WHO: sam drake, beth greene, laura kint, & YOU WHAT: open post to try and get back into the groove. starters in comments, hmu for something custom. WHEN: post-modplot, generally in august WHERE: the gallows, kirkwall NOTES: tbd
A significant amount of real estate within the Baroness' Hammer is taken up by a raised platform, which is probably why it's patrons tend to end up singing.
Or that's the assumption. It's certainly not a platform made for singers; more likely, it was meant for exclusivity and then was overrun in the course of time. The tables have been more or less permanently shoved towards the back of the platform, though it hasn't stopped patrons from occupying the tables, and then providing loud encouragement to anyone who hobbles up to begin bellowing out a tune.
It makes for a lively atmosphere, to say the least.
With one elbow braced against the edge of the bar, Derrica is covertly pointing at the matronly woman across the room.
"That's Madame Iga," she's saying, voice pitched beneath the caterwauling passing as song. "I've heard she's an Orlesian Baroness who fled south after it was found out she'd arranged the deaths of three of her husbands."
Sam's not sure he's going to bother going to this tavern again in the future - but he'll try just about anything once. (In theory, he's missed spending hours in cantinas, listening to music and drinking beers. In practice, Kirkwall's idea of music doesn't really resemble the little holes-in-the-wall he spent his twenties in.) And eventually, there's some good company to speak of.
They'd talked over his rock-phone about meeting up at a place. And going for it has paid off: she's hot enough to be distracting, and she clearly knows Thedas a hell of a lot better than he does.
"She a big fan of hammering? Or getting hammered?" He's gotta ask, slouching close enough to Derrica to hear her without quite tripping over into creep territory. (By Sam Drake standards, anyway.)
Sam slouches down, Derrica sits up straighter, and they manage to find a point where they can both be heard. Her nose wrinkles slightly, contemplating (maybe the slang is unfamiliar, but the cadence of it is instructive) as she looks across the room at Madame Iga.
Her head shakes.
"If I had to guess, hammering," she tells him. "But if I had to guess, neither. She's very..."
A pause while Derrica visibly flicks through a number of potential descriptors only to land on—
"Self-possessed."
In which self-possessed more or less stands in for terribly intimidating.
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also taverns.
Or that's the assumption. It's certainly not a platform made for singers; more likely, it was meant for exclusivity and then was overrun in the course of time. The tables have been more or less permanently shoved towards the back of the platform, though it hasn't stopped patrons from occupying the tables, and then providing loud encouragement to anyone who hobbles up to begin bellowing out a tune.
It makes for a lively atmosphere, to say the least.
With one elbow braced against the edge of the bar, Derrica is covertly pointing at the matronly woman across the room.
"That's Madame Iga," she's saying, voice pitched beneath the caterwauling passing as song. "I've heard she's an Orlesian Baroness who fled south after it was found out she'd arranged the deaths of three of her husbands."
no subject
They'd talked over his rock-phone about meeting up at a place. And going for it has paid off: she's hot enough to be distracting, and she clearly knows Thedas a hell of a lot better than he does.
"She a big fan of hammering? Or getting hammered?" He's gotta ask, slouching close enough to Derrica to hear her without quite tripping over into creep territory. (By Sam Drake standards, anyway.)
no subject
Her head shakes.
"If I had to guess, hammering," she tells him. "But if I had to guess, neither. She's very..."
A pause while Derrica visibly flicks through a number of potential descriptors only to land on—
"Self-possessed."
In which self-possessed more or less stands in for terribly intimidating.