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This Calls for a Drink! [OPEN EVENT]

Started by schwaff, August 12, 2018, 08:59:54 PM

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schwaff

[Apologies if I messed up posting or if the writing was a little janky. It's late here.]



Two Nights Ago...


Romhuv awoke suddenly. Not with a start, but suddenly nonetheless. His eyes snapped open, and he found himself totally free of the grogginess that one typically has upon being woken up in the small hours of the morning. The wind was blowing softly against his tent, making a low whistling noise, which served to somewhat dampen the sound of Aggrah --still in their stag form-- snoring outside. It was, by all accounts, a peaceful night in the country. But Romhuv knew better.

The first hint that something was off came in the form of Aggrah falling silent, their loud snores suddenly snuffed out in an instant. The chirping of early rising songbirds was next to go, followed shortly by the sound of the wind suddenly being cut off. For a few moments, Romuv sat in perfect silence.

The silence was broken by a series of loud cracks and pings, seeming to come from the canvas of the tent itself. It sounded like hail falling on the surface of a frozen lake, the cacophony only rising in volume as time went on. Romhuv hunkered down in his sleeping bag as a wave of nausea swept over him, and the sound's volume increased.

Slowly but surely, the cracking sound began to fade, until only a few pops and cracks could be heard every few seconds. The silence seemed set to return. But Romhuv knew better.


Soft footsteps could be heard outside, crunching like boots on fresh-fallen snow. They circled the tent, stopping at the far end of the small shelter, where Romhuv's head lay.

"Hunter..." came a voice, at once both low and raspy, yet high and reedy, speaking a language that sounded like leaves crunching underfoot. "Awaken, Hunter." It's cadence was strange, with each syllable being dragged out just a shade too long, as if the voice's tongue was still testing out how it worked.

"I am awake." Romhuv replied, his mouth struggling to form the words, knowing instinctively that the language that he spoke was nowhere close to anything spoken by mortals, even as his ears heard it as Common. "What do the Fae ask?"

"Faithful Hound of the Winter Court..." the voice hissed, lowering itself to be level with Romhuv's head. "A morsel has fled our clutches... it runs, hoping to flee from us. You are a Hunter. You are mortal. Bring us what is ours."

"Alive or dead?"

"Alive. Bring it back alive. And if it were to die by some way, even one not of your own doing... there will be consequences."

The rattling resumed, and in a matter of seconds, Romhuv felt himself fall into a deep sleep, filled with dreams of chasing a man with a mask fused to his face. Any other questions he had for his masters would have to wait.




The Present Day.

The dreams had not stopped. For the past few nights, Romhuv had fallen asleep as soon as he laid down, his mind filled with wild fantasies of the hunt, and his new prey. He knew now at least roughly who or what he was looking for, although that wasn't much help, given that the location of this potential prey was utterly unknown. But the Fae had sent him south, so that would be where he started his search.

He had been to taverns before, and he had to admit this was the friendliest one he had ever seen. People who he assumed to be farmers and other such laypeople sat in small clusters around one of the many tables of the establishment, or in clumps along the bar. A fire was roaring in the large hearth on the far side of the room, and a young man stood in the center of the dining area, strumming a large stringed instrument, and singing loudly, along with several of the more inebriated patrons. Behind the bar, through a small doorway, all manner of appetizing smells poured out from what was ostensibly the kitchen. Romhuv decided he liked southern taverns.

He sat alone at the far end of the bar, his helmet resting on the table next to him, waiting to be served, ignoring the glances and occasional hushed whispers from the tavern's regulars. He certainly didn't look like he belonged, riding up on a huge black stallion, clad in his odd blueish mail, and presumably smelling worse than sin to these simple country-dwellers. Romhuv didn't much mind. He wasn't here to make friends. He was here to pursue leads. Or, that's what he told himself as he flagged down the barkeep.

The barkeep in question was a fairly heavyset man, as barmen tended to be. Years of sampling their own product saw to that, and this man was no exception, boasting a sizable gut on a stocky frame that closely resembled one of the casks of ale that sat behind that bar.

The bartender gave a grunt as he approached Romhuv, a non-verbal question that Romhuv had known the answer to ever since he rode in from Hyoite.

"Something sweet." Romhuv said in his usual deep baritone, tapping the bar to accentuate his point. "And a quick question: have you seen a man wearing a mask come through here recently? A silver mask. Anything like that?"

The barkeep gave Romhuv a bit of a side-eye as he turned to fill an almost-certainly dirty glass up with a frothy, golden drink. The bartender took a moment, waiting for the foam to settle a bit, before topping off the glass with a final pour of the drink form the cask, setting it roughly on the table in front of Romhuv. With that, the barkeep turned on his heel, and walked off, ready to serve other more regular patrons.

Romhuv sipped his drink appreciatively. He liked his meads with a bit more of a foam head, but he couldn't complain. He'd give this drink a few minutes, and then continue in his search for the masked man.


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