and tied around her in that sexy toga than they had previously. He winked as she went straight to the bar.

Finally though, his attention returned to Zarâm, the wonderful orc whom he had gotten to know quite well over the past few weeks. She had proven herself quite a valuable asset. She had wit, brains, and was fast on her feet. She was unlike nearly all the orcs Frost had gotten to know. However, her response to his overture confounded him for a moment. “You’re grow more and more mysterious every time we meet Zarâm. I never took you for someone with much innocence.” He kissed her hand again and released. Perhaps she was merely being coy or perhaps she was being genuine and he did not wish to embarrass the orc in the midst of a pub full of people. He had learned long ago that angering orcs or their kindred type could be very, very dangerous. He looked back down at his arm as the thought passed through his mind. “A coffee you say? With a little bit of something extra?” he chuckled impishly. “Coming right up.” He made his way behind the bar, scooching past Írimë as he did so. “Excuse me love, got work to do and all that.” He ladled the coffee into a ceramic mug, measuring it out just so there would be room enough for a dollop of… He turned and looked at the accoutrement of the bar, examining the hard liquor until he found one that made his chuckle evilly. He measured out a shot of a Screaming Nazgûl and poured it into the coffee. “Let me know what you think of that,” he said scooting it across the bar to the orc.

No sooner had he performed the delicate task than Thali, looking maybe a little worse for wear (but still delightfully effervescent), burst into pub, seemed to have a grand nervous reaction to everyone’s garb (granted, there was a lot of flesh tonight), and disappeared into kitchen. “Hello to you too, dearie!” He shouted.

“Pop-pop Broom Broom?”

The sound of the familiar, adorably squeaky voice, accompanied by the clickclickclick of taloned claws on stone meant only one thing: Grobby was awake. Frost bit his lip and furrowed his brow. The tiny kobold sounded in a measure of distress. Frost’s mind flashed back to the last time the kobold seemed distressed by something, Frost had ended up killing a particularly greasy merchant. His muscles went taunt for a moment, his body already anticipating action. “Grobby? Grobby, are you okay? Come here, little one. Let me see you.”

Before the kobold responded, two new patrons entered the bar a few moments apart. One of them (The Whisper) he could have sworn he’d seen before. He searched his memory and came up with vague notions of a woman hunting thieves or something like that but memories could be funny things around here. She seemed confidently aware of her surroundings enough that suggested she had been here before but Zarâm’s visible reaction to her made him think otherwise, the orc wasn’t overly fond of strangers. “What can I do for you, fair lady?” He asked congenially, giving the woman a classic Frost disarming smile (it had indeed served to disarm a few opponents in the past).

The last to enter (at least on this round) was someone Frost was sure he’d not seen before(“Nazâris”). She looked confident enough, as she entered. Maybe she was a patron he had just missed the last time. Last night (or was it weeks ago, he couldn’t really tell) had been a bit of a blur of feathers and blood (there was also the craban and the glass of Elf Blood but that was immaterial). He saw Grobby dart past in a blur of red scales and clattering claws and expected the woman to at least look in shock them but she seemed unperturbed. Had he seen her before? No. No, surely not. “Some coffee?” asked in response to her question. “Not a problem.” He ladled out another cup of the delicious brew (Írimë really owed a debt to Thali for bringing this along with her) and handed it to the woman. “Just in from the Black Markets eh? See any vampires? I heard a rumor that a few of them lurk in the larger warehouses.”

Grobby, kobold, they/them (or he/him when he finally figures that out)

The conversations in the pub were continuing on with little concern for the young kobold who was growing increasingly distressed at not having located Pop-pop. And then, at last, a familiar voice could be heard "Grobby? Grobby, are you okay? Come here, little one. Let me see you.” The little patter of clawed feet became a scrambling of enthusiasm as Grobby quickly rounded a stool and charged straight at Frost, wrapping its arms about his knees and burying its face into him in a happy hug of relief at having found him. "Grobby had nightmare Pop-Pop got bitted by snakes, and Grobby got angry, then Pop-Pop was sad." The little creature leaned back to consider the tall, handsome man with big, round eyes filled with remorse and regret; completely ignoring all the other denizens of the pub. "Grobby not want Pop-pop sad. Grobby love Pop-Pop; Grobby fight all the snakies and make then go away. Make Pop-Pop happy?" They finished in a timid little voice, little hands reaching up towards Frost, opening and closing its little hands in a plea to be picked up and cuddled.

"And what a murder we would make," Frost said as he eyed her again with heated emphasis. His gaze was less admiration now and more pure, physical greed, and desire slithered down Taeth's spine. He was thinking of something, and she would have to pry it from him later, though she doubted it would be much of a chore.

Then he had to step away--he was working, after all--and Taeth took a deep breath to calm herself as she continued speaking with Silendris. Taeth hadn't missed the entrance of the next person (The Whisper) who didn't seem to know anyone there, even as Silendris ogled her further as they said, "We do hope we get to find out where it is!" and Taeth wondered how literally they meant that.

Another woman (Zôr) made her entrance--pajamas clearly improvised from bed sheets--and this was a face familiar to Taeth (and a mouth), but she never had found out the woman's name during their brief encounter in Rohan. Or... the strange surreal experience of Hoppit Darts. But as she watched the woman peruse the room and then head straight to the bar, a curious bit of speech crept into her mind. Well, darling, I'm Númenórean, too. So I hope that means I also count as yours. Curious indeed... and Taeth began to ponder some possibilities.

Her pondering was interrupted, though, by Thali's... abrupt arrival. And nearly as abrupt exit, at least into the kitchen. Taeth had nearly forgotten that Frost said Thali also worked at the same pub. But she felt a wave of sympathy for her friend, taking in her nightgown. Not just for the state of the nightgown, but... Thali was going to get awfully warm working in that get-up in the kitchen. Thali's consternation with them all amused her a bit, though. It wasn't like she and Thali hadn't skinny dipped in a river together rather recently, or that the hælend hadn't tended to Frost's bruised--broken?--ribs at her infirmary. So Taeth laughed softly, took another sip of her delightful drink, and made a mental note to make some more appropriate nightgowns for Thali once they were back home. Chances were that Thali was wearing her only nightgown, anyway, and that just wouldn't do.

There were a few more quiet moments, sipping at her boozy pumpkin drink and realizing that the bitterness underneath it all was akin to the drink that Allacan had shared with her that morning after the fires, where Taeth observed Frost--flirting with everyone, and she merely sighed as there was nothing she could do about that for the time being--and then watched him, curiously, as he became almost... paternal with the little lizard-like creature (Grobby) that she'd last seen eating snakes.

A second new face (Nazâris) entered the pub, then, but... something was odd about her behavior. She looked normal enough--tanned skin, long dark, wavy hair, beautiful face--but... something. She seemed very comfortable in these surroundings, and of course Taeth wasn't one to know who was a regular and who wasn't around here, but her suspicious proved correct when the woman introduced herself, and then mentioned making a delivery to the Black Markets. That... seemed odd. One didn't usually walk into a pub and introduce themselves to all the patrons at once, let alone announce their business. And she noted that Frost didn't flirt with this one, and Taeth found herself nonchalantly setting her mug down on the bar, just in case she might need to use her hidden blade after all.

Nazâris turned to her, then, though, and Taeth could see true admiration in her eyes as she spoke. "I have to say, that might be one of the loveliest outfits I've seen yet. The wings on the crow in particular are amazing. How did you come by such a thing?"

Taeth's smile was genuine, even as she kept her guard up. "Oh, I made this," she answered, glad that she had a skill she could talk about freely outside of Rohan, unlike being a Marshal of the Mark. "I'm a seamstress by trade. Would you be interested in something similar for yourself?"

Silendris

Figurines! Of course Frost wanted to see the figurines. Who wouldn’t want to? With a delighted smile Silendris delved into their pockets and produced them: two mop headed little puppets and a wooden pony, now holding a smaller amount of candy (Genuine Product Of Rohan).

“This play,” they began importantly, “is about a Balrog, his mother, and True Love. Or - no wait, is it the one about cheese?”

It was too hot to think in here! Silendris plucked at the front of their one-piece and surreptitiously unbuttoned it a bit. Everyone in here was already so half-clothed they didn’t think anyone would notice. And this coffee, whilst invigorating, was HOT. Hot as blood, without being blood. Disappointing.

“Frost- get us some cold drinks, could you?” they asked plaintively.

Their eyes narrowed in green annoyance as that creature Grobby wandered up and began distracting the serving wench with CUDDLES. Even Taeth had better manners than to do that when Frost was on the job, and Silendris was fairly certain she had caught the two of them snuggling before.

(Mind you, Silendris had caught Frost snuggling all sorts, not just kobolds and attractive Rohirrim, but even the occasional tree trunk and sometimes some of the more attractive orcs when he was drunk. (The attractiveness of orcs is a subjective topic on which Silendris’ narrator will submit an essay later.))

Another besatchelled woman entered the pub and introduced herself as Nazaris, a trader of some sorts, sliding in to compliment Taeth’s snazzy outfit. Silendris leaned over.

“We couldn’t interest you in buying a one piece, could we?” they suggested hopefully.

It had been quite a long few minutes. Whatever was in that vat behind the bar was still sending its intoxicating aroma into the air, and Zôr was practically bursting to try it. She rolled her eyes at the lack of service and drummed the fingers of one hand against the obsidian countertop, wondering why on earth she still didn't have a drink. She was a paying customer like anyone else! . . . Even if it wasn't apparent where she kept her coin in this very minimal outfit.

It was probably time, she realized, to say hello to some old friends. She grinned at Zarâm in her altogether uncharacteristic pajamas. "My dear, you must regale me with the story behind this outfit," she said with a grin. "I know you to be a fan of far more sinister things than fluffy ponies."

Just then, Thali burst into the pub wearing a soiled and tattered nightgown and grumbling about all the exposed skin. Zôr laughed; she had not expected that a little flesh would bother this healer, who had been so quick to shove her honey-coated fingers into Zôr's mouth on one admittedly strange occasion. But, on the whole, these Rohirrim were strange and flighty. Númenóreans, on the other hand . . . she grinned when Frost passed on his way to the bar and winked at her. Númenóreans were quite predictable.

"Can you fix me something with honey, love?" Zôr shouted after Thali as the cook retreated into the kitchens.

More people had entered the pub and from different directions. Grobby emerged from the kitchens (mercifully not breathing fire at the moment; Zôr did not want to find out how all this silk would handle the heat), while another person by the name of Nazâris with waist-length hair joined the group at the bar. Zôr idly examined the ends of her long hair and half-listened as Nazâris and Taethowen chit-chatted about tailoring and clothes. It wasn't that Zôr didn't appreciate fine garments - quite the opposite, in fact. It was just that she'd come here for a good time, and discussing sewing was decidedly not her idea of a good time. Even Frost joined in on the smalltalk, though her ears pricked and her eyebrows rose with curiosity at the mention of vampires. She thought maybe she had seen one in passing once, huge and yellow-eyed.

Zôr pounced on a lull in the conversation. It wouldn't do to exchange only smoldering looks with the handsome bartender. "Hello darling," she purred, leaning forward against the bar on both elbows. "How have you been? Back doing alright?" She smirked saucily and smoothed her makeshift skirt. "Would you be so kind as to pour me a mug of that strange concoction? I promise not to spill any on the sheets. I know how you like to keep the bedclothes, er, relatively clean."

“Mmm, i should prefer a congress of ravens, myself,” Írimë murmured to no one in particular, though she lowered one of her hooded eyelids fractionally in Frost’s direction. A newcomer entered then (The Whisper) clad in fashion that scarcely deserved the name (was that plaid?) but who seemed to immediately gravitate towards the person with dress sense most closely resembling her own- Zarâm. Before Írimë could make an effort to greet her news patron however, an entirely more distracting figure oozed into the pub, slinking across the floor in a manner that echoed to sinuous syllables of her name. Zôrzimril had arrived, and as fortune would have it, propped herself up on a seat at the bar. But again, before the Pubmistress could attend her, the door banged open, and Thalionwen rushed in, looking entirely too distracted for Mordor. She was in her nightie, which made Írimë sure she was aware of this evening’s theme, but the Rohir’s face blazed red as she looked upon the other inhabitants of the pub. Perhaps she was simple unused to the kinds of nightwear people seemed possessed to dress themselves in when invited to do so in the Black Land?

Whatever her motivation, Thali disappeared into the kitchen, which immediately began issuing delightful smells- which was all Írimë could ask for, really. By the time she looked away from the commotion, another patron had entered (Nazâris), and quite fetching at that. Really, all her customers were quite attractive come to think about it- perhaps someone or other had blessed the On the Rocks with some kind of Fancy Magic for the night. “It’s called Pumpkin Spice,” Írimë replied to this last newcomer, as Frost slid behind her to dole out mugs of the delicious concoction to all those who had asked, “But I feel there’s something missing from the end of the name. I am open to suggestions.” She slid the coins into her pocket and, leaving Frost to deal with The Whisper and Silendris, she bashed him with her hip to take his place in front of Zôrzimril.

“Well, well, well, now,” Írimë drawled, handing over a mug of the spicy, pumpkin-y coffee to the silken-sheet-clad woman, “You are a pretty piece, aren’t you? I was hoping to get a feel of those sheets myself, and look, you’ve brought them to me.” She nudged the mug into place with one perfectly manicured nail, and tilted her head to one side as she leaned an elbow on the bar, her dark chestnut curls bouncing down to skim its obsidian surface. “I suspect,” the Pubmistress purred, dropping her lingering gaze to Zôrzimril’s torso, “that if one pulled in just the right place, it would all come slithering off. And I am ever so good with knots.” Her eyes flicked back up to the other woman’s face, the gold flecks in the left sparkling with mischief.

No sooner had Frost called out to Grobby than the little red kobold scurried around the corner, looking very, very upset. They began to rapidly relate the nightmares they had the night before. The Númenórean furrowed his brow. “Those sounds like very bad dreams, little one,” he said and picked Grobby up, setting them on his shoulder so he could continue to work. “Well your Pop-Pop is safe and well, bad dreams are scary though. Have you had something to eat yet?” It suddenly occurred to Frost that outside of spiders and snakes, he had no idea what Grobby would eat. There was time to figure that out later though, duty still called.

Silendris was about to begin a puppet show and Frost was genuinely curious as to how it was going to play out. The things produced by the dual personalities within Silendris could produce things of great absurdity or great horror, and there was no hint as to which one it was going to be until you were smack in the middle of their stories. “So… a balrog, his mother… and true love. Not with each other though, right? Oh! Cheese. Why not true love with cheese?” He leaned over the bar, making sure to keep Grobby from toppling over, and whispered to Sil conspiratorially, “You know, I happen to know that true love and cheese are intricately connected. You really can’t have one without the other. And, now that you mention it,” he pulled himself back across the bar and, looking back between Írimë and Zôr, “It is getting a bit hot in here. Something cold to drink…” Frost pondered for a moment, placing a finger over his lips and mumbling to himself. “Coffee… cold… sweet… If you’ll give me a moment dearie I will be right back.” He bounded into the kitchen, passed a still very flustered but at least very busy Thali and found the ice chest (because handwavingmagic). Using the ice pick, he chipped off a cup full, examined it with a critical eye and nodded. “What do you think Grobby? Enough ice? Where is the sugar in here? And the cream? Does Írimë have cream in here? She must, right?” He smirked as the phrase ‘like the cat that got the cream’ passed through his mind. Having all of his materials, he burst back out of the kitchens and with various amounts of flourishing, flips, twirls, and spins of spoons, glasses, and ice cubes he produced a new concoction: an iced coffee. “What do you say to this, darling?”

As soon as he finished with the presentation of his new beverage, he moved to Zôr, bedecked in her bedsheet toga (technically the bedsheet wasn’t hers, but he wasn’t going to be a stickler for details). “Hello yourself,” he said in the smokiest voice he could bring to bear, “it’s been so dull without you. I never thought there could be so little do around here when there’s no one to grill snakes and green chile with.” Írimë broke in at that moment, commenting on the bedsheet toga and Frost grinned evilly, without breaking eye contact with Zôr. “That is a theory we will have to put to the test later, or sooner. Preferably sooner.” He cocked his head to one side and the grin expanded, there was a glint in the ocean blue eyes that suggested he knew a few knots he’d like to start unraveling.

"Pumpkin Spice," Zôr echoed to herself when Írimë told another patron the name of the enchanting, hot beverage. "Pumpkin Spice, hmm, Lava, perhaps?" she mused. Hmm, no. That didn't sound quite right. Zôr shrugged and watched, amused, as Silendris acted out what appeared to be a cautionary tale with figurines and Frost rushed around to create an iced Pumpkin Spice with Grobby perched on his shoulders.

She smiled playfully when Frost came over, then leaned forward to rest her chin on one hand, the bare skin of her pale arms on full display. "I'm sorry to hear it's been so dull, darling. But that was quite the combination," she murmured, eyes sparkling as she recalled both how the green chile had complemented the biting flavor of the sizzling lava snake and the actvities that had followed on from that particular meal. "Just let me know the next time you want a repeat."

The pubmistress finally approached to attend to Zôr. The Númenórean arched an eyebrow with interest and reciprocated Írimë's exploratory gaze. The Southron woman's satin pajamas slid across her form in such a way that left little to the imagination. Zôr breathed in the scent of her hair. "That's the general idea," she replied. "You're both most welcome to try." She gestured vaguely to the knot securing the sheet at her hip and the one behind her back. "As there are two separate knots, I do hope we won't have any arguments over who gets first pull." Here, she returned Frost's gaze and reached over the bar to touch a sharp cheekbone. "But believe me, if I wanted this sheet to stay put, it would. I know how to tie the appropriate knots, as you may recall."

Zôrzimril moved to lift her mug to her lips but paused. "Is there any alcohol in this?"

Silendris

True love with cheese! Tiny hearts appeared in Silendris’ eyes. This was the perfect story.

---

NARRATOR: There once was a cheesemonger, who went out a-walking one fine summer’s day, when the ash was falling and the sun was shrouded and all was well within the land.

MOPHEAD ONE: hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny

NARRATOR: He espies a fair maiden! She is on fire.

MOPHEAD TWO: grAWWR! Fee, Fie, Fo, Fum; I smell the cheese of a cheesemonger?

MOPHEAD ONE: O maiden fair, I must tell thee: thou art aflame!

MOPHEAD TWO: Indeed I am, and so shalt thou be before long!

MOPHEAD ONE: Aye, afire with love, o beauteous one!

MOPHEAD TWO: (pauses) Thou really thinkest me pretty?

MOPHEAD ONE: Yea, verily, like super pretty!

MOPHEAD TWO: aww that’s so sweet xoxoxo

(They embrace. MOPHEAD ONE also catches fire. So does NARRATOR’s hair. NARRATOR does not notice immediately)

MOPHEAD ONE: Alas! Lackaday! This fire is too hot for me!

MOPHEAD TWO: You’re just like all the rest! Flammable! This is why I can’t keep a boyfriend!

MOPHEAD ONE: (dramatically expires)

NARRATOR: And because the young cheesemonger died aflame with his basket full of bread and cheese, so was Toasted Cheese invented, and... Oh shire! We’re on fire! Help!

---

Silendris dashed the remnants of their hot coffee into their own face to put out the fire and screamed. Good job Frost had just brought them an iced version of the same.

Grobby, kobold, they/them (or he/him when he finally figures that out)

Pop-pop had picked them up and perched them on his shoulders (broad shouldered and strong was he, for Grobby had been swiftly putting on toddler wiehght). It was all the cuddles Grobby had hoped for AND some! They hooked their little clawed arms around his forehead and snuggled their pointy lizard-face into his hair, nervously shying away from any of the strangers who sought to peer in at it. It was a good position to be in; able to observe the goings on in the pub while being able to stay out of most of the fray, even getting a glimpse behind the curtain as to the magic workings that went on to keep the drinks fresh and cooled. They considered for a long moment when Frost enquired about the quantity of ice, before nodding in a sombre manner that was all the more adorable due to their young age. But Frost was already searching for sugar and cream, and licked their lips - anything that the pretty lady Írimë ate must be the best of all the best and thus Grobby wanted a taste. Frost then exited the kitchen and managed the miraculous feat of mixing a cocktail all the while juggling a small but not insubstantial kobold infant; quite an achievement even for the magical black-Numenorian. Not that the kobold complained; truth was Grobby rather enjoyed any odd rocking, shaking sensation of being bounced about - it felt like some sort of ride and made it purr in that strange, guttural, sounds-like-someone-has-a-cat-by-the-throat way, and after a while it cackled to itself and said quietly "Grobby be a cocktail!" It said to itself with all the conviction and delight of having had a brilliant idea!

After the energetic interruption of their previously sedate, elevated perch caused by Frost's rushing about on his duties, they had grown a little fidgety and awkward in the hands of the pub-server. Now suitably re-assured that their beloved Pop-pop had not been assaulted by snakes, it was not long before they had extricated themselves from his arms and their little clawed feet found themselves onto the top of the bar itself. There, between the rows of glasses and bottles, it started a strange sort of shuffling-dance, bending its knees up and down and bobbing its head as it tried to mimic the shaking of cocktails that it had witnessed the bar-staff doing on numerous occasions, albeit at a significantly slower pace. "Grobby cocktail for everyone!" its high-pitched squeaky voice declared between giggles as it bounced up and down in place, its little lizard tail bobbing around behind it and eyes closed in happy delight. "Drink up Grobby and eats your spiders and snakes and you grow into big kobold." Even the scream from Silendris did not distract them from their dance, but instead it interpreted it as encouragement and began hopping from one foot to the other. "Stick your straws in Grobby's skull, teehee. Scream for ears-cream." It echoed something only half-lodged in its genetic ancient memory and eyed the denizens of the pub, wondering who would reract to its offering.

OOC @Thalionwen Hunigfolm (Random question; what happened to Grobby's siblings eggs? Are they still sitting in the tavern or did they make it into the morning's omelette?)

Unfortunately (or, perhaps, fortunately), Taethowen didn't get to see Silendris' play or the fiery outcome. Just as it was beginning, through some cracked window or opened door, a rather singed looking pigeon flapped its way in, landing on the chair where Taeth had left her cloak.

Quietly excusing herself from Nazâris, she made her way back over there and noticed that the pigeon had a slip of parchment wrapped around its leg. She held out a hand, and the bird hopped up willingly, and she carefully untied the string holding the note in place. Taeth's brow furrowed when she saw that it was, strangely, addressed to her. And it was urgent.

With the note clutched in her hand, she set the pigeon on the back of a chair that did not contain her cloak, and then slipped the cloak back on. She glanced around the pub once more, gaze lingering on Frost for a just a moment, then picked the pigeon up again and headed out the door.

His eyes could not help but travel with delicious slowness over Zôr’s form as she described her skill at silk knots. A rumble formed in the back of his throat that could have been interpreted as a growl. He grinned and showed teeth. “Appropriate knots lead to inappropriate thoughts,” he said in a singsong voice. He traced a line down the Númenórean’s forearm with a light, tender touch (belying his lascivious intentions). He leaned back reluctantly, pulling a flask embossed with the image of a crow from under the bar. He shook it, making sure there was still a good amount of liquid inside, then unscrewed the top and poured a healthy dollop of whisky into Zôr’s pumpkin spice… concoction. “Better now?”

He was pulled away (reluctantly again) and watched Sil perform a short one-act play with the figurines but was quite pleasantly surprised. Where the fire had come from, he didn’t know but Frost appreciated practical effects, none of that nonsensical fake stuff added later. “Bravo Silendris! Bravo!” Frost actually clapped at the end, despite the rush of concern for their face. “That was fantastic darling, truly wonderful! Whose composition was that? Yours or Naokis’? Either way it was brilliant. I think it’s a shame there’s no theatre here in the Black Lands. If there was, you’d be a goddamned star! Though,” he paused and considered the state of their hair, “we might have to find another way for you to extinguish yourself should the fire get too out of control. Need another one?” he nodded toward the now empty coffee mug.

Grobby had jumped off his shoulder, Frost wasn’t sure when he’d done that but apparently now the little kobold was dancing around on the top of the bar. Frost’s eyes widened in consternation when he saw the claws clacking against the stone top. He let a sigh and chewed the inside of his cheek. “Grobby! No. No one is going to put straws in your skull today. That’s… not something we do.” At a loss for words, Frost picked up the kobold with two hands around his middle and deposited the kobold back on the ground. “Stay out of trouble.” He wagged a finger at the kobold, knowing it was utterly useless to tell Grobby to stay out of trouble. He stood up anyways and shook his head.

He returned to Zôr, leaning back over the bar’s top and gazing into her eyes. “To answer your previous question… I am dying for a repeat. I want to see just how strong those knots are,” he moved his fingers across the bar as if he were playing a violin for emphasis, “and maybe this time we can add a little Southron flavor to the dish?” His smile was wide and suggestive, he bit his bottom lip as he swung his gaze to Írimë. “What do you think?”

Fuin hearing there was a pajama party somewhere immediately went there. Dressed in a very baggy and loose Onesie type outfit. And to fit in better she had chosen one that was shaped like a bat. Completely with wings that attached from the sides all the way down to the cuffs of the sleeves. She also had fluffy bat slippers on and her very own fluffy spider pillow with lots of fur on it's big old abdomen she was sure there would be many a jealous minion in the pub as she flounced in happily with perhaps the biggest and most frightening smile anyone had ever seen. One should not smile that big in Mordor. It's unnatural.

Fuin didn't care and she hopped over to the food things and stuffed a pocket full of caramel drizzled popcorn and went to try this strange new drink. She sipped it and wrinkled her nose horrible. No no that would not do at all maybe once she had more to drink. She proceeded to the bar and got three Orquilla Sunrises and drank them rapidly and then headed to see who all ways here. Sil. She heard that name a few times and already feeling the effects of the Orquilla she narrowed one eye (The other was wide open and not paying attention to what she was trying to do) and tried to figure out which one was the real Sil there appeared to be three of them. She gave up on that and decided to go and look at the little thing that she thought was called Grobby. It looked sort of cute.

"Escuse me. Is your hairless parrot friendly?" She asked (Frost)

“Appropriate knots lead to inappropriate thoughts,” Írimë parroted Frost’s phrase, complete with a (very good, if she were to say so herself) imitation of his deep and singsonging voice. “What a charming turn of phrase. I knew I hired you for a reason.” She turned her gaze back on Zôrzimril as Frost meandered off to admire Silendris’s play- and the special effects were quite something Írimë had to admit, but she had a feeling that fireworks with Zôr would be even more spectacular. Frost clearly agreed, for when he returned he abandoned most pretenses of subtlety, and the Pubmistress had to laugh. “You’ve read my mind,” she purred in return, leaning sideways to plant her lips on his, freeing his lower one from the grip of his teeth with a soft pop as she pulled back, and simultaneously threw one hand across the bar to take hold of Zôr’s. “Do be a dear and just tidy up down here, won’t you?” Írimë called to frost with a wink, even as she slid out from behind the bar, pulling Zôrzimril by the hand along with her, fleeing the scene as a new customer (Fuin) came up to ask Frost about his “hairless parrot”. They quickly disappeared from the general view of the bar, through the kitchen (if Thali noticed, they didn’t hang around long enough for her to comment), and up the stairs that led to the chambers from which Írimë and Frost had so recently descended.



Meanwhile, an unusually quiet group was approaching On the Rocks on the ashy path outside. Unusually because they were normally an utterly raucous assembly, but they were under strict orders from Írimë to sneak their way to the pub. They were led by Khaulzîm, former Chamber Guard of the Dhâd Bûrz, current purveyor of Kangtar’s Korner in the Black Market, a devastatingly handsome Easterling with any number of hidden talents. He was garbed in a baggy pair of crimson trousers, tucked into the top of long black boots, and topped by the wide kidney belt strapped around his hips and waist, from one ring of which dangled the cat-o-nine tails of his former profession. It was his wont to go shirtless, but as part of the evening’s entertainment involved the removal of clothing, that was hardly fair. And so the rippling musculature of his lean torso was (partially) covered by a sleeveless deerskin jerkin, heavily embroidered with gold. His long, dark hair was braided here and there and partially covered by a red headscarf that matched tonight’s trousers; his neatly trimmed beard perfectly framed his chiseled jaw and it was a wonder that no one fainted as he went by. Khaulzîm had abandoned his lute for the evening, for there were other musicians in his party, and he had more important duties to attend.

The door to On the Rocks burst open before them, and the large party of Haradrîm burst in, the musicans among them at once beginning to strike up a raucous tune, discrupting the comparatively peaceful atmosphere of the tavern. “Isn’t this supposed to be a party, Írimë?!” Khaulzîm crowed as he bounded in- but the lush Pubmistress was taking off with an equally lush companion in tow, no doubt to a party of her own. He laughed in delight, and joined his fellows, who had all begun dancing wildly, gyrating about the room, on the floor, on chairs, on tables- just not on top of the specially prepared foodstuffs, for none of them wanted to be murdered. Khaulzîm himself, the righteous ringleader, vaulted onto the bartop itself, hands laced behind his head as he performed an outrageous body wave in time to the music. “Toss a coin to your minstrel, O valley of Udûn, O valley of Udûn!” he sang along provocatively to the song, hands descending to his chest and beginning to unbutton the jerkin. With a dramatic bursting forward of his glistening (a light application of oil at the start of the night never hurt) chest, Khaulzîm stripped off the jerkin and began to whirl it around above his head, looking for a likely admirer to toss it to, and nearly whacking the comely bartender Frost in the meantime. An accident? Maybe.

Silendris was desperately trying to wring the coffee out of their hair. Giving this up as a hopeless job, they fished in their iced coffee for some ice cubes (how had Frost managed to obtain these in Mordor? He must be well named) and applied them to their face. “Ow,” they whinged, to nobody in particular.

Their eyes narrowed greenly as Fuin came through the door, sporting a onesie. Bat-shaped. How dare she. This was not only a clear violation of patents jointly filed by Silendris and Taethowen, but it was clearly a more stylish onesie than Silendris’ own, although it didn’t look like it could match Sil’s for comfort: that is, when Silendris wasn’t in an unreasonably warm and sweaty tavern, and not completely drenched in coffee. Craning their neck, Silendris was attempting to see if Fuin also had the bumflap (which only gave the impression of the crudest ogling) when that ridiculous, no-good, self-obsessed but well-chiselled Khaulzîm burst into the pub with a troupe of his “friends”. With interest, Silendris recognised some of them from their own days adventuring on the docks. Surreptitiously they attempted to wipe more coffee out of their face.

Several of the minstrels began blasting an obnoxious but catchy tune. Oh! So people were taking clothes off, were they? Silendris smelled an opportunity (as well as the richest pumpkin spice). Sliding off their bar stool, they began unbuttoning their own drenched clothing with a manic expression, eyes fixed upon where Khaulzîm seemed likely to throw that jerkin. They added in some unnecessarily violent hip-swings for good measure and tossed their long, wet hair, sending a spray of coffee across the rest of the guests. “Oh Valley of Udûn!” they chorused, shrilly. Oh crud. Was this button sticking? RIP TIME.

Fuin for her part was happily wiggling her little bat butt (that yes indeed had a butt flap, complete with a wee thin point of a tail where the wings would have met were she a bat)at the bar debating on if she should have another Orquilla but decided on a Mordor mush as as she decided that the hairless parrot must be her imagination. She turned to listen to the music completely unaware of the strippers dancing around because she was a good little elf and because the Orquilla may have made her gone blind she wasn't entirely sure. No it was in fact the Orquilla and she was bopping around to the beat of the music happily when her elven blood finally got some of the Orquilla out of the sytsem aggravated by the fact she was still drinking it wasn't doing that good of a job and she almost ran smack into the very well oiled back of a haradrim.

"Oooooh my." She said and quickly stumbled back, unfortunately just in time to get a face full of hair coffee from Silendris and a button! HOW DID SILENDRIS get a button into her Mordor mush. She was angry and displeased. There was a nasty 'coffee' flavoured button in her drink though that might have come from the hair she wasn't sure. There was one place this now ruined Mordor Mush belongs and it was not in her gut. She went acquired a replacement for it and marched over to Sil who was still stripping out of her disturbing wet outfit to the joy of many a goblin and orc and haradrim and tossed the now offending drink at her glass and all.

A new customer (Fuin) flounced in (a lot of them seemed to be doing that these days, a new trend?) where something eerily like Sil’s besequinned onesie. Frost tilted his head to the side and was about to respond to her when Írimë pulled him aside and planted a deep, but brief, kiss on his hungry lips. He returned the kiss and watched the Southron take Zôr away, through the kitchens and, presumably, into Írimë’s private chambers. One did not need to be the Blood Hag of Umbar to read the lecherous thoughts that ran through the Númenórean’s mind as he watched the two of them go. Just a few things to finish up here and he’d be able to join them.

Unwillingly, Frost drew is attention away from the fleeing forms of his female companions, and back to the elf who ordered three orquilla sunsets in quick succession. He gave them to her, eyeing her up and down to gauge her reaction to the swiftly consumed alcohol. He did not have to wait long. She blearily referred to Grobby (at least Frost thought it was Grobby she was referring to, otherwise the innuendo would have been a bit lacking) as a hairless parrot. The left corner of his lip tinged upward in amusement along with his eyebrow. “A hairless parrot? That’s a new one. Never thought to call him something like that to his face. Be a dear and test it out for me? I’m sure he’ll just love it.”

Frost took out a rag and began to clean up the spilled coffee and remains of Sil’s play when who should walk in but Khaulzîm! The lecherous smile returned as Frost watched the Easterling announce his arrive in the most outrageous of fashions. Írimë had told him that Khaulzîm was coming over but he hadn’t expected his little puppy to be here so soon. He was delighted! He was even more delighted when the minstrels began to a loud, rowdy tune and his Easterling began to dance in a most provocative way. Toss a coin indeed! He reached into his black silk trousers and fished out a large golden Umbar coin. He flipped it over his knuckles a few times before bouncing it off the bar’s stone surface, off a clay jug filled with whisky, then off the wall before landing right into Khaulzîm’s (presumably) open hand. He’d manage to rid himself of the jerkin and now his exquisitely sculpted chest was on full display (and what a display it was!). The jerkin, Frost then realized, was flying his way, as was a spastically (or was that interestingly, Frost couldn’t quite tell in that moment) dancing Sil who looked in desperate need of a change of outfits. He caught the jerkin and used the momentum to pull the clothing behind his back, change hands, and continue the toss to Sil (who would presumably catch it and be grateful to the both of them). “Well, well!” he said with a hunger lilt to his voice. “If it isn’t my dandy lion! I pray that’s not the only thing you’ll be throwing to your snowman tonight.” Frost leaned forward and enjoyed the view. Normally, he was much taller than his lion but with the latter dancing on the bar top, he was treated to a very delectable view. He would have stayed and watched (and maybe a few other things as well) but something drew his attention away.

The elf was causing more trouble. She’d gotten another drink, where Frost couldn’t be certain. He, the bartender, certainly hadn’t supplied it, perhaps the elf had gotten over the natural distaste for orcs had ordered one from the snagas. He was about to roll his eyes and get back to something much more interesting when she proceeded to dump the icy concoction all over Sil. He swallowed hard. This was either going to end very poorly for the elf, or… well this was Mordor and who the hell knew how things would turn out. He thought elves were better at handling their alcohol but, this would teach him not to generalize in that regard. This one seemed worse than a newborn halfling. She had just dumped a slurry of ice and booze all over the one person who could just subsume her entire being.

“Khaulzîm, dear,” he said turning back to his gyrating companion with a wicked idea forming in his mind. “Exactly how good are you with knives? I might have a need.”

Zôr shivered pleasantly when Frost ran a finger down her arm. As he transferred some whiskey from his crow-bedecked flask into her mug, Zôr withdrew her hand from his cheek. She smiled coquettishly, pushing a lock of dark hair out of her face. "That's perfect, love," she said, raising the cup to her mouth. The creamy drink had a pleasant, rich spice to it that complemented the bite of the booze.

Silendris' lyrical chanting of "hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny" caught her attention, and she watched the play with interest then concern as flames bloomed on their person. An "Oh!" of surprise escaped her mouth and she lifted her own mug to help douse the fire, but before she could cast her coffee and booze (definitely a bad idea, now she thought about it) at them, the fire had gone out. Since it seemed they were unharmed, if a little damp with their own drink now, Zôr drank deeply to drain her mug.

With Frost's attention back on her and a suggestive smile on his lips, Zôr flushed. Silendris had a point - it did feel warm in here. "I think you'll find the knots give a bit easier tonight than they did last time," she said. She nodded her assent at the idea of adding some Southron flavor to a classic Númenórean recipe. Yes, that would be most delicious. She watched with amused interest as they kissed and without a word, slipped off her stool as Írimë caught her by the hand and pulled her through the kitchens and up the stairs.

As they crossed the threshold into Írimë's chambers, Zôr pulled back her hand to spin Írimë about, then stepped forward to cup the pubmistress' face in her hands before kicking the door soundly shut.

Silendris screamed. They had been watching Khaulzîm so intently that they had completely missed Fuin marching (well... weaving; the Elf didn’t seem to have a huge tolerance for Mordorian liquors) across the floor to hurl her Mush at Silendris.

First came the shockingly cold Orcquilla slush, sliding wetly down Silendris’ bare chest and disappearing into the shadowy depths of the onesie. Silendris screamed again at this point. One of their arms was still stuck.

Then came the glass, which bounced off Silendris’ collarbone and shattered on the floor with the sad little tinkle of wasted alcohol.

Silendris screamed again (less about the glass than about the wastage). Enraged, they tore off the last of the buttons and frantically wrestled their arm out of the onesie before whipping the entire wet, ruined garment bodily at Fuin.

“How dare you spill that liquor! Why couldn’t you have just knifed us like a civilised person?!” they demanded, stamping their foot and then screaming for the fourth or fifth time (Narrator isn’t counting). “Grobby, get your broom broom over here and sweep up,” Silendris shrieked, standing on one leg to dig a tiny shard of glass out of their shin. Frost obligingly threw Silendris Khaulzîm’s discarded jerkin at this point. It’s just as well, fetching as Silendris looks in their breechclout. Sullenly, they shuffled the jerkin on, casting a dagger-filled look at Fuin before returning to the bar: clad only in jerkin and said breechclout.

“So we’ll have another Screaming Ringwraith and some more of that warm spiced stuff,” they ordered.

Apparently the newly invented drink was stronger than expected. Zarâm managed to thank Frost for the delicious drink, which smelled deliciously like that new coffee with a hint of something extra. After taking a few sips, she needed to sit down due to the mere strength of the thing. Normally she was quite good at holding her alcohol, but she had asked for it to have a little something special this evening and like usual, Frost had delivered.

When she finally became aware of her senses again, somehow Taeth had disappeared, Grobby had reappeared, and apparently an elf had shown up. “First I show up in Imladris and now an elf shows up here,” she murmured, “since when has Middle Earth gotten so comfy with interracial travels?” She also had some vague ideas of having been asked questions about her choice of pyjamas. She glanced down at the unicorns and rainbows, which looked like they were dancing across her chest. “They is pretty,” she said with a huge grin, flinging an arm around the nearest inhabitant of the bar. “Unicorns are good at stabbing when they want to. And I love a good stabby. And rainbows mean love!” As she said the second sentence, Zarâm flung her arms wide open and whacked a newcomer right on the nose.

In her drunken stupor, she turned and glanced at the handsome (though sparsely dressed) man who currently had a bloody nose. “Hello dear!” she said, jumping up and grabbing him around the shoulders, “sorry about the nose, but one can never be too careful in a pub.”

By this point in the evening, Zarâm had hardly any idea what was going on, except for the fact that she simply wanted to have a good time and all these handsome men (and probably woman, but she had no clue) certainly made that a likely possibility. With a shake of her head, in the vain hope of brining back some of her senses, she turned back to the handsome male, who was still bleeding rather profusely from his nose. “A little blood never hurt anyone,” she said, “though Írimë will have your head if you get blood all over the floor. Be a dear and get cleaned up. I’ll be waiting for you.” She gave a sly wink and wriggled just a bit. Naturally her choice of pyjama wear was not as provocative as others, but sometimes leaving things to the imagination made it all the better.

OOC: (Anyone can be the person Zarâm grabbed if desired. I’m writing this post after having quite a bit of wine, so I really don’t know what is going on)

Grobby, kobold, they/them (or he/him when he finally figures that out)

Grobby turned at Pop-pop's words that putting straws in skulls wasn't something these people did, and blinked at Frost. He wriggled a little as he was lifted from the bar, trying to sneak in a hug from Pop-pop as he was moved from the top of the bar to the floor, and then considered the waggling fingers and the words 'Stay out of trouble' with big, wide eyes. "Trouble, yes." the little creature echoed with a nod that would make anyone suspicious as to whether it had actually grasped the concept of what Frost had been saying, before scurrying away on its little clawed legs that scittered and pattered on the wooden floor, disappearing into the growing crowd as a group of entertainers (Khaulzîm and Co) entered the pub.

A few minutes later and the small lizard-like infant could be seen pushing a slightly too long brush around the pub floor, singing happily away to itself "Tossy corn to you mister, Oh veeyee o' Broom Broom, Oh veeyee o' Broom Broom!" Seemingly oblivious to the activities of the patrons, the little creature rushed about sweeping up all manner of discarded clothing. Jerkins, onesies, shirts, even a pair of sequinned knickers that had appeared as though from nowhere, were soon swept up into a pile at the end of their broom which continued to be pushed all around the pub floor. "Oh veeyee o' Broom Broom, ohoooah!" the creature was singing away happily when it suddenly heard the sound of shattering glass.

It came to an abrupt halt, knocking into an empty bar-stool as it almost fell over in its continuing momentum, and then turned its head curiously in the direction of the noise, eyes narrowing. Taking its half-shell-hat off its head, it replaced it with the sparkly, sequinned knickers - pulling the tight string sides down over its ears with all the sombre focus of a soldier dressing in armour. Then it picked up its broom and strode purposefully across the room even as Sil was calling for them. Her words explained to the little kobold exactly who was to blame for the broken glass, and it marched straight over to Fuin and tugged harshly at her clothes to get her attention from way down near the floor (being a creature less than two feet tall, it was a long way down for some).

"You no make mess in missy Írimë pub!" It said sternly, wiggling its finger at the elf in much the manner that Frost had done only a few minutes earlier. Its brows were furrowed in disapproval, but sadly its infanct-like voice and the strange, ugly adorableness (adorable in the manner of a very ugly puppy with too many teeth and scales in place of fluff) of its declaration took a little of the bite out of its words. All the same, they glowered up at the tall figure and decided they did not like this person. True to its inability to internalise its inner monologue, it then declared. "Grobby no like you. You make mess. Mess is bad. Pretty lady like tidy. And you look too.... pointy and too... too... too swoopy" it said with finality, completely unaware that its angry declaration was somewhat muted by its distinct lack of vocabulary. Then it turned away to struggle in manoeuvring its too-long broom into a position where it could clean up the mess left by the elf.

"QUIT TRYING TO GET THAT BLOODY SPICED PUMPKIN GARBGAGE IN MY PERFECTLY GOOD LIQUOR!" Fuin bellowed as she dodged the sopping wet onsie thing that was sent flying by Sil gracelessly landing solidly on her ass, fortunately on a bean bag chair which meant she wasn't getting up any time soon as the garment flew just over her head. The action itself caused her to spill a bit of hew new Mordor Mush but thus far it was safe from the nasty 'coffee' that had tainted her last one. The Soaked Onsie of Doom however struck one of the haradrim strippers who had been looking to rub up against Fuin knocking him back head over heels with a muffled yell, possibly even a concussion. It took the man several minutes to get back to his feet and he decided the elf, even though she probably had a decent amount of coin (how else would one such as her make it this far into mordor safely) was not worth the trouble.

"If you'd not ruined it I would have knifed you as you wish but you being the lecherous loinclothed nipple you are - ruined my Mush so it's not like I could drink it." With that she took a much wanted sip of her Mordor Mush only to find the small hairless parrot (Grobby) who was starting to look less and less like a parrot now, come over and tugging on her onesie and admonish her. She blinked, she would need to stay away from the Orquilla Sunrises from now on she decided. Hairless Parrots should not be able to talk, and she wasn't sure this was a parrot anymore either she didn't remember parrots having hands.

She almost felt bad watching the little... well she wasn't sure what it was anymore, perhaps this was all a fevered Orquilla dream who knew. She did keep an eye out for Sil though after all she'd heard her order another one of those nasty coffee things.

Grobby, kobold, they/them (or he/him when he finally figures that out)

The elven woman was clearly contrite, or at least that is how Grobby chose to interpret her lack of objection or response. But all the same, it was a bit annoying that their broom was getting caught in the leg of one of the chairs, causing their little lizard legs to scurry on the spot for a while as they failed to broom away with self-righteous haste, and instead they had to stop, pause, re-align the broom head in a different direction and then push away afresh. They threw a final glare over their shoulder at Fuin as though it were all her fault only to them promptly collide with the ankles of Zarâm because they were not looking where they were going. The gathered clothing from the strippers, mixed up with grit and broken glass and being pushed along by the broom, rucked up against her feet in a dirty mess. Grobby's gaze flitted back forwards, spotted the two broad calves that they had crashed into, then followed the line of legs to fluffy-onsie torso - pausing for a moment to admire the unicorns and rainbows adoring the outfit - and then up to the orcen face.

As soon as Grobby recognised the person they had collided with, they instinctively ducked with surprising speed, before hastily retreating with the broom, leaving the collection of dirty, glass riddled discarded clothing at Zarâm's feet. The little kobold was just dancing nervously from one foot to the other wondering if it should apologise or run or hit her in the face with a broom (and of course considering all of these options aloud because it had yet to learn how to internalise its thoughts) when something feathered and dark flew swiftly overhead and a bundle was dropped by its own feet by the shadow that was as quickly gone as it had come.

Grobby looked down. It was a parcel, and it had scrawled letters written on one side, clearly visible under the neat string that tied it closed. Grobby dropped his broom-stick, which clattered on the floor, and picked up the parcel. It considered the scrawled letters, turned the parcel this way and that, tilted its head right and then left, even tried holding the parcel between its legs and looking at it upside down, but the shapes did not form themselves into anything that Grobby could understand.

It straightened again, its fear of Zarâm retaliation completely forgotten in its curiosity, and looked around at the room generally, hoping someone could explain what the words on the parcel said and why it had been deposited beside them. "Grobby has a parcel, but Grobby not know who it is to or what the words say. Please somebody read it for Grobby?" It appealed to the room at large, holding up the bundle in the air over its head in the hopes it might get someone's attention.