Chance Encounters [open]

The Straggler’s Rest Inn sits along a dirt track road. The whitewashed walls stand out from the thick forest that surrounds it, though green fingers of ivy grasp at it, an attempt by the wilds to reclaim it. This is a place for travellers and adventurers to rest, to eat, to take off their boots and trade a tale or two, either outside beneath a tangled canopy of wisteria in the dappled sunlight or while crowded around a crackling hearth should the weather turn frigid and unpleasant. Corvid has passed this way many times, and always finds himself settling here. The weather is hot. Hotter than it has any right to be. The rogue has shed his usual dark leathers in exchange for a light linen shirt, and has situated himself in the sunshine just outside the open door of the inn with a frosty pint in his hand. Travelling alone is strange and often incredibly dull but - if he is lucky - company will soon find him.

testing

A ginger cat pads cautiously out of a bush along the path, green-gold eyes peering about curiously. She approaches the tavern in a roundabout manner, weaving around trees and the legs of the tables on the terrace outside. She hops onto the sill of one of the tavern’s open windows, taking advantage of the breeze, and lounges there. Her tail flicks lazily though her eyes are still alert, observing the patrons as they come and go.

Not long after, a barn owl appears, gliding under the branches of a large oak. She stays in there for a while; the shade and the welcome rustle of the leaves could almost soothe her into slumber if it wasn’t for the heat. She spends some time fluffing her feathers and beating her wings gently trying to whip some cooler air around herself.

the doors to the Inn suddenly open as a red-headed woman is unceremoniously shoved out Now, please there's no need to be rude, this is all just a misunderstanding. If anything it should be seen as a compliment! The door closes and the woman straightens her fitted shirt. She nods a silent greeting to the dark haired man, enjoying his frosty pint in the sun and walks over to an empty table. She admires the ginger cat in the window sill My my, aren't you a beauty. Don't mind me, they just need a moment to calm down before they'll let me in again.

A human women with long, curly hair frowns as she stirs through a bowl of stew with a spoon. “Needs pepper,” she muttered to herself, then chuckled under her breath. “Right, debating the culinary merits of mystery stew now, fantastic, Laena.” With a mumbled word of command and a quick gesture of her fingers, a thin layer of frost grows to cover her mug. She takes a sip with a low, satisfied sigh. She’d chosen a seat outside the inn to hopefully catch some of the capricious breeze, but so far, she’d only seemed to catch more of the sun than she’d like. “You know what would be fantastic,” she mumbled to no one in particular. “*Ice cream*. Gods, if only I had access to the proper ingredients…”

A wood half-elf with tanned and freckled skin and golden long hair walked from the forest, dressed quite elegantly from someone coming from the woods. In his back he carried a bow and a lyre, and in his hands, a quill and an open journal. He stopped writing when his green eyes caught the inn before him, and he exclaimed excitedly, “Ah, The Straggler’s Rest! Here you are.” He passed by the people outside the inn and greeted them with a dash of pomp before entering, “Good day, ladies and gentlemen!” Inside, he went straight to the bar and ordered himself a pint and a bowl of stew. He loved those kinds of places, for it was a chance to meet fellow adventurers and exchange all sorts of information and knowledge. Who knows, he might as well find his next adventure as a chronicler right there. As he waited for his order, he listened intently to the barman angrily complaining about a red-haired woman they had to shove out.

The tavern doors swing open and the sunlight catches on a shimmering iridescent dragonborn holding two cold pints of ale. She whistles an upbeat tune as her body twists from side to side, navigating between tables and seats. Attached to her side is a weathered morningstar, clanking against her plated legs. A tabard with the crest of Bahamut is neatly tucked under her belt and a large shield sits on her back. With a soft oomph and a small spill of her drink, she plops into a chair by the door. Her eyes catch those of the rogue. “Martifyr!” she calls out with a smile and a polite nod. She turns her attention to her drinks as she props her feet up on another chair in front of her.

>In a small, but welcoming shadow, a dark-haired man sits behind one of the tables. He sits alone, and nobody seem to be brave enough to share his company; must be something to do with those polished scimitars resting nearby on the bench, well-kept and definitely sharp. The man’s whole appearance screams of danger, but a local inn-keeper knows his well enough to not kick him out. The heat outside is indeed unbearable, but the mercenary seems unbothered. He looks like being a resident of a faraway lands, with that dark olive skin and a mane of raven-black hair. Quietly enjoying his not-so-tasty stew, the man observes everything around him, listening to the conversations but joining none. His head raises at the sound of quarrel and a creaking of the doors. A woman being kicked out of the inn. Weird. Usually such pretty face shouldn't have problems with finding a room. "Must've done something nasty", the man thinks to himself with a shadow of a smirk. For some reason, the thought amuses him a bit. *He also notices the cheerful bard and no less cheerful paladin. Those two he'd prefer not to cross paths with. Judging by his experience, the bards are usually incredibly annoying, and the paladins...they just don't like the very fact of Gabriel's existence. And so, trying not to bring too much attention to his "bright" personality, the mercenary lowers his head and returns to eating, even though his good eye is still fixed on everyone and no one in particular. *<

A seemingly imposing figure blocks the door for a moment, though it's quickly revealed that most of the man's obscene bulk is related to his splint armor. He quickly finds an open seat out of the way of the main crowd, undoing most of the straps holding his armor in place within seconds of sitting down. It was obvious he'd done this many times before. He glances around once he's free of the cumbersome metal gear, shirt sticking to him from sweat as he wipes his brow. By the Valar, it's far too hot for me to be wearing that shit...note to self, reorganize your bag so you can pack it away instead of fucking wearing it like a blithering idiot... He stood up again then, getting a nice, frosty pint of ale from the bar before reclaiming his seat, tying his hair back out of his face with a small ponytail.