Post by Deleted on Dec 14, 2014 18:12:29 GMT -5
1st performance
You stand up from a polished alabaster bar.
The aging, half-handed male elf approaches the oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman.
As the oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman instinctively steps forward to greet you ahead of the dapper man with dark brown eyes and a supple,
black leather couch, the dapper man with dark brown eyes sips from his bleached-bone whiskey flask.
The aging, half-handed male elf moves slower as he approaches, hands open and empty. As he steps into weapon range, he pauses, smiling.
His voice gentle, considerably hushed and could be constrewd as mumbling, the dapper man with dark brown eyes says to the oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman, in allundean:
"Let him pass, Kamsil."
To no one in particular, still facing the woman, you say, in sirihish:
"I came to thank you for elegant truth, woman who is a sword unsheathed. "
The dapper man with dark brown eyes lowers his bleached-bone whiskey flask to his lap as the oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman protectively steps to
the side of a supple, black leather couch, unimpeding your line of sight to him.
Bemused, you say to the oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman, in sirihish:
"So often the dance of men and women, much less low and high, is beset with such theatre, so many disguises."
Dipping his head slowly and deeply, you say to the oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman, in sirihish:
"But for simple honesty without even a word, this wretch groveling stands humbled. I am instructed, and thankful."
Silently studying you, the oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman remains alongside a supple, black leather couch and spares only a moment's glance upon the dapper man with dark brown eyes.
Wetting his thin lips while dispatching his youthful tone, a hint of curiosity laced within, the dapper man with dark brown eyes asks you, in allundean:
"To what are you called, Citizen?"
Apparently stunned at being addressed, you say, in sirihish:
"Somna, Chosen Lord, just a dream soon to pass."
The limber, ashen-haired templar has arrived from above.
The limber, ashen-haired templar steps augustly into the tavern, back straight.
With a warm smile, the limber, ashen-haired templar looks down at the dapper man with dark brown eyes.
Gently leaning back against a supple, black leather couch, looking up to you, the dapper man with dark brown eyes says to you, in sirihish:
"Indeed. Dreams can often find a way of showing us truths we did not see waking. His Radiance, Somna."
The very short male wearing a horned, purple leather mask has arrived from the south.
Catching sight of the mask, the limber, ashen-haired templar looks down at the very short male wearing a horned, purple leather mask.
The very short male wearing a horned, purple leather mask dips his head respectfully to the limber, ashen-haired templar as he steps in and
offers a nod to the dapper man with dark brown eyes as he moves deeper into the room.
Lowering his head, you say, in sirihish:
"I am edified. Praise lies at the heart of a man. May your path be illuminated as is right, Chosen Lord."
The aging, half-handed male elf backs away, turning to leave at the door.
Noticing between a split in the patronage, a smile dispatching upon his thin lips, the dapper man with dark brown eyes looks up at the limber,
ashen-haired templar.
2nd performance
You stand up from a polished alabaster bar.
The aging, half-handed male elf rises, fixing the room with a baleful gaze.
You begin speaking sirihish.
Raising one of his remaining fingers as he addresses the room, you say, in sirihish:
"When I was young, I wasted my fire with women. Even such as I know that such soft scars can make or break a man. Only now, can I know."
The tiny, copper-skinned, auburn-haired woman walks east.
Flourishing with two fingers on each hand, you say, in sirihish:
"As with many, I became my path, like stone, underfoot. Never the chisel, as a better man might be, I made love to stone."
Wryly, you say, in sirihish:
"I do not think I was felt. Only now, can I possibly know."
The aging, half-handed male elf bows his head with a weary sigh.
Without raising his gaze, but still clearly heard, you say, in sirihish:
"Only arriving old, this dream of dirt was taken by the sky. The wind and storm cannot love, thus it made hate to me."
The tiny, copper-skinned, auburn-haired woman has arrived from the east.
Tracing a smoothing hand along his well-fitted, silvery-grey leather overcoat, the dapper man with dark brown eyes stands up from a supple, black
leather couch.
Resting a mangled hand on his burned chest, you say, in sirihish:
"Only in my bare remaining tomorrows can I hope to know, of youth, of love, of hate..."
The dapper man with dark brown eyes walks south.
The oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman walks south.
Trailing to a stop, gazing after the departing noble, you say, in sirihish:
"If knowing is to be illuminated, for one such as I."
The aging, half-handed male elf bows his head, departing to the dubious reaction of the crowd.
3rd performance
Addressing no on in particular, you ask, in sirihish:
"What painting comes, from a dancer out of tune? What joy springs from the cripple who cannot rise?"
Daring to look towards, but not at the limber, ashen-haired templar, you say, in sirihish:
"What fruit from salted ground, I ask? Daring to ask, I know I am never even the question. Simply, whira passes through carved bone..."
The aging, half-handed male elf lays a hand on his sunken, burned chest.
Warming to a bare smile, you say, in sirihish:
"Still, a whistle is better than silence, for those who dare. Better than nothingness, even if that has more value than the lowly at times."
Cheerfully, you say, in sirihish:
"So let us be counted, and a tax called a levy! Better to be something, than continue to fall."
With a warning finger raised, you say, in sirihish:
"And even yet, falling is more than nothing, so be not proud, damnable sharp."
The Sun King's Sanctuary [N, E, S, W, U, D]
Meticulously fitted blocks of onyx comprise the floor of this expansive
room, frequently polished against the scuffing that comes from heavy foot
traffic. The dark floor gleams dully under the light from the stained
glass windows positioned high on the walls and the light of the agafari
chandelier that hangs above the center of the chamber. Vine-carved trim
of darkly-stained baobab circumscribes the spacious room, smoothly
fashioned to flow seamlessly between each intersection of the ceiling,
walls, and floor. Occupying a significant portion of the space, a large,
circular bar topped with buffed alabaster sits in the middle of the area,
surrounded by baobab stools.
Several decoratively carved tables fill this room, while a polished
leather couch nearly ten cords in length sprawls along the northern wall.
An arch in the western wall opens to an expansive gallery and opposite it
a similar opening leads out to a small courtyard. Music, laughter, and
applause drift in from the stage area to the north. In the northwestern
corner a tightly spiraling wooden staircase embellished with carved leaf
patterns winds its way up to the second floor. A thick, black-painted
baobab door sits in the southern wall, opening out the bustling North
Road outside.
A long, white painted table sits here.
The Tuluk bulletin board is here propped up on a stand.
A grand mural of a stylized map adorns the entire southern wall here.
The limber, ashen-haired templar is standing here, looking a bit winded.
- he is carrying a large red bag.
The plump, tawny-skinned woman sits on a stool, strumming on her mandolin.
The slender, henna-haired man sits at the bar, with a wineglass in one hand.
The plump, greying man stands by the bar, smoking and drinking.
The petite, ebon-maned woman sits cross-legged at the end of the couch.
The long-haired, middle-aged man stands behind the counter.
The aging, half-handed male elf moves to leave. Nearing the door, he pauses to respectfully dip his head to the limber, ashen-haired templar,
a faint smile on his chapped lips.
The aging, half-handed male elf passes the red-robed templar, padding out onto the street.
You stand up from a polished alabaster bar.
The aging, half-handed male elf approaches the oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman.
As the oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman instinctively steps forward to greet you ahead of the dapper man with dark brown eyes and a supple,
black leather couch, the dapper man with dark brown eyes sips from his bleached-bone whiskey flask.
The aging, half-handed male elf moves slower as he approaches, hands open and empty. As he steps into weapon range, he pauses, smiling.
His voice gentle, considerably hushed and could be constrewd as mumbling, the dapper man with dark brown eyes says to the oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman, in allundean:
"Let him pass, Kamsil."
To no one in particular, still facing the woman, you say, in sirihish:
"I came to thank you for elegant truth, woman who is a sword unsheathed. "
The dapper man with dark brown eyes lowers his bleached-bone whiskey flask to his lap as the oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman protectively steps to
the side of a supple, black leather couch, unimpeding your line of sight to him.
Bemused, you say to the oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman, in sirihish:
"So often the dance of men and women, much less low and high, is beset with such theatre, so many disguises."
Dipping his head slowly and deeply, you say to the oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman, in sirihish:
"But for simple honesty without even a word, this wretch groveling stands humbled. I am instructed, and thankful."
Silently studying you, the oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman remains alongside a supple, black leather couch and spares only a moment's glance upon the dapper man with dark brown eyes.
Wetting his thin lips while dispatching his youthful tone, a hint of curiosity laced within, the dapper man with dark brown eyes asks you, in allundean:
"To what are you called, Citizen?"
Apparently stunned at being addressed, you say, in sirihish:
"Somna, Chosen Lord, just a dream soon to pass."
The limber, ashen-haired templar has arrived from above.
The limber, ashen-haired templar steps augustly into the tavern, back straight.
With a warm smile, the limber, ashen-haired templar looks down at the dapper man with dark brown eyes.
Gently leaning back against a supple, black leather couch, looking up to you, the dapper man with dark brown eyes says to you, in sirihish:
"Indeed. Dreams can often find a way of showing us truths we did not see waking. His Radiance, Somna."
The very short male wearing a horned, purple leather mask has arrived from the south.
Catching sight of the mask, the limber, ashen-haired templar looks down at the very short male wearing a horned, purple leather mask.
The very short male wearing a horned, purple leather mask dips his head respectfully to the limber, ashen-haired templar as he steps in and
offers a nod to the dapper man with dark brown eyes as he moves deeper into the room.
Lowering his head, you say, in sirihish:
"I am edified. Praise lies at the heart of a man. May your path be illuminated as is right, Chosen Lord."
The aging, half-handed male elf backs away, turning to leave at the door.
Noticing between a split in the patronage, a smile dispatching upon his thin lips, the dapper man with dark brown eyes looks up at the limber,
ashen-haired templar.
2nd performance
You stand up from a polished alabaster bar.
The aging, half-handed male elf rises, fixing the room with a baleful gaze.
You begin speaking sirihish.
Raising one of his remaining fingers as he addresses the room, you say, in sirihish:
"When I was young, I wasted my fire with women. Even such as I know that such soft scars can make or break a man. Only now, can I know."
The tiny, copper-skinned, auburn-haired woman walks east.
Flourishing with two fingers on each hand, you say, in sirihish:
"As with many, I became my path, like stone, underfoot. Never the chisel, as a better man might be, I made love to stone."
Wryly, you say, in sirihish:
"I do not think I was felt. Only now, can I possibly know."
The aging, half-handed male elf bows his head with a weary sigh.
Without raising his gaze, but still clearly heard, you say, in sirihish:
"Only arriving old, this dream of dirt was taken by the sky. The wind and storm cannot love, thus it made hate to me."
The tiny, copper-skinned, auburn-haired woman has arrived from the east.
Tracing a smoothing hand along his well-fitted, silvery-grey leather overcoat, the dapper man with dark brown eyes stands up from a supple, black
leather couch.
Resting a mangled hand on his burned chest, you say, in sirihish:
"Only in my bare remaining tomorrows can I hope to know, of youth, of love, of hate..."
The dapper man with dark brown eyes walks south.
The oily-skinned, ochre-curled woman walks south.
Trailing to a stop, gazing after the departing noble, you say, in sirihish:
"If knowing is to be illuminated, for one such as I."
The aging, half-handed male elf bows his head, departing to the dubious reaction of the crowd.
3rd performance
Addressing no on in particular, you ask, in sirihish:
"What painting comes, from a dancer out of tune? What joy springs from the cripple who cannot rise?"
Daring to look towards, but not at the limber, ashen-haired templar, you say, in sirihish:
"What fruit from salted ground, I ask? Daring to ask, I know I am never even the question. Simply, whira passes through carved bone..."
The aging, half-handed male elf lays a hand on his sunken, burned chest.
Warming to a bare smile, you say, in sirihish:
"Still, a whistle is better than silence, for those who dare. Better than nothingness, even if that has more value than the lowly at times."
Cheerfully, you say, in sirihish:
"So let us be counted, and a tax called a levy! Better to be something, than continue to fall."
With a warning finger raised, you say, in sirihish:
"And even yet, falling is more than nothing, so be not proud, damnable sharp."
The Sun King's Sanctuary [N, E, S, W, U, D]
Meticulously fitted blocks of onyx comprise the floor of this expansive
room, frequently polished against the scuffing that comes from heavy foot
traffic. The dark floor gleams dully under the light from the stained
glass windows positioned high on the walls and the light of the agafari
chandelier that hangs above the center of the chamber. Vine-carved trim
of darkly-stained baobab circumscribes the spacious room, smoothly
fashioned to flow seamlessly between each intersection of the ceiling,
walls, and floor. Occupying a significant portion of the space, a large,
circular bar topped with buffed alabaster sits in the middle of the area,
surrounded by baobab stools.
Several decoratively carved tables fill this room, while a polished
leather couch nearly ten cords in length sprawls along the northern wall.
An arch in the western wall opens to an expansive gallery and opposite it
a similar opening leads out to a small courtyard. Music, laughter, and
applause drift in from the stage area to the north. In the northwestern
corner a tightly spiraling wooden staircase embellished with carved leaf
patterns winds its way up to the second floor. A thick, black-painted
baobab door sits in the southern wall, opening out the bustling North
Road outside.
A long, white painted table sits here.
The Tuluk bulletin board is here propped up on a stand.
A grand mural of a stylized map adorns the entire southern wall here.
The limber, ashen-haired templar is standing here, looking a bit winded.
- he is carrying a large red bag.
The plump, tawny-skinned woman sits on a stool, strumming on her mandolin.
The slender, henna-haired man sits at the bar, with a wineglass in one hand.
The plump, greying man stands by the bar, smoking and drinking.
The petite, ebon-maned woman sits cross-legged at the end of the couch.
The long-haired, middle-aged man stands behind the counter.
The aging, half-handed male elf moves to leave. Nearing the door, he pauses to respectfully dip his head to the limber, ashen-haired templar,
a faint smile on his chapped lips.
The aging, half-handed male elf passes the red-robed templar, padding out onto the street.