The Quest to Njaal's lost brewery. RP thread., The RP thread. Options

[Tellie]

Authors note: This first post will be an intro written by me for our 'NPC' Njaal, and will effectively be the start of our RP, read it well as all the information we need is right here (for the most part).

City of Anvil, Year 425 Third Era, The Flowing Bowl.

Njaal Mead-Brewer was a man on a mission, WAS being the keyword here as he was at this very moment quite unconsolable and perhaps more than intoxicated than your average drunkard in a Tavern. He had travelled all across Cyrodiil in search of a few lucky men or women to help him (and coincidentally earn a good bit of gold doing so) but none were willing "Payment up front" they all said.

You see Njaal was a (perhaps not famous yet) mead brewer. His mead so good that it would rival even the Black Briar's own mead, had the blasted Black Briars not hired mercenaries to raid his brewery and stolen the dwemer plates upon which he had carved the recipie in coded language.

He knew the sellswords were still in Cyrodiil as due to growing discontent in the province the borders were all tightly controlled and descriptions of the mercenaries had already been given to the guards. He only hoped that perhaps here in Anvil he might find someone to track down the plates, he had already given the innkeeper a handsome tip to 'refer' anyone who might be on the lookout for quick (and dangerous) credits, so now he just had to wait.

This post has been edited by Tellie: Mar 16 2016, 10:05 PM

[Acadian]

Buffy lost sight of Maenlorn, as the tavern was crowded and most of its patrons were taller than the Bosmeri innkeeper. She would let her calling card do her talking and if the Nord wanted to contact her, Maenlorn knew she would be staying at the local Mages Guild for at least a couple days.

Her mind wandered to crafting a mental shopping list of items she needed to restock her provisions after several weeks in Valenwood. After all, Anvil was rivaled only by the Imperial City when it came to shopping.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the heavy breathing and cold nose of a large dog – well, he looked more like a gray wolf actually, whose attention went straight to the magic satchel at her hip. She couldn’t repress a smile as her hand went instinctively to pet the dog’s head. She suspected his interest was in the small bit of slaughterfish steak she had slipped into the pouch for her own vixen familiar to share with Thauron’s pet imp, Sparky, later at the guild hall.

“Tiber, down!” Tiber did as directed. The Imperial behind the voice wore roughspun clothes and black hair that danced over his shoulders. His hazel eyes and next words carried an apology for Tiber’s intrusion, mentioning that the dog had only very recently eaten.

Before Buffy could reply, Maenlorn appeared with what was clearly the man’s dinner and named his price for the meal.

As the Imperial fished for coins in his knapsack, then pockets, his face reddened. He looked at Tiber as if for help, then briefly at Buffy.

If the man was acting, he was more skillful at it than most of the bards Buffy had trained with. But his youth, calloused hands and sun-bronzed skin spoke more to the outdoors and familiarity with hard work. More to non-urban naiveté perhaps than to skillfully running confidence games. Ultimately, she decided he had likely fallen prey to one of the docks’ highly skilled pickpockets. Producing the seven septims necessary to free the Imperial’s dinner, she motioned for Maenlorn to place the meal on her table. “I shan’t let a man who takes care of his animal’s needs before his own go hungry. Join me?”