Well, I'd like a nice, frosty pint so I can toast an old friend now departed.
"Here's to ya, Padre Schwartz, may your road go ever onward."
Tales from The Drinking Bear Tavern
Started by
gothador_alethinos
, Jan 01 2006 23:13
184 replies to this topic
#181
OnionGroove
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OnionGroove
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Posted 07 July 2007 - 16:09
"In the end, you will always kneel."
"Last time I trusted someone, I lost an eye."
#182
gothador_eleanorrigb
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Posted 27 October 2007 - 17:41
Smell of fat and gristle boiling, fish frying, beef roasting, all fine to my nose. Outside wind is chilling, here this place is warm and cozy. Fire nearby I smell cedar smoking, crackling remind me of Mother...
Had I bones they would be warmed.
Hard wood beneath though tis soft to me, firelight flickerdance cast colors across me. Strange I am but not to people here; think they I am one of them. Good, say my heart, good, and time it is I think my castings I make.
Small man beside me, sweet alcochol breath. Warm skin wants he, but so sad none have I...away he goes mumbling, a spell I say for he. Loudly then door opens, angry Elf fills tavern with cold feelings of hunger and hate. Studies carved words in wood does he, fingers tracing then fist pounding, growls he harshness and a name. Chaszmyr, hisses he and demands to know where he be. Keeper say that name not pass his ears in long time.
Oh, so angry he...
Into my tunic my hand pass; cards I take from inside pocket, smile touch my lips when cards grow warm. Tap on table, tap on deck, cards they fly from my hand, say they for he, this angry angry Elf.
What will I see for he?
Had I bones they would be warmed.
Hard wood beneath though tis soft to me, firelight flickerdance cast colors across me. Strange I am but not to people here; think they I am one of them. Good, say my heart, good, and time it is I think my castings I make.
Small man beside me, sweet alcochol breath. Warm skin wants he, but so sad none have I...away he goes mumbling, a spell I say for he. Loudly then door opens, angry Elf fills tavern with cold feelings of hunger and hate. Studies carved words in wood does he, fingers tracing then fist pounding, growls he harshness and a name. Chaszmyr, hisses he and demands to know where he be. Keeper say that name not pass his ears in long time.
Oh, so angry he...
Into my tunic my hand pass; cards I take from inside pocket, smile touch my lips when cards grow warm. Tap on table, tap on deck, cards they fly from my hand, say they for he, this angry angry Elf.
What will I see for he?
#183
OnionGroove
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Posted 28 October 2007 - 01:40
So much blood...so much living blood around me the smell of it in their veins makes my head spin. The thunder of their hearts...would that I could gorge myself of their lifeblood--ah, now that would indeed be Heaven, but alas I am not here for feasting. Nay, I am here for revenge.
The Barkeep is a strange one; a Bear, yet I sense a man within...killing him would be a challange best suited to one far stronger than I, though I can not help but ponder what secrets lay within his blood. He asks me what I will have, bringing something whitty and chilling to my lips, though I do not say it. "Something bloody," I tell him; he nods and quite to my surprise he hands me a menu tailored especially with Vampires and other Bloodfeeders in mind. I am impressed, and I find I feel a sort of respect for the Barkeep. It is a fine menu, truly, a shame I can not sample it all...I make my choice and he thanks me, then goes to tend to my order. "You've a need for warm flesh, yes?" I draw in a deep breath and gaze sharply at the man who has taken a seat at the bar beside me. "Why do you ask?" My voice is hollow when I speak, but the man chuckles and pats me on the back. "I recognize hunger," he says, and while I do not doubt him I think he overestimates himself. "There's a place on the outskirts of Gothador, it caters to all manner of hungers. Spend a night or two at the Bordello, it will do you good." I laugh dryly and say, "you are mistaken sir, it is not a companion for a night or two that I seek, and the satiation of my hunger is quite...fatal for the other 'participant'." He eyes me cautiously and I ask him, my voice a deadly whisper, "does the Bordello cater to murder?" His face darkens suddenly and he leaves my side quickly, without another word. I laugh to myself and as the Barkeep brings me my meal, I allow myself to relax.
It is now that I hear a haunting voice amid the din of mirth and merriment in this comfortable place.
"The siren sings a lonly song of all the wants and hungers; the lust of love a brute desire, the ledge of life goes under. Divide the dream into the flesh, kaleidoscope and candle eyes; empty winds scrape on the soul, but never stop to realize..." I do not stop to look around; I am not interested in anyones' conversations, only the hot, bloody meal before me and the chilled bloodwine to drink. "Animal whisperings intoxicate the night; hypnotize the desperate, slow motion light. Wash away into the rain, Blood, milk and sky; hollow moons illuminate, and beauty never dies..." It is a female voice, one that might lure a Mortal man to his death; I am now curious about this siren, but my need for nourishment outweighs my curiousity for the time being. "Running wild, running blind, in the body deep; a thousand years beside myself, I do not sleep. Seduce the world at rest, Dead water lies; ride the only one who knows, Beauty never dies." My meal finished and the tankard emptied, the fire in my blood ebbs and I turn away from the bar. I find the siren seated at a table behind me, near the fireplace. She's a strange little thing; I have never seen anyone like her before and thoughts of her origins fills me with wonder.
As I approach her table I see she is casting cards; a witch then? Perhaps, but she is more than a witch...That sword in her lap brings a smile to my face, and I know that though she is no blooddrinker, she's shed her share of blood. Her grace, the flow of her movements, the flick of her wrist, oh what a specter she must be in battle..."Tell me, little one, how is it that a witch becomes a warrior?" She turns her gaze to me but does not stop her casting, her eyes dark and deep, and says to me, "I was born in the wagon of a traveling show, my momma used to dance for the money they'd throw. Papa would do whatever he could; preach a little Gospel, sell a couple bottles of Dr. Good. Gypsies, tramps and thieves, we'd hear it from the people of the town, they'd call us...Gypsies, tramps and thieves, but every night all the men would come around and lay their money down." Gypsies...my old, coal-black heart flutters a bit...Gypsies were the only Humans who ever showed me any kindness, the only Humans I swore I would never prey upon. I catch a glimpse, in my mind's eye, of her having to defend herself against threats of both Human and Otherworldly design, and I know the truth of the old proverb about Warriors...the best ones are forged in the heat of battle. I know I do not wish to meet her in one.
Her speech is odd, lyrical, and as I take the seat across from her at the table I have the strange sense that our paths have crossed before. The silence between us is full of...something nearly tangible, something familiar but what I can not say. I watch her turn the cards and I can almost comprehend them. "Who are you, little one? What is your name?" She shrugs at my question, as if she thinks her identity is of no consequence. After a moment, she says, "Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been...lives in a dream...waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for?" She turns a card and looks up at me; it is the Death card, and I am filled with emotions I can not name. "Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name...nobody came. Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave, no one was saved..." She pushes the Death card toward me and I struggle with this turmoil within; why did I have to let her catch me up? I do not need this distraction, yet I can not summon the will to leave this place. "All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?" The perfect meal suddenly turns in my stomach and I suddenly feel cold despite the warmth around me. Her speech is comprised of songs, songs born of the World from which I came, which can only mean that we share the same World of origin. Mercyful death, did I know her as a Mortal? Did I know her tribe? And what manner of injury did she suffer to addle her brain?
Too many questions...I gather myself and ask her what the cards tell her, hoping I understand the meaning of her reply. "Killing myself for the perfect honeymoon, fighting with scorpions tied around my neck...I hear the pitter patter of a killer on the loose, children use their fingers instead of words. Crosses burn your temples on Slaughter Avenue; it takes too much time to say 'I refuse'. Time is digging graves for the chosen few, children dig graves for me and you." I do understand her, and the cards as well, and I think I am here for more than just revenge. "I can die a thousand times but I will always be here, with the powdered skull secrets of forgotten years. The hangman's noose is drenched with bloodstained tears, my hands are the killers that confirm my fears..." I dislike complications and this complicates everything. Sighing deeply I fold my arms on the table and rest my head on them, and I try to reconcile my task at hand with this strange concern for her, and the burning curiousity I feel. I straighten only to find Eleanor gone; questions and the blue-faced card of Death are all I am left with.
The Barkeep is a strange one; a Bear, yet I sense a man within...killing him would be a challange best suited to one far stronger than I, though I can not help but ponder what secrets lay within his blood. He asks me what I will have, bringing something whitty and chilling to my lips, though I do not say it. "Something bloody," I tell him; he nods and quite to my surprise he hands me a menu tailored especially with Vampires and other Bloodfeeders in mind. I am impressed, and I find I feel a sort of respect for the Barkeep. It is a fine menu, truly, a shame I can not sample it all...I make my choice and he thanks me, then goes to tend to my order. "You've a need for warm flesh, yes?" I draw in a deep breath and gaze sharply at the man who has taken a seat at the bar beside me. "Why do you ask?" My voice is hollow when I speak, but the man chuckles and pats me on the back. "I recognize hunger," he says, and while I do not doubt him I think he overestimates himself. "There's a place on the outskirts of Gothador, it caters to all manner of hungers. Spend a night or two at the Bordello, it will do you good." I laugh dryly and say, "you are mistaken sir, it is not a companion for a night or two that I seek, and the satiation of my hunger is quite...fatal for the other 'participant'." He eyes me cautiously and I ask him, my voice a deadly whisper, "does the Bordello cater to murder?" His face darkens suddenly and he leaves my side quickly, without another word. I laugh to myself and as the Barkeep brings me my meal, I allow myself to relax.
It is now that I hear a haunting voice amid the din of mirth and merriment in this comfortable place.
"The siren sings a lonly song of all the wants and hungers; the lust of love a brute desire, the ledge of life goes under. Divide the dream into the flesh, kaleidoscope and candle eyes; empty winds scrape on the soul, but never stop to realize..." I do not stop to look around; I am not interested in anyones' conversations, only the hot, bloody meal before me and the chilled bloodwine to drink. "Animal whisperings intoxicate the night; hypnotize the desperate, slow motion light. Wash away into the rain, Blood, milk and sky; hollow moons illuminate, and beauty never dies..." It is a female voice, one that might lure a Mortal man to his death; I am now curious about this siren, but my need for nourishment outweighs my curiousity for the time being. "Running wild, running blind, in the body deep; a thousand years beside myself, I do not sleep. Seduce the world at rest, Dead water lies; ride the only one who knows, Beauty never dies." My meal finished and the tankard emptied, the fire in my blood ebbs and I turn away from the bar. I find the siren seated at a table behind me, near the fireplace. She's a strange little thing; I have never seen anyone like her before and thoughts of her origins fills me with wonder.
As I approach her table I see she is casting cards; a witch then? Perhaps, but she is more than a witch...That sword in her lap brings a smile to my face, and I know that though she is no blooddrinker, she's shed her share of blood. Her grace, the flow of her movements, the flick of her wrist, oh what a specter she must be in battle..."Tell me, little one, how is it that a witch becomes a warrior?" She turns her gaze to me but does not stop her casting, her eyes dark and deep, and says to me, "I was born in the wagon of a traveling show, my momma used to dance for the money they'd throw. Papa would do whatever he could; preach a little Gospel, sell a couple bottles of Dr. Good. Gypsies, tramps and thieves, we'd hear it from the people of the town, they'd call us...Gypsies, tramps and thieves, but every night all the men would come around and lay their money down." Gypsies...my old, coal-black heart flutters a bit...Gypsies were the only Humans who ever showed me any kindness, the only Humans I swore I would never prey upon. I catch a glimpse, in my mind's eye, of her having to defend herself against threats of both Human and Otherworldly design, and I know the truth of the old proverb about Warriors...the best ones are forged in the heat of battle. I know I do not wish to meet her in one.
Her speech is odd, lyrical, and as I take the seat across from her at the table I have the strange sense that our paths have crossed before. The silence between us is full of...something nearly tangible, something familiar but what I can not say. I watch her turn the cards and I can almost comprehend them. "Who are you, little one? What is your name?" She shrugs at my question, as if she thinks her identity is of no consequence. After a moment, she says, "Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been...lives in a dream...waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for?" She turns a card and looks up at me; it is the Death card, and I am filled with emotions I can not name. "Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name...nobody came. Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave, no one was saved..." She pushes the Death card toward me and I struggle with this turmoil within; why did I have to let her catch me up? I do not need this distraction, yet I can not summon the will to leave this place. "All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?" The perfect meal suddenly turns in my stomach and I suddenly feel cold despite the warmth around me. Her speech is comprised of songs, songs born of the World from which I came, which can only mean that we share the same World of origin. Mercyful death, did I know her as a Mortal? Did I know her tribe? And what manner of injury did she suffer to addle her brain?
Too many questions...I gather myself and ask her what the cards tell her, hoping I understand the meaning of her reply. "Killing myself for the perfect honeymoon, fighting with scorpions tied around my neck...I hear the pitter patter of a killer on the loose, children use their fingers instead of words. Crosses burn your temples on Slaughter Avenue; it takes too much time to say 'I refuse'. Time is digging graves for the chosen few, children dig graves for me and you." I do understand her, and the cards as well, and I think I am here for more than just revenge. "I can die a thousand times but I will always be here, with the powdered skull secrets of forgotten years. The hangman's noose is drenched with bloodstained tears, my hands are the killers that confirm my fears..." I dislike complications and this complicates everything. Sighing deeply I fold my arms on the table and rest my head on them, and I try to reconcile my task at hand with this strange concern for her, and the burning curiousity I feel. I straighten only to find Eleanor gone; questions and the blue-faced card of Death are all I am left with.
"In the end, you will always kneel."
"Last time I trusted someone, I lost an eye."
#184
Mysticalme
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MysticalMe
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Posted 05 November 2007 - 16:41
*peeks in* Nice story folks, keep it up 
#185
OnionGroove
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Posted 21 December 2011 - 06:42
I'll have one last drink for the road. Cheers.
"In the end, you will always kneel."
"Last time I trusted someone, I lost an eye."
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