You are in Fischer’s Tavern. A tall lanky man is standing behind the bar with a towel in one hand and a grin on his face. In front of him there is a nice hardwood bar about four feet high. Quite a few glasses and bottles stand on it waiting for a order. The barkeep motions towards a stool, “Name’s Fischer. Have a seat, what can I get ya to drink?”
Lanisen has claimed a table near the back of the tavern, and he is sitting with his back to the wall. He watches the door as he eats, though he seems mostly at ease in the fairly-crowded room.
Myrd, his disguise firmly in place, limps over and sits at the table next to Lanisen.
Loc enters slightly behind Myrd. He goes to the bar and orders an ale.
Lanisen does a double-take at Myrd’s disguise, then shifts his chair to the side to make room. “Evening.”
Myrd scowls at him. He turns his back and pretends to be engrossed in a bowl of stew. Speaking just loudly enough to be overheard by Lanisen, he says, “Don’t want them to see us together.”
Loc takes a seat at the bar and takes a swig of his ale.
Lanisen scoots his chair closer to his table and angled slightly away from Myrd. He nods briefly in response.
Myrd drums his fingers on the table. He grunts out, careful to keep his voice low, “Keep an eye out for those dwarves. They have to eat sometime.”
Lanisen hehs. “Not everybody eats at the tavern,” he points out quietly.
Loc turns to lean against the bar, sipping his ale. He scans the bar casually, striking up a conversation with a nearby wench.
Myrd shoots him a look. “I know that.”
Lanisen shrugs in a well-then sort of way.
Loc’s gaze lazily falls on Lanisen and Myrd before turning his attention to the bartender to inquire about an archery range.
Myrd pretends to eat more of his stew, rubbing his right leg as if it pains him.
Loc drinks some ale from his tankard.
Lanisen turns his attention to his meal, keeping an eye on the door.
Loc looks thoughtful at the bartender’s reply about a possible range in the future. Loc asks about the art of fletching.
Myrd leans over towards Lanisen. “There. That’s one of them.”
Lanisen glances around to see who Myrd is talking about. “One of the dwarves?”
Myrd nods, pointing out the distinctly dwarven face that has just entered.
Loc’s eyes flick to the short figure that’s just entered. He continues his conversation with the bartender about arrow making.
Lanisen sits up, resting his elbows on the table. He looks to Myrd, then to the dwarf again.
Myrd stirs his stew, signaling to Loc that it is time.
Loc’s eyes flick to Myrd. He takes a sip of his ale, lowering his head casually which acknowledge’s Myrd’s signal.
Lanisen watches intently, waiting to see if anything is required of him.
Myrd carefully keeps his gaze on the table in front of him.
Loc’s gaze falls on the dwarf.
Jana enters the inn and seats herself in a dark corner, setting down some coins for the serving girl when she comes by, and accepting a drink.
Tyren makes his way into the tavern, accompanied by a young man who, though not seeming to share Tyren’s status, does seem rather capable of handling himself in the midst of a tense situation, should he be pressed to it. He nods politely to Fischer, moving over to the bar.
Loc sits at the bar with his back to it, reclining on his elbows. He’s got a tankard of ale and seems to be in a discussion with a man across the bar. The dwarf near him is fully engrossed in this conversation. Loc politely nods to the new comer and his companion.
Myrd hunches over his bowl of stew, allowing Loc to carry on the conversation.
Loc looks to the barkeep. “Tell me sir, what could a common man use with such a pretty axe? Perhaps it was given on loan? Surely a little cottage ain’t big enough for a whole family. That must be it….” He takes a swig of his ale. He appears to have hada few already.
Tyren’s companion returns the nod, while the knight orders two cups of cider. After Fischer returns with the drinks, he hands one to his companion, and looks around the tavern for a somewhat out-of-the-way table. Spotting one, he gestures towards it. “Come, Quent.”
Tyren purchases a mug of mulled cider from Fischer.
Myrd feigns indignance. “What’re you suggesting? Winbrytt wouldn’t take something that wasn’t his.”
Loc shakes his head, “Course not! Everyone knows he’s good through and through!” He sips his ale. The dwarf bristles. “I’m just saying–such a pretty axe… never seen one of /our/ axes like that before.”
Tyren sits, as does his companion Quent. Tyren lifts a brow as some of the bar conversation drifts over, but he doesn’t catch it completely. He begins to speak in low tones, unlikely to be overheard.
Myrd continues to disguise his voice, allowing his soup spoon to clang on the table. “I’ll tell you that you don’t know anything. If he says it was given to him, then it was!”
Tyren lifts a brow as he glances to the bar again, Quent following his gaze.
Loc’s gaze lazily drifts about the patrons, though he carefully watches the dwarf who is hanging on every word and looking angerier by the minute. He lifts a hand and motions for the man to sit, “Of course! Of course. I don’t mean to start anything–it’s just…” He pauses, looking very solemn and remorseful. “I just heard a dwarf on the way here saying how one of those axes had been stolen. And that the last person seen around the mines was Winbrytt.” He shrugs, sipping his ale.
Myrd turns his back and crosses his arms. “I’m not about to listen to more of this.”
Loc shrugs casually and turns to the bartender, “Mighty fine ale you got sir. Mighty fine.” He watches as the dwarf nearly topples from his seat making a bee-line for the door. The dwarf seems positively furious.
Myrd mutters something about ‘hogwash’. He also watches the dwarf leave out of the corner of his eye.
Tyren’s gaze follows the dwarf as he runs out, then turns back to Quent, brow still quirked. The two resume their low conversation.
Loc resumes his conversation with the barkeep about fletching.
Myrd leans over his bowl again, pretending to wince as he accidentally bumps his ‘bad’ leg on the table’s edge. He makes no move to eavesdrop on the knights’ conversation. In fact, he acts as if he hasn’t even noticed them there.
Tyren leans a little closer to his companion, continuing to speak while Quent nods now and again.
Loc raises his eyebrows. “You don’t say? Well. I’ll have to look into that. Goosefeathers…”
Myrd scrapes his bowl clean, keeping to himself.
Tyren seems to finish his conversation with Quent, who stands and bows before departing. Tyren nods in return, though he remains for the moment.
Loc eyes the list on the wall thoughtfully.
Myrd also makes no move to leave from his table in the corner. He pulls out a piece of wood and begins to whittle it. For all appearances, he is one more of the townsfolk resorting to the tavern of an evening.
Loc also appears to fit into the scenery. “You know, I think I’ll have another.” He says thoughtfully.
Tyren stands, moving back over to the bar. He plunks his cup down, taking a seat, trying to catch Fischer’s glance when he’s unoccupied.
Loc turns to his new companion and smiles. “Here for the brew as well?” He takes a swig of his ale.
Fischer, who has been wiping glasses, pauses and gives a respectful bow. “Well, Sir Tyren. I didn’t know you were back yet. Something I can do for you, Milord?”
Tyren glances to the son of adam with green eyes, and merely shakes his head slightly in response. He turns back to Fischer. “Hopefully. Much passes through these doors of yours, I’m certain. What can you tell me about things in Carmichael since I was last here?”
Myrd continues to scrape away at the wood with his knife. It isn’t exactly clear yet what he’s making. He keeps his ears firmly on the conversation between the barkeep and the knight.
Loc hms softly, leaning against the bar to enjoy his ale.
Fischer tugs at a lock of hair. “I don’t know much more than you do, sir. It’s been quiet here.” He glances around at his patrons and then leans in towards Tyren. “But there have been rumors that some things have gone missing from the mines.”
Tyren lifts his brow slightly, his voice lowering a degree. “And is there anything /to/ such rumors?”
Myrd begins whistling a popular tune softly to himself, in time with the movements of his hand as he shapes the wood.
Loc idly runs his finger along the rim of his tankard, gazing into its contents.
Fischer’s voice drops as well. “I don’t know. I thought that might be why you were here, with those soldiers.”
Myrd bends further over his project. He doesn’t betray any change in expression at the mention of the troops.
Tyren leans forward a bit, resting an elbow on the bar and bringing his hand to his chin. “I see. Best not to give it /too/ much weight until certain of its credibility… but I shall keep it in mind. Anything else?”
Loc is too intent on his drink to care about much else.
Fischer picks up another glass, wiping it clean with his rag. “Oh, I won’t, sir. There’s nothing more I can tell you, except what you heard yourself tonight. I don’t care much for gossip myself, but people will talk, you know.”
Tyren nods. “Of course. I’m not one to care much for it either, but it is my job to sift them regardless. Somewhere amidst them all may be a grain of truth.”
Loc takes a sip of his ale.
Myrd holds the piece of wood, now definitely in the shape of a bird, out to study it.
Fischer tugs at the lock of hair again. “You know best about that, Sir.”
Tyren has another sip of his cider, and lets out a soft ‘heh.’
Loc takes a sip of his ale, making a soft noise that sounds vaguely like a snort into the tankard. He chokes and coughs and sputters, sending foam everywhere.
Myrd grins as if he has just created a masterpiece. He adds a finishing touch with a small flourish.
Tyren glances to the green-eyed man, lifting a brow. “You all right there?”
Loc coughs and hammers his chest, wheezing. “Yes.” He frowns at his tankard. “Went down wrong.”
Tyren nods a bit. “Might want to take it a tad slower, then.”
Loc nods, giving a lopsided smile. He carefully takes a sip of the brew.
Myrd acts concerned, putting the bird aside and hobbling over towards the other man. “You sure you’re fine?”
Myrd mumbles “Don’t ruin it now.”, to Loc.
Myrd mumbles “… … … now.”, to Loc.
Loc hms softly, looking at the man and squinting a bit. He stands and leans against the bar. “Aye. Though maybe it’s time to set this drink aside. It’s getting late and I got an early morning tomorrow.”
Tyren says, “Perhaps a wise move.”
Fisher drops the rag and comes over. “Let me put that on the house. There’s no cause to be blaming my fine ale, I hope…”
Loc shakes his head and smiles in a good natured fashion. “Not at all. you have some fine brew sir.”
Myrd says, “I’m just plumb glad you’re all right.” He cuffs Loc on the back in an apparently friendly way. If he strikes him a bit harder than is warranted, who’s to notice.
Fischer seems most relieved that his customer isn’t blaming him.
Tyren finishes off his cider, satisfied that the situation is taken care of. “As am I.” He looks to Fischer. “Thank you once again. If anything else comes to mind, do let me or one of my men know. Chances are they’ll be coming in and out, and I’ll likely drop by myself from time to time.”
Loc looks to Myrd and smiles, grunting a bit. He keeps his hand on the bar to keep himself steady.
Myrd doesn’t register any reaction to this other than evident relief. “Now that’s good to hear. We need somebody to make sure things are sorted around here.”
Tyren says, “Simply doing my job.”
Fisher says, “I sure will, sir. You can depend on it.”
Loc gives a slight nod, gaze settling on Tyren.
Tyren nods to Fischer again. “It is appreciated. A good eve to you.” He nods briefly to the two men nearby as well, then departs.
Tyren walks out to the square.
Myrd nods politely in return, accompanying this with a little bow. “Night to you.”
Loc gives a small bow as well, still holding the bar.
Myrd keeps his eyes on Tyren until he is out of sight. They are slightly narrowed.
Loc watches as well, expression muddled. He looks to the barkeep and then at Myrd.
Myrd is well aware of the barkeep’s presence. He makes a small sign to Loc, then puts on a tremendous show of yawning. “I think I’m going to turn in for the night.”
Loc asks, “Will you be needing a hand home?”
Myrd grunts as if his leg’s troubling him. “That sure would be appreciated.”
Loc offers a shoulder, “I’m glad to be helping where I can.”
Myrd leans heavily against Loc as he hobbles slowly out of the tavern.
Loc moves slowly, adding a small sway into his walk as they slowly make their way towards the door and into the square.