Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » Big Chefs Pub

Rules

Keep to generic fantasy races ( Dwarves, Humans, Orcs and their derivatives. )
Refrain from playing an elf, or anything similar.
Keep magic usage to a minimum.
Anyone can join, this is a casual tavern rp scenario.
Have fun!

Slight backstory

The setting for this rp is a rickety roadside tavern, within a dodgy region renowned for scandalous activity. The tavern referenced harbours criminals, vagabonds, bandits and general low lifes. As a result illicit bartering or unorthodox ongoings are most definitely NOT unheard of.
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A rigidly passing gust carrying an acrid miasma pryed at the barely clinging window shutters and apertures of the establishment, forcefully intruding through disregarded cracks akin to an insect or prowling rodent. Much like a meek insect or rodent, it disappeared as briskly as it appeared, having been overcome by the pungent waft that already hung like invisible vines within the building. It was sour. A sour stench excreted by an amplitude of disgusting origins; however sweat, cheap booze known as 'piss grog', and inexpensive dwarven hair and beard products were the main thespians in the slew. The establishment hitherto mentioned had boasted better days to say the least, but now under new ownership, fell into an unkempt plight... a representation of the barkeeps tendencies. The barkeep was an ogre after all!

A roaring bout of fiery chuckling echoed throughout the inn - no doubt Barkeep Gobsmackas. The slurry of obnoxious laughter was promptly followed with the snap of the ogres mug slamming down onto the poorly preserved bar. An almost tranquil silence succeeded the aforementioned clatter, until the entrance to the place creaked open, consuming the previous soundlessness. Heads turned to greet the newcomer.

"New, eh? Ah'll set ya a pitcher." Grumbled the ogre.

((go ahead, it's open to everyone

Draped in tattered black robes concealing the scarred studded black-leather armor beneath, a man stepped through the creaking wooden doors, setting forward a rough leather boot that clicked on the flooring under. Two glistening white cutlasses hung at his hips, the flames that illuminated the tavern danced on the shimmering metal highlighting the strange inscriptions that were etched into the blade. The man hid the bottom portion of his face by wrapping himself in a black cloth that covered from under his nose to his neck. Pealing off the hood of his cloak, the sharp green eyes of the traveler were exposed as he glanced intently at the barkeep, nodding to his remark of getting a pitcher ready.

Eli Tumbler was a named both feared and loved by many, depending on which side of business you were on. Once having a cheery and friendly disposition, it all changed when one of the many Counts-of-the-area's men broke in to his home while he was away and slaughtered his family for not paying their taxes on time. Wife and two children brutally murdered. Ever since the incident Eli turned into a sort of Robin Hood-like character, but much more violent. His tales are told far and wide, for he has traveled many lands. Moving from village to village he would harass and humiliate the guards and military stationed there and then move onto the governing castle of the fief and frighten the Count into submission, forcing them to promise to treat their subjects better. The name Eli Tumbler was a beacon of hope for the poor and common, but certain doom for the wealthy and noble. The vigilante, of sorts, was most recognized for his eyes, his iconic armor, and the scar that stretched from his left temple to his chin.

"It wreaks in here." He sniffed the air, and his face contorted in response to the repulsive smell. Seating himself on one of the stools to the bar, he paid no mind to the eyes on him.

Gobsmacka vigilently observed the newcomer with his obtruding opal-hued eyes, following Eli's movement until he seated himself. The filthy green beast raised his left apendage and inhaled a lungful of body odour, "Wreaks?" He inquired, "Ah prefer t'call i' natural air freshna." The ogre added impudently, reaching beneath the counter for a brief few moments hitherto producing a cracked pitcher from a shelf fixed within the worn furniture piece. Idly the leviathan filled the receptacle from a nearby keg. He craned his neck somewhat to retain his glare upon the visitor as he toiled, " So. Wot brings ye to ma' neck o' th'woods, 'ooman?" Drifted gruffly from the depths of his gullet; his hand - pitcher within it - creeped back to the bars surface, where he place it. Succeeding the pitcher was a dented tin tankard, which was set beside it's more fragile counterpart with a little more crudeness. "Spill." He said sharply.

Eli balanced a gold coin on his thumb and proceeded to flick it in the air sending the coin flying until it landed on the bar's surface. "Business." He remarked, grasping the pitcher and pouring himself a tankard. "I needed a drink, and you were the closest tavern around. I was also told you were accustomed to holding people like," he looked up at the barkeeper and narrowed his ghastly green eyes, placing emphasis on his last word, "me." Patting the cutlass at his side he cocked his head as if to tip the ogre off.