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

[Callidus Thorn]

As Wilbur hustled away, Edril frowned momentarily. Magic spiraled down his arm, before rippling back up, a purple haze hanging before his eyes momentarily before fading away. With his detect life spell now active, Edril closed his eyes and relaxed, paying no attention to any of the life-shadows that weren't approaching him, savouring the warm comfort of the padded chair. He shifted a little to find a more comfortable position, and began running through several of the mental exercises he'd been taught as a child to keep his mind sharp. He'd long since gotten into the habit of ensuring he didn't nod off in any unsecure location, even one such as The Count's Arms, and the few hours of sleep he'd snatched during his expedition had not been nearly enough.

A life-shadow moving towards him dragged him from his reverie. It was small, seeming more that of a child than anything else, but it stopped right in front of him. Edril opened his eyes and looked her over briefly. A small and scruffy Dunmer, no taller than a Bosmer, her face marked with crude tattoos and a scar. Edril had no doubt that her normal place was in the kitchen, and that one of Wilbur's staff was absent again. He recalled one waitress, seldom seen, who was pretty enough to brighten the place a little further. Edril sneered at the girl as she loitered, feeling the faintest tug of envy as the scar on his cheek pulled tight, reminding him that he could never smile like she could. He waved a hand towards her, a sharp, dismissive gesture. "Set them on the table and back to the kitchen with you, child. Wilbur knows better than to harass me for coin, and so should his staff. And none of your servants' tricks! It would go ill for you if I had to explain to Wilbur that he is losing my business on account of his staff."