[Location] The Stranger's Welcome

[Tabarnac]

The Stranger's Welcome Owned and operated by a man named Oleg, this inn is situated directly inland from the Passenger's Quay, a prime spot to trap tourists for libations, meals, stories, and entertainments. He distills his own degtine, or "little water", somewhere on the premises. Other offerings are mostly those bought from traders from Wind Reach and Avanthal. Because so many tourists find themselves there, the Captain generally has minions on duty to keep the peace, but they generally allow a certain amount of rowdiness before cracking down on things. Guests will feel the warm glow of welcome, or at least the warm glow of alcohol and hot food in their bellies. Should a guest stay long enough, Oleg will probably tell them stories about his cousin Olga, the one-eyed dancer who had left Denval for parts unknown to find love and adventure. Cheers! NPCs: Oleg, Proprietor. Moderator's Note: Players may use this location without a moderator, though moderation is available upon request. Please PM Tabarnac with questions.

[Jackson LaCroix]

End of Summer 79 510 AV

Entering the tavern on the pouncing heels of a tabby cat, LaCroix's own leather boots padded softly over the wrinkles in the wooden floor. The musk and scent were familiar if even the stares looking up were not. He changed much since the head weaver and his daughter or even the inn keeper here had last seen his bronzed skin, growing into a man that had little resemblance to the customs of the Denvali were it not for the unmasked Suvan features. Even his walk had shifted to that of a lean animal, every muscle naturally flowing, bouncing and recoiling in time with agile poise like that of the same purring feline that brushed against his cotton pants.

Breathing it all in, his chest stretched back gently then forward towards the line of customers near the bar. He took a position next to an old farmer who caught him stealing vegetables several times as a youth then glanced up. Should the barkeep respond in kind, his left hand lifted a finger signaling a single pint of degtine.

[Tabarnac]

The patrons made room for him at the bar, most all of them offering friendly smiles. A few were apathetic after several cups of Oleg's little water. "I'll buy his drink, Oleg," said the farmer. The Denvali were a hospitable folk. The proprietor nodded and poured a cup of degtine and set it in front of Jackson, then another for himself. "Where's mine?" asked the farmer with mock surliness. Oleg smirked at him, passed the extra, and then poured himself one for a second time. "To your health, eh?" he said, nudging Jackson with his elbow. He and Oleg tapped their glasses on the bar and put back the whole of their burning drinks down at once. "Ahhh," sighed the farmer appreciatively.

[Jackson LaCroix]

As was custom, Jackson downed the alcohol in one cascading shot. He breathed out the fumes, pressing the deep cup forward for another with money enough for three. His voice tossed heady with the grit of ether.

"Hit me."

The generosity of convenience felt more like a warm welcome. Fancy that.

[Tabarnac]

Oleg smiled, pouring another three shots of the degtine for Jackson, the generous farmer, and himself. If anyone could put the degtine away, it was Oleg, who distilled his own and drank it daily. There were even barrels of it in the warehouses awaiting shipment out of Denval on one of the small merchant ships that came from Avanthal. His was one of the more lucrative cottage industries in Denval; a growing market for the warming spirit was evident in the freezing city of the Queen of Winter. Only time would tell if Oleg would expand, but he also clearly took great pride in his inn and its popular tavern. He was sitting on the crossroads of news from the outside world and liked being in the know. "Thank you, lad, thank you," said the farmer, clapping Jackson on the shoulder. His Common was rather good. "Must get back before the wife gets concerned." He and Oleg exchanged fond farewells in Denvali. Then Oleg poured Jackson another. "What brings you to our fair city?" he asked.

[Jackson LaCroix]

The man called Jackson blinked towards the farmer, testing his finger’s heat against the glass while watching the condensation calmly. His eyes twirled like planets to the bullseye of the question, listening to the ring of Oleg’s tone before answering.

“Came to see someone. You’ll do for now.” He ran a cold pinky along the inner rim of the degtine cup, falling backward against his chair to get a proper view of Oleg before downing the shot in one pounce. “Question for you Barkeep.” He stared at the man bluntly, watching the tavern owner’s mix of mannerisms like a buoyant ship.

“Does anyone here remember the old woman. Wraithe her name was. Some called her Kitt. Risked traveling the shale.” He motioned for another and downed it as smoothly.

“Long dead.. but her legacy. The name. Kitt. Do the people here remember the herbalist or did they write her stone under the miller’s wheel?” He said the word legacy in native Denvali, then glanced down at the letters and images inked into his bare knuckles. “She died … violently.”

[Tabarnac]

"Not a Denvali soul has been forgotten since the Valterrian," Oleg said simply. Indeed, the Chaplain of Viratas and the Captain of Denval kept excellent records, and had since the rebuilding effort after Ivak's tantrum had ripped the world asunder. He watched the man with mild amusement and interest. If he was going to beat around the bush, well, Oleg could play at word games with the best of them. And, of course, it was assumed that anyone who tried to leave the settlement via the treacherous land route would meet a violent end, whether by a fall, a landslide, or some monsters.

[Jackson LaCroix]

The answer summed up their relationship immaculately, yet the empty glass spun over the flat bar as if it was suppose to shatter. Raising his tinged brow then shifting it down, Cross leaned his head slightly inward against the left shoulder. His speech was sharp but pliant as sea water flooding through the cracks in a limestone sprawl. “Perhaps you’re better versed in the service of forgetting rather then remembrance.” Ordering another shot, LaCroix paid for the lot.

“Denval. I got a drink, now I’m need’n more.” The man slipped his drying hair back, lingering a strand on the rim of the ear. “They say if I wanted trouble I go to the docks. That if I require information I should speak to the captain.. but if I want both, I should listen to you.” Cross straightened his body, touching a canine tooth to the bottom lip momentarily, glancing leisurely toward the front door.

He raised the polished glass with a turn of the wrist “Looking for local color, and any news pertaining to commerce and law from both sides of the spectrum.” The faint trail of a smile crossed his face like the folds of an origami dragon.

[Tabarnac]

If Oleg had ever dropped a glass, nobody could reliably remember it. The drinks came as quickly as Jackson ordered them, but the information remained mostly at a standstill. "They say a lot of things, these people," he noticed. After a moment's consideration, he elaborated. "Trade continues apace, mostly from Wind Reach and Avanthal. The Captain is the law, and she is generous and forgiving, but she does not forget. Find Haimon at the Chapel. Sooner or later, he will find you."

[Jackson LaCroix]

Jax closed his eyelids, finding the space between words to inhale. Slowly, he arched his back to glimpse across the hall. The wood appeared durable yet smooth, orange light refracting like oil across it’s polished solace. It’s air tasted like grain and hard liquor, bouncing conversation along the diaphragm of angular glass bottles but Cross wasn’t much partial to the vibration of speech. The idiosyncrasies of Oleg’s body language were of no less interest then the baker tapping both hands across his apron dropping excess flour onto the brow of a sleeping hound. Of no less intrigue, and of no more. He turned around, sowing the stitch to their schism. “In that case order up a bloody myri for the priest. He’s right behind me.. isn’t he.” With drying irises wet from the clinch of a rare chemical reaction, Jack’s eyes smiled.

He never mentioned that he knew Oleg briefly from when they were boys, exchanged punches with him, met the happy captain then traded a laugh with both after. Letting the silence linger like a fish hook, he wanted sneeze from all the loose flour but swallowed instead.