A handfull of soldiers come crashing through the front doors of The Shady Corners carrying boxes, bags, and large banners bearing the colors of Ressik. They stop at the first empty table briefly enough to unload their belongings before hurridly heading to the ktichen, leaving one behind to stand guard.
Muffled voices and the sounds of flying pots and pans can be heard from the back of the tavern, followed by a soldier yelling out to the front. "Get the cooks, the good tavernkeep has been gratious enough to offer us this fine establishment while we stay in the city. We might actually get a decent meal for once."
Lyrion notes the presence of the soldiers from outside the tavern. He looks around briefly to ascertain that he isn't being watched, then slices his hand with his sword (5 Sharp) and wraps a fresh bandage around it (Aid). He walks into the tavern and calls to the guard standing watch. "All hail the Supreme Lawgiver and the noble men in his service."
He approaches meekly, almost reverently, radiating respect for the man. "From the lowest enforcer to the Tribunal itself, may I say I am honored to be in the presence of one of Ressik's noble saviors. Please forgive my unclean blood, sir, but I'd like to thank you for bringing order and justice to our humble town." He extends the bandaged hand to the soldier and smiles in gratitude. Fresh blood is visible on the bandages.
"All hail the Supreme Lawgiver," the soldier at the table echoes back instinctively, not knowing from where the salutation came from. Facing the door, his expression notibly sours as he sees Lyrion standing in the doorway. "Elf," he mutters to himself under his breath. "There is no justice in Jastrey so long as the unclean still walk the streets."
The soldier looks down to Lyrions outstretched hand and scowls as much at the fact that he's being approched by an elf as to the fact that the hand is still bleeding. "Away with you, elf," the soldier arrogantly scoffs at Lyrion, "and get yourself to a healer before you bleed all over town."
He turns a cold shoulder to the elf and waves him away grumbling, "Its bad enough half the army is supersticious, last thing I need is to take the chance with letting an elf blled on me. They might be right, afterall."
Lyrion cowers and backs away from the soldier. "A thousand apologies, good sir. I did not mean to offend. You see, it's just that…," he trails off, coughing deeply into the bandaged hand, "I've been sick, and this cut doesn't seem to heal." His voice is grim, as if he were on the verge of tears.
He looks up hopefully. "But I'm sure, by the grace of Ressik, I'll recover. As will all the brave soldiers in the army of General Frost. Huzzah!" He cheers, then bends over and coughs deeply again from the exertion, this time accidentally coughing towards the soldiers' belongings.
The soldier scowls at Lyrion, the creases in his brow furrowing deeply at his disdain for the elf that continues to press his patience. Raising his voice slightly he snarls, "I said be gone elf, you try my patience. Leave me be and wait for the justice of General Douglas, or pester me further and feel the healing powers of my blade."
The soldier grips the handle of his sword as a sign of intent, "I promise it will take all the pain away."
Lyrion is beside himself with fear, collapsing before the soldier and backing away on all fours. His injured hand comes down hard, leaving streaks of blood on the floor. "Please, sir! No! I didn't mean…" He tries to apologize more, but is taken by a fit of coughing instead. The moment he seems able, he rises and scrambles ungracefully out the door.
The soldier releases his grip on the weapon as Lyrion scrambles out the door of the tavern and stares nervously at the streaks of blood on the floor. Returning to his post at the table, he unfurls an army banner. "No reason to worry the men," he mutters as he places the banner over the streaks of blood on the floor. "And a bit of color in this place makes it feel more comfortable already."
Another soldier makes his way from the kitchen wincing in pain while holding one hand over his nose and carrying a tankard in the other. "Private," he calls over to the first still arranging the banner on the floor, "get to work unpacking the gear. And make some of this filth in here help you out as well. The general is going to need a war room when he gets here, and this seems to be the best little shack in this dump. Doesn't hurt they have a fine drink in the back. Find out who makes it, and have 'em bring more."
"Sir, yes sir!" the private replies, standing sharply at the request. Grabbing armfulls of banners he shoves them at the tavern goers ordering, "Hang this, make this place look presentable. Just because you're in a backwater town doens't mean you need to be filthy heathens."
Upon hearing the commotion coming from the tavern as Glimmer walks into the Shady Corner, she hikes her tutu about 2 inches and says "Well then gentleman. If your going to just idly take up residence in here, I suggest you do so properly." Glimmer begins tidying the tavern and then makes a turn into the kitchen. Upon seeing the mess of pots and pans she says "Hard for any of you to eat a proper meal if you oaf's break all the cooking supplies. If you gentleman will go have a seat, I'd be happy to fix you all a fine meal. Just please leave the kitchen alone. We have enough mess in here for.....well.....an army." Glimmer puts both hands on her hips and taps her foot as she looks about those remaining in the kitchen.
Ripper's eyes follow the bouncing of Glimmer's tutu closely as she enters the tavern behind the bustle of guards. Leaning to grind the lit end of a cigarette into the sole of her boot, the vampire adjusts the new, still stiff leather of her shoulderguard and follows behind, sword sheathed at her side and shield latched to her back. A bit of leather that might have been a mask dangled from her sheath as well.
Upon entry, she pushes back her hood and leathery wings stretch then refold with the faint scrape of bone on bone. Predator's eyes settle on the guardsmen as she takes a seat and then draws a small leather satchet from her beltpouch. Unrolled, it seems to contain several quills and a sketchbook. Her fingers flit through the pages, past blurred images until settling on what appeared to be a gaunt caricature of a woman. Old habits die hard. Deft fingers pluck a sharp quill, studying its metal tip, and then plunge the metal into a pale arm at the crook of the elbow, just this side of her gauntlet's straps. The metal draws little blood, just enough to well into a convex puddle of glossy red while her arm rests upturned. Dipping her pen into the droplet, swatches of red begin to take shape in the image.
Words murmur past her lips quiet as a babbling brook, those sharp, flame-like eyes glossing over as she works.
"Don't try to convince me with messages from a god.
It's easy to accuse us of sins committed by yourselves
it's easy to condemn without looking in the mirror."
A rotund man dressed in the army's colors walks into the kitchen behind Glimmer. His hair is prefectly cropped, beard trimmed nicely, and carrying a spatula, ladel, and rolling pin on his hip where a sword would otherwise lay. He speaks up in a soft, but commanding voice, "As much as I hate to admit it, the fae is right."
He makes a gesture toward the old tavernkeep, "For starters, get him to his feet, and take him to the stocks. Make an example out of this one. There is no standing up to the might of Dougals, there is no rebellion against the teachings of Ressik, and there will be no justice without order." He turns to address the soldiers still remaining in the kitchen directly, "That is, unless YOU made this mess, in which case, you can stand as the warning."
The soldiers trade glances amongst themselves, and begin to laugh uncontrollably. "Yes sir!" they reply in unison as they hoist the tavernkeep uncermoniously off the ground by his armpits and drag him out through the tavern to be put on display outside.
The portly gentleman stares blankly at Glimmer. "Now if you don't mind, I have a kitchen to prepare, a staff to ready, and a sick army to feed. I don't have time for fairy games, and I certainly don't need any pixie dust floating in my stew. Understand?"
Glimmer holds her breath and begins counting backwards quite loudly from 10 as she turns about 5 different shades of red. When she finally reaches one, she adresses the large man. "It seems you've forgotten your manners along with your bath, my dear man. You may be running things for those men, but they tore up this kitchen and it's one I'm quite fond of. I'll be right here in this kitchen tidying up along with you. You can either have a nice chat with me, or we can argue the whole time. That's about the only say you have in the matter. Fairy games and pixie dust are for the enfants of my kind and I, dear sir, am a Sylph you have just aggrivated. Save your hulaboo for your men. You'll find no solitude in making me run like a scared little Urodeq. Those men burned my shard, and I'll be damned if anyone burns down my kitchen too. Well, what'll be then? Being that I know where everything in here is and you, my good man, do not."
"Fairy, Sylph, Pixie, Enfant, rubbish, trash, garbage, trouble. They're all words that mean exactly the same thing, and its something I don't need in MY kitchen!" The man shouts at Glimmer. "A kitchen is a kitchen, and I'm at home regardless of where everything is. Listen good and listen long you little pest, so long as I'm here, this is MY kitchen, not yours, not the poor old tavernkeeps, its MINE!"
The cook picks a small pot up off the floor and tosses it at Glimmer. "If you want to help and can manage to keep out of the way, you can start with the onions. But if I see one tear, one grimmace, or one short stroke of the knife, you'll be joining your old cook in the stocks for the evening. And when you're done cutting those, you can start with the tubers."
Glimmer smacks her lips quite loudly and appears to begin smoothing the ruffles within her tutu. She hovers slightly as the red begins returning to her cheeks. "Well then you plague oozing, sow bellied, scumy breathed piece of fourteen day old molded lard! WHOEVER'S kitchen it is isn't at question here. I sincerely doubt you'll be able to see your precious meals over your rancid rolls of putrid human flesh. I shall aid you with your meals, if only because I love my town and will protect her at all costs." Glimmer takes the pot and begins dicing onions with an anger and an affinity unseen. "You should be quite honored to be among such a great people. I would think the likes of a cheating, lying, son of a donkey's arse such as yourself would like to be around people who have the possibility of giving more than one tiny rat's arse about him. But apparently not. So when you leave here, and IF you are allowed to leave with your life still in you, I hope that you find a woman. A woman so vile that she shares all the wordly evils with you. May you have pus that oozes from places you do not know which you have. May your eyes bleed daily at the sight of her. May your skin crawl with the rashes of the men that were before you. And may your heart break open and spill forth your blood until it strangles you in her very presence. I wish all of that for you my dear man. The happiest, warmest thoughts of it all." Glimmer turns back and continues dicing her onions, with a minor hiccup.
The cooks stumbles back briefly as Glimmer flies off into a rant, but quickly regains his composure. "You loud mouthed, unclean, ignorant piece of gutter trash! You're quite right there's no question about who's kitchen this is. Accept it you vile little toad wart, there's nothing you can do about it, you or your little rat faced unclean backwater friends. This place smells of month old meats, festering corpses, and is littered with elves and Uordeq. I'd love to take my lying, cheating, son of a donkey's ass out of this forsaken town and move on, but I think you've given me a reason to stay."
Furiously the cook grabs the end of his rolling pin and walks up behind Glimmer as she's dicing the onions. "You want to protect your little town? Make that squeaky little chatterbox stop moving, and be a warning. Mouthy little brats need to be taught a lesson." Raising the rolling pin high, he swings it down quickly hitting Glimmer over the back of the head, knocking her unconscious.
Quickly regaining his composure, the cook hosits Glimmer onto his shoulders and says softly to her passed out form, "You're a sweet thing, little fairy, I hate to do this to you, but I have to teach you a lesson. Its for your own good, and the good of the town. When you come to, maybe you can be a bit more rational." As he carries her out through the tavern, his ears begins to bleed a little.
Rasiri sits in his dark corner and watches the Lyrion event unfold very quietly and listens to Glimmer's rant with a small smile on his face until he hears the crack of the rolling pin hit her head. As the soldier carries Glimmer out of the tavern Rasiri slips out of the shadows in a panic and heads out of the tavern.
Ripper seems generally unaware or non-reactive to the chatter in the kitchen, not until a loud crack. Her nose tweaks at the scent of blood, and her fingers tighten 'round the wooden shaft of her quill, snapping the wood while dagger-like eyes follow the cook outside and then in once more. The sound she makes begins as inaudible, a vibration deep within her chest that climbs, dragging its way into the back of her throat into an escalated growl. Her fingers slam shut the sketchbook and quickly roll the satchel shut to be haphazardly put away. As she stands, a thin stream of red from the wound she had been using as an inkwell runs over her gauntlets and bounces off the floor. It looks almost like a trail of dots appear from nowhere, following the fae as she stalks outside.
Rasiri slips quietly into the tavern behind the soldiers and quietly starts to observe the destruction the herald. He then steps back into one of the corners of the tavern and starts to observe as the soldiers set up. [Blend]