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(RP) The Shattered Skull Tavern: Open RP

Discussion in 'UO Baja' started by John Mograine, Jul 10, 2012.

  1. Virgil was getting too old for this.

    The owner of the Shattered Skull propped the door open with a knee and heaved the heavy cask atop his shoulder. It wasn't so much that he was old, he reminded himself with a grimace. The first grey hairs had only begun to show in his temples, and that haggard face still bore some semblance of the soldier he had once been. But he could feel the weariness weighing down on him. Crushing. Sapping at who he was.

    It was time for a vacation.

    The sound of patrons and bards beat at his ears. Some idiot who thought himself a dandy strummed some obnoxious tune that made Virgil's ears bleed. Winter had driven the locals indoors, into taverns such as these. While he appreciated the patronage, he certainly could use the money, he no longer had patience for the people. Vacation, he mused. Magincia would be nice. In not but a banana hammock sipping from a coconut.

    He shuddered. The thought was enough to make him cringe.

    "Tessa!" he barked. Where was that wench? Tugging on the moustache of another merchant again. He slammed the cask down on the table.

    "You," he pointed. Greta stopped in her tracks, her golden braids swinging as she turned. "See that the table in the corner gets their Dire Wolf." She nodded without a word and scurried off to the bar. Fookin' Northerners. He could see his reflection in a nearby mirror - a mask of menacing rage - and tried to stamp down the welling amusement. If this is what it took to get his employees to do what he wanted, he would need to wear it more often. He scrunched his brows in the mirror...

    [OOC: Feel free to join in.]
  2. Peter Tarrant

    Peter Tarrant Visitor

    Dec 27, 2011
    Likes Received:
    “You can't come in 'ere, lad.”

    Peter looked down at the thick, scarred hand resting against his chest, and then at the grizzled man barring his path. “That so?” he said, mustering all the cool arrogance he possessed.

    “Yer must be, wha, seventeen?” The bouncer reached up and tore the false mustache from his lip.

    “Ow!” Peter howled, covering his face. “What was that for...!?”

    “Go 'ome, kid,” the man said. “Come back in five years.”

    Peter didn't want to have to do this, but he had no other choice. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out his wallet, holding up an fake identification card. “Nicholas Tarrant,” he said, “Hunter of the Damned. On a case...”

    “The ravishing, handsome, lady-killing, Nicholas Tarrant?” The bouncer's brows rose as he studied the card. “Why, it's an honor, Sir...!” The man's brows sunk. “My wife a huge fa- Wait a minute... You look a little young to be Nicholas the Old.”

    “I moisturize,” Peter deadpanned. “I'm here to see a Virgil Caormastus. Is he in?”

    The bartender stepped aside, slowly. “Old man behind the bar.” He opened the door with his hand, regarding the young man skeptically.

    “Yoos accent iz slipping,” Peter mouthed, snatching the false mustache back from him. The man grumbled and slammed the door behind Tarrant's son.

    He smirked.