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

[Darkness Eternal]

“Dinner,” said the wood elf. “While one does need to guard their coinpurse down here on the docks, the grilled fresh catch of the day is well worth it.”

Kraven Desselius had to laugh at that. He scratched Tiber behind his ear, and the dog's tongue slipped past his jaws as he began to pant. "Aye, food is a good enough to bring one here. Never fails. Second only to the Feed Bag."

He's heard of Valenwood's cuisine, and wondered if she was from Tamriel's garden or native to Cyrodiil. He didn't ask at first, pondering more on the former. He's heard many of Valenwood's denizens were cannibals and were forbidden to harm the jungle itself by some sacred law. Weird people they were.

With eyes like deep pools, small stature and sweet behavior he couldn't imagine her partaking in such a thing. She must be a civilized elf, thought Kraven. Like Maenlorn and his brother, the one in blue. Baylorn? Forlorn? Caenlorn?

“I’m Buffy. By what name does Tiber’s traveling companion call himself?"

"Kraven," said the man as he reached out, and in a second noticed just how mirred his hand was in grease. He pulled his hand back. "Desselius," he finished.

"I'm just passing through," he confessed, leaning back in his chair. He pulled aside stubborn strands of hair as he gazed about the establishment. "Looking to rest my head somewhere pleasant for the night. I've been sleeping in the wild for the past three days and I'm just now feeling the call of a warm bed and a blanket. It isn't safe out there, y'know. The wild is packed with wild beasts and while Tiber is a tough one . . . I won't put him in a situation where he might be overwhelmed." He took the tip of the wine bottle into his lips and took a sip. "Animals aren't the only thing looking for blood. Men can be just as vicious."

He stopped there, for he realized at once that he never knew who this woman was; her trade, her backround, her buisiness here. He could ask, and she could tell him, but it could be a lie. Appearances fooled anyone, and she might just as well have second thoughts on him, too. But then again, who was he to judge?

Tiber was a good judge. He always knew who were trouble, and who weren't. The way the hound wagged his tail in her presence and licked her boot spoke volumes about her.