Rings of ancient ale marked the top of a table meteor scarred from the tips of daggers, slashes of knives and runnels of nails. Two tankards, untouched, sat at either side of a lone sputtering candle made of the cheapest tallow. It hissed and spit as it burned what seemed to be wax that held bits and pieces of some thing?s hair, and an insect?s wing. The greasy smoke it belched occasionally into the air added to the miasma the dozen?s more let hang in the air.
The Brazen Wench was not a tavern few dared meander into, though it was located in the eldest part of Rhydin proper, it held a reputation few other taverns were able to boast having anymore. Even the filth was filthy, here, and if you wanted the dirtiest of dirtiest?no better place could one ask for. Secrets and gold traded hands here, the things in which kingdoms were born in, murdered for, and erased from history after.
The tender behind the bar was Orlak. He?d been behind the bar of The Brazen Wench since it opened, or so the rumors had it. A wizened, grizzled, scar laden dwarf that stood upon a rickety wooden box-contraption with wheels that carried him with a push from one end of the knife marked bar to the other. Oil lamps that might have once been a nice touch when the Brazen had opened, now a garish, filth coated brown curled in the mimicry of flowers to shed their smoke-yellow light upon the barrels of swill Orlak called ale.
Stools tucked beneath the dark stained bar were completely mismatched, some of them appeared to simply be stools collected from the trash of other less fortunate taverns. Some of them appeared to have simply been the different manifestations of stools purchased and replaced in a tavern?s natural life.
Orlak?s dull gray eyes didn?t flicker upward from his polishing of a wooden tankard with dubiously stained cloth when figures approached his bar for drinks. Orlak had long ago given up any enthusiasm in seeing whomever showed up, several scars along his stumped hands and across his face had taught him to pretend as if faces did not exist.
One of the figures twitched a hand in his direction and Orlak turned immediately to the tap. Two tankards of ale were poured, and then thumped before the two figures after pushing himself off to wheel toward them. Promptly, he wheeled away and returned to his drying of tankards. Though half of them didn?t seem to be washed enough to need to be dried.
The tables here were as mismatched as the bar stools but surprisingly sturdy. Orlak had the smarts to know how many times chairs and tables tend to be the first smashed in an unruly brawl.
The Brazen Wench had more character than it could shake a stick at. Question was, were you going to add to it?
The Brazen Wench was not a tavern few dared meander into, though it was located in the eldest part of Rhydin proper, it held a reputation few other taverns were able to boast having anymore. Even the filth was filthy, here, and if you wanted the dirtiest of dirtiest?no better place could one ask for. Secrets and gold traded hands here, the things in which kingdoms were born in, murdered for, and erased from history after.
The tender behind the bar was Orlak. He?d been behind the bar of The Brazen Wench since it opened, or so the rumors had it. A wizened, grizzled, scar laden dwarf that stood upon a rickety wooden box-contraption with wheels that carried him with a push from one end of the knife marked bar to the other. Oil lamps that might have once been a nice touch when the Brazen had opened, now a garish, filth coated brown curled in the mimicry of flowers to shed their smoke-yellow light upon the barrels of swill Orlak called ale.
Stools tucked beneath the dark stained bar were completely mismatched, some of them appeared to simply be stools collected from the trash of other less fortunate taverns. Some of them appeared to have simply been the different manifestations of stools purchased and replaced in a tavern?s natural life.
Orlak?s dull gray eyes didn?t flicker upward from his polishing of a wooden tankard with dubiously stained cloth when figures approached his bar for drinks. Orlak had long ago given up any enthusiasm in seeing whomever showed up, several scars along his stumped hands and across his face had taught him to pretend as if faces did not exist.
One of the figures twitched a hand in his direction and Orlak turned immediately to the tap. Two tankards of ale were poured, and then thumped before the two figures after pushing himself off to wheel toward them. Promptly, he wheeled away and returned to his drying of tankards. Though half of them didn?t seem to be washed enough to need to be dried.
The tables here were as mismatched as the bar stools but surprisingly sturdy. Orlak had the smarts to know how many times chairs and tables tend to be the first smashed in an unruly brawl.
The Brazen Wench had more character than it could shake a stick at. Question was, were you going to add to it?