Apple Pie
Tenebrae - Friday, November 22, 2013, 7:02 PM
-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-<* A06: Ox-Strength Tavern *>--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=- The Ox-Strength Ale Tavern is known for being one of the most dangerous dives in the city. Frequented by the worst sailors, mercenaries, thugs and looters, the place is hardly the prettiest nor the tidiest of taverns, though--of late, that has been changing. Locals claim the once foul-tasting food "No longer burns the stomach--as much, anyways." Plates show signs of repair instead of cracks, though the still infamous odor of old beer and stale sweat insists on hanging about the place, and the smell of brine is near-constant. What used to be bricked-up windows have been somewhat opened. Heavy bars let in a reluctant breeze and prevent the clanging of heads against glass (which seems nearly afraid to exist). Bloodstains adorn both the nearby walls and the bricks themselves from thrown patrons and fists. The lights are dim, a few oil lamps hung from hooks in the splintered ceiling beams. A smattering of tables, scratched and carved into by many a blade, dot the expanse of the floor. Most of the tables are arranged in a wide circle to give plenty of room in the center of the bar for hasty escapes or the routine bar-brawl or fight. A worn-out steam piped stove sometimes provides warmth to the tavern. Occasionally an aging dog of some mangy breed or another can be seen sleeping near the stove or by the bar itself. Overhead the fireplace is a tribute to Rada, the patron of fishermen and rivermen everywhere.
Bennet paues in the dorrway, stamping a moment to get the drit off his boots; isn't polite to track mud onto the floor. Peering around a moment, the human makes his way towards the bar proper, grabbing a seat.
Something is happening at the Ox Strength tavern.
Something amazing.
Someone apparrantly shipped the owner of the establishment five barrels of apples instead of apple /scumble/. But that's good for everyone but the poor drunkards who are stuck with beer, since in order to make room for the replacements, Myrana Jn'Rajh has done a thing.
She has made fifteen damn apple-and-plum pies.
The smell that comes out of the Ox Strength this evening is therefore entirely unsniffed of in this rough neighborhood, for the odors of cinnamon and cardamom and nutmeg and buttery crust and hot apples are overpoweringly convincing, and, some would say, outright indecent.
That's why the place is particularly full of older customers who have come in despite the weather, especially dwarves and gnomes, and are sitting around with plates of pie and tall glasses of hot cider.
"Now this is a scent to enter on." Elycia says as she enters the bar, chuckling to herself as she comes in, ordering herself a mead as she walks her way to the bar.....
Bennet eyes the evenings crowd with a quirk to his brow. Not exactly the sort of crowd he was told to expect. "Well, came for a shot, but if ya got some of that pie left, wouldn't turn down a piece."
Myrana stands behind the bar polishing a glass. There aren't many people at the bar itself, so when Elycia and Bennet arrive to order drinks she smiles wrily at them, seeing the man's expression. "No, it isn't usually like this," she says, pouring a mead for Elycia with a smile. There's several pies on the counter on one side, and she goes ahead and starts cutting slices from them with a long knife she keeps rolled in her clean apron.
Elycia smiles and holds up a finger. "And a pie as well." She says with a bit of mirth. And she chugs her mead.
Bennet mmms, nodding at the news. "Ain't sure if pleased or disapointed at that. Nice to meet you either way, miss. You the owner of the place?" He nods a polite greeting to Elycia as well.
Svarshan has arrived.
Myrana gently settles a piece of the still-piping hot pie onto a plate and sets it before Elycia. "I am-- I'm Miss Jn'Rajh, I own the place ever since the Late Mister Oxley passed on." Starting on another slice, she glances up as someone hoots and throws a plate up at the cieling, where it smashes and then rains down shards of crockery. Looking down again, she sets the second piece onto a plate and sets it before Bennet. "The differences are mainly in years-- I have not yet decided how pleased I am at sugary mess to clean up later as opposed to hoppy. Here you are. More mead, dear?" She asks this last of Eycia.
Elycia nodnods. 'More mead." She then belches. "Woops. haven't been able to cut loose like this for a while now." She says before chomping down on PIE!
Mmmmmmm. Delicious pie!
The door opens. The door closes. Svarshan steps inside, water running off his scales. It drops, reddish-clear onto the floor. He looks bruised and tired and tired and bruised and half-alive on his feet as he heads over. Walks up to Myrana. Puts a hand on her shoulder. And says the single, most important word in the history of important words: "Beer."
"Bleh!" Goes Myrana on her first natural instinct.
Then "Oh! Svarshan are you okay?" You see she is reforming. "Uh-- sit down." She points at one of the stools that the dripscale is leaning over to have clapped her on the shoulder with a /wet/ claw.
Bennet nods, touching the brim of his hat in a polite nod. Might be more polite to take his hat off entirely, but there comes a limit at practicality; he might not get it back. "Bennet Susson, Absolution of the Lady." Glancing over as the door open, he smiles, and tips his hat again to Svarshan. "This one's had a lot of nice things to say about ya, miss. Well... really only a few things, but made 'em count..."
"Beer," Svarshan says after a moment. He...sort of pats Myrana on the shoulder, manages this at least, before gripping the chair at Bennet's table. He lifts it, turns it around, and drops onto it with a heavy thud that says: I have done this. I am sitting down.
I have ACHIEVED.
And then he looks up through his hands and manages a fuzzy smile. Sort of. Beer. Beer will make everything better.
Elycia blinks at Svarshan. "You're wet." She says quietly as she eats a piece of pie. She then breaks off a piece and offers a bite to Svarshan. "FOod."
Splat Splat! goes the poor, previously-very-dry-thank-you linen of Myrana's work blouse. Splat Splat! goes Svar's pat-pat. Myrana's teeth chatter, because Svarshan is not just wet, he is /cold/ because he just came /in/ and and and-- "Here," she says, setting down the tough, much-scarred old pewter tankard that has effectively been dubbed 'the lizard's cup' and drawing back on one of the many mysterious levers behind her bar. Foaming dark reddish brown beer comes gushing forth from a spigot with a head of pink foam. She gives it to Svarshan, and then gives to the cowboy at her bar a suspicious look.
"Good things, you say?" She asks, not sure whether to believe him.
Bennet nods firmly. "Good things." He hesitates a moment. "Well, was mostly 'bout the kegs. But could tell e' ment the lady who made them, too."
"Food," the reptile repeats, dumbly. He pokes at the pie, then lifts it, and--bites into it. After a moment, his eyes just close. He fumbles for the 'lizard's cup.' "Nrnggng," he says, in response to Myrana's query. Or possibly Bennet's comment.
Elycia chuckles softly and finishes her pie, paying for it immediately. She then begins to drink her mead to wash it down, and watches Svarshan, letting out a hiccup from the pie that she ate. "Good pie."
Myrana relaxes a little. "Ah," she says with a wry smile. "Yes, well, those things were probably true." Pausing, she glances at the water dripping off of Svarshan. She frowns at the 'Makar a moment, then lets her gaze travel past him toward the door. He has left reddish splashes and footprints. Frowning still more, she sets a slice of pie in front of him, and then steps out from behind the counter, lifting the 'gate on the far right side in order to do so.
Near the doorway, a table of dwarves continues in their merriment, singing a tipsy song in deep voices that is occasionally punctuated by (for them) bright and high-pitched impersonations of one of the characters in the chanty. It sounds like the universal shrill housewife, with responses in a whinging drunken husband pitch. You don't have to speak anything of their language to guess at the gist of th4e lyrics. They are convincing one of their number to get up on the table and jig, which he is attempting with mixed success.
Having stepped out from behind the bar, Myrana walks out to go get the mop so that no-one slips and dies while there are no Oxleys on the clock to blame-- and does a doubletake at Svarshan's back. There is a long, ugly gash down his back.
"You are a pain in the ass," she tells him, abandoning the broom and rolling up her sleeves. "I swear one day you'll fall down dead in my bar and everyone will blame me, all because of that -one time-." With bare hands she reaches out and prods at the upper part, pressing with her fingers to make sure there isn't anything -stuck- in there.
Bennet quirks a brow, watching Myrana with idle intrest (a few glances sent towards the dwarves), until such time as he spies the gash. Then the gunman's on his feet, stepping closer to lend a hand. "Least can be pretty sure is washed clean. There a proper healer near?"
Elycia simply watches Myrana and Svarshan, shaking her head. She drinks her mead a bit slower too.
"Pie," he repeats, Svarshan does. He looks a little better after that, and shudders. Grabs the foaming cup and downs it...just downs it...and then. Then just sits there blinking for a minute. Just a minute. While the brain kickstarts. While it...
While it...
"Nrrng." Relax. "There iss pie here," solemnly. A slow, welcome, warm revelation of someone who's just come in from the cold and is, reptile-slow or just Svarshan-slow, putting things together. He smiles warmly at Elycia. And pats Myrana's arm a bit. "Not your fault," he says. He blinks some at Bennet. Blinks, and...word. There are words. "Althean," he manages. "Isss fine."
"Oh--" Myrana flaps a hand dismissively. "Hahaha... no. No definitely not." And she reaches in with her warm fingers and pulls out a piece of scale. It gets tossed backwards over her shoulder. "Uh-- miss.... Actually I don't know your name." She looks past Svarshan to Elycia. "Would you go into the cuboard behind the bar and get the gin?" Another piece is located and it goes bouncing on the floor with a TAK-TAKTAK sound. "Mister Susson, would you get some of those cheesecloths? They're way the hell up on top of the cuboard."
Myrana TAK-TIKAK
Bennet mmms softly, glancing to Elycia. "No need. Got some." Front pocket, easy access, he hands Myrana a small case. A tiny flask of something best not ingested, a small spool of waxed thread, and a fishhook. Wouldn't be the first time the cowboy had need to stitch someone closed. "I'll fetch the cloth quick."
Benthus has arrived.
Svarshan is sitting at the bar being fussed over by some squishy pink persons, because he's /bleeding everywhere/. But he doesn't look especially perturbed, even as Myrana is sticking her (thankfully petite) hands into a gash on his back and pulling out bits of... things. Because beer. And because beer.
Elycia chuckles softly. "Elycia Windrunner. Sorry for not introducing myself before." She says with a shrug. "I don't usually hang around the city though. Learned to live in the forest and......it's quite refreshing out there."
Beer. So long as there is beer. Svarshan fits his hand around the dented pewter mug. It even has a name on it, 'That lizard.' So he sits there and leans into the table while Myrana pokes and prods at him and utters words that... He closes his eyes, relaxing further as the world swims into place. And Elycia is talking about the trees and the woods. That is nice.
There is a SPLAT!
A roly-poly greenish creature the size of a potato that looks more like moss and sprouts than cat lands on the counter like a fat spider fallen out of the rafters. On all four feet. It has big lantern eyes only for Svarshan and his /utterly fascinating debris/.
"No!" Myrana insists as her horrible familiar starts testingly to prod at one of Svarshan's scaley arms, seeing whether the lizard will let him climb akwardly up and onto his shoulder. The cat doesn't listen, but starts sniffing around for... what? Pollen? Seeds? Spores? "Stay out of that! Unhygienic!" Myrana says, and then looks over at the flask being offered by Bennet. "Er-- thank you." And uncorking the top, she clears her throat and pours some on before threading the needle.
Bennet blinks, hand straying a moment towards his rifle at Rum's arrival. "...is... that a cat?" The gunman blinks a moment, shrugs, and fetches the cheesecloth. Priorities.
"More or less," says Myrana around the thread that she is licking to get it to go through the... through the... damnit! Through! the needle! OKAY. Okay she got it. "Rassum...."
Myrana says, "We used to have a healer who'd come in here once in a while."
Myrana says, "He was a nice boy. Never got to -drink-, so he stopped coming, but he was nice."
Svarshan starts to lean back and encounters--well, the wound sort of squishes against poor Myrana's hands. He half-turns and blinks at her before, "It died," he says. This is, of course, to reassure. He makes the motion of patting the poor, ever-suffering woman on the forearm before turning back around. Mrmm. Pie.
"Blerg," says Myrana.
Myrana says, "Stop moving around!"
Svarshan blinks once. Blinks and just...stills.
Benthus steps into the tavern, drawn by the scent of freshly baked Apple-plum pies, to discover that the innards of the establishment is unusually full of patrons. Not that he has seen the tavern full, there have been occassions during his long travels around the city that he would spy into the tavern and see the tavern packed to the rafters with people having a good time. Usually, the end result is not very good for the neighborhood, but he thinks that the people who live nearby have gotten used to the sound coming from the Ox during its busy days. But thing that fascinates him is that there appears to be an over-abundance of dwarves and gnomes. He finds it intriguing that apple-plum pie is to dwarves and gnomes, what catnip maybe for cats. So he looks about the entire establishment, with a smile on his face of course, and proceeds towards the bar.
Svarshan does not even nod hello. He is instead sitting very obediently still for an Althean who is wielding sharp, pointed object near open flesh. He does not even dare look up towards Bennet.
Myrana is stitching Svarshan up with great care-- but slightly more physical effort because he is a lizard and lizards have tough hide. Out of the corner of her eye she espies Benthus entering and sort of glances at him in greeting, though of course her hands are /so gross/ and she has just the presence of mind not to wave. "Hello mister Benthus-- er, er--- get some pie. Its on the counter. Are you breathing, Svarshan? You have to breathe, you know. Its -important-. Oh, thank you, I'll need that cheesecloth in just a second."
Elycia waves to Benthus as he comes in, but she watches Svarshan and Myrana in a bit of interest.
The lizard obediently lets go a breath.
Bennet returns with the cheese cloth quick enough, and a vauge mental note to ask about some of the things he found while looking for it. There's bound to be a story behind the broken crossbow. Eyeing the wound a moment, the gunman mutters softly. "Here, just a tick..." Laying his hand over the gash, a sort of grey light shimmers a moment, and the wound acts a bit like a time lasp movie, growing closed. Well, not totally closed, but the worst of it seals over.
Benthus approaches the present care-taker of the tavern, having knowledge of who really owns it, and offers her a smile and a nod, "You have shown kind consideration for the people under the mountains, ma'am. For that, I believe the dwarves and gnomes will favour you and your establishment more." He wonders, at the back of his mind, if that was really the intent of the proprietor. That the apples were the real merchandise being purchased and that apple scumble, whatever that is, was just a facade to keep the regular patrons from getting all nervous and agity. Whatever the real answer may be, the effect is pleasing to the half-elf and is genuinely impressed by Myrana's thoughts. He does give a kind and appreciative nod towards Elycia, who happens to be nearby, and offers her a silent hello before shifting his attention to Myrana and Svarshan. To Svarshan, he says, "That looks like it hurts..." He is more fishing for the lizard person to grunt something. At his distance, he can probably smell his breath and deduce the level of alcohol he has imbibbed.
Svarshan makes a grunting noise as Bennet does his work. He relaxes a little further against the table, muscles unknotting that he didn't know were knotted. And then, well. He looks down at the pie. He seems to be taking this in a sort of numb stride. With adventurers, or paladins, this isn't the only time something like this would have happened.
Only.
There is pie in front of him. Wonderful, sweet pie. He shifts without meaning to. There's a trail of blood running down his side, but there's also.
Pie.
Priorities.
Myrana shakes out one of her hands. The slight closing of the worst of it gets a grateful look from her, as punching the needle through is tough work and her fingers are already smarting. The nice thing though, the maybe the only nice thing, is that her hands are freakishly warm, and so the work is a little easier. In fact the needle is glowing a tiny bit where she's pinching it between her fingers. "We'll use the cheesecloth to pack it so nothing sluices into it from the gutters," she says, meaning the really miserable drainage problems that this neighborhood has.
"Mister Benthus, that pie is still hot-- would you have some? Get Svarshan more, too." Says Myra
Elycia says, "Interesting introduction to people around here." She says before gently running her hand on the brightscale's shoulder. "I'd help if I could, but I fear my healing expertise is quite limited.""
Bennet aids with a sure hand, though a bit of hesitation. The Absolution is fairly used to assisting priests, but usually upon those past complaining.
Svarshan nudges the bit of crust in front of him, and then drops it into his mouth. Chews slowly, and savors it as though it is the Most Perfect thing on Ea. He lets go a loose breath and the rest of him sort of...deflates. He rests his chin on his forearms and mutters. Something like, "Safe." And, "Good." Before drifting off to sleep.
Benthus opted to place a hand on Svarshan and apply a bit of healing energy to course through him towards the wounded sith-makar. But he knew in past experiences... well more like past experiences of other people, that doing something to someone else without their approval is tantamount to a forcible action. And his god being the good who advocates freedom, would not condone such an action. And so, he observes the looks of the healer and the healee, checking if his assistance would be appreciated. But alas, whether of poor lighting (as Myrana has done so to obscure the flame brands that have decorated some of the tavern's location), or the delicious scent of the apple-plum pie, the half-elf could not be sure of how they would react. And thus, he keeps his hands to himself, and watches with polite sympathy to both Myrana and Svarshan. He gets cut off from this present train of thought bu the request of Myrana to partake in the pie that has been served. He looks about at the other patrons of the tavern and those who are still coming through and felt sacrifice is the virtue of the day. Despite that his mouth and belly is craving for a taste of the 'obscenely' tasteful delicacy, he offers a humble shake of his head and says, "Thank you, mistress Myrana, but I have to decline." He stops his head shaking to continue, "I am sure that the pie would taste exquisitely good, but... there are those who may want it more than I. But I will take a slice for... Svarshan is it? For your friend here." He proceeds to take a clean piece of container, well, the cleanest he could find, and places a bit of the pie on it. Not too much though, as he has to consider the other patrons as well. "I will keep it for you (indicating Svarshan) until the mending of your wounds is complete."
Bennet watches a bit longer to assure all is well before returning to the bar proper for a pie piece himself, and maybe a drink somewhere along the way. Maybe he'll have a chance to enjoy it all before something else crops up, the way things tend to do.