O2 ♚ I'M A LONG TIME TRAVELER HERE

[slaveking]

WHO: Character(s)
WHAT: Several Rifters and native drop-ins congregate at the Tavern as advertised via messenger crystal.
WHEN: Late January (forward-dated for recentmost app approvals!)
WHERE: The Tavern, private room
NOTES: OOC plotting here! Feel free to treat this like a general mingle log, but I will be making empty starters below for specific topics for group threads/conversation. An infodump/glossary link may also be pending from Araceli/Church.

It's past dinner time. This provides a reasonable excuse to drink only out of the ale pitchers set up for the expected guest, although there's a little bread and salt pork set up on the one bench along the wall. Dozens of chairs and a few less tables are loosely organized into groups. There's no dais or marked center for the room, the bar room version of the principles of the Arthurian round table, all being equal in the private room. Which, granted, is only as private as the public announcement and common courtesy might enforce. In other words, that can't be a real expectation.

However, the other Tavern workers are watching the door and main floor discreetly, multi-tasking with running the usual evening business. It's not so different from any other night, not even for the involuntary immigrants gathering on the second level. Drink, talk, and get to know.

Comments

[slaveking]

I came here with nothing but the threads on my back and these, [Marcel says, spreading his hands for a brief moment. He has nice hands, mind you—pretty big, long fingers, suitable for the piano lessons his ‘father' had stipulated he take once upon a time. She might notice the ring winking from his finger, silver strands corded around a gem of bright lapis lazuli, before he flops his hands down on the table again.] I'm lucky that the witches of my ancestry granted me with the gifts of healing and resilience, myself.

[Someday, the lie is going to cost him, but not today! And technically, these were indeed the gifts that Esther had meant to pass on. The predatory characteristics and nasty blood habit had been an unfortunate accident, really.]

I have been told that dwarves of this place run incredible workshops, [he notes.] Might be they could figure out what to do with your armor. I mean, it might be worth trying. I'm told they have a knack for invention, too, and that might be interesting for you as well. [He folds his arms, a smile passing briefly over his face.] Wait a minute. Are you telling me you don't have a legendary sword on you?

[lennethvalkyrie]

[She'll smile, a touch wryly.] Did you hope for Dainsleif, that may not be sheathed again without killing? Mistilteinn or Laevateinn, which may kill even gods? [Her eyes flash with a genuine teasing mirth.] Or perhaps Gungnir itself, the All-Father's spear of Yggdrasil's sacred ash, which always finds its fatal mark?

[The valkyrie laughs, a sound like silver bells, and shakes her head--it's almost demure.] Nothing so exciting. If I carried such relics, the All-Father would find us here and reach through the sky to retrieve them before we were even halfway to finding our way home. [And she would feel a great deal more distraught about having been pulled from her tasks in Midgard.]

Just this. [The blue of her eyes twinkle again, as she pulls her sword from its sheath and balances it on her hands, offering it towards Marcel so he can examine it. Despite her modest attitude, it's still of Valhalla's make. Exquisite balance, simple design but excellent craftsmanship; well used, but well maintained.] But if you are from Midgard's future, it is an age-old relic, and a valkyrie's sword to boot. Legendary enough, no?