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Open The Sparrow's Hideaway

Discussion in 'Open RP - Inns and Pubs' started by Dustman, Jan 12, 2020.

  1. Dustman

    Dustman The Silver Blade

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    WELCOME TO THE SPARROW'S HIDEAWAY


    When birds upon,

    the treetops roost,

    turn branches to archways

    Round the corner o' yonder hill, and ye might find -

    The Sparrow's Hideaway...
    Should ye find yourself alone,

    Ye lost,
    ye villains,
    ye saints,

    ye young,
    ye old,

    ye rich,
    ye poor...
    "Mhmmmm....It's beginning to sound a bit like a carol, is it not? Last I checked it wasn't near Saturnalia."

    The woodwork shifts, the bird depicted turning its head as if to scrutinize a worm.

    "But you liked the reference, right? Seems like you've enjoyed that form some time now. I've wanted to use that one for a while now; and how it will look upon the side! Imagine a traveler, tracing their finger or claw gently upon-"

    The relief scrambles, and reorganizes. The bird flaps rapidly in place, as if startled. Leaves from the branch it perches upon detach and drift across the surface.

    "Well, the place need have a new name, and you're not offering anything. We do this every time -"

    With a single flap and a few gentle curves so to indicate the displacement of air, the bird jumps into the air - presumably, onto another scene within the walls of the inn.

    "'The Sparrow's Hideaway' for this generation, then. Needs some workshopping, but that will be for another day. I should get to prepping the cider and decoration. Handle the rest, will you?"

    Everything in the corner of the in was rounded, and so while the inn was square in shape, it was unlike any man-made building in Tamriel. The main area was the public barroom, and at its center, the bar. Alcoves ran at uneven spaces of the room, their entrances accented by bark-like scales. The inn was two stories tall - the first floor containing the public room and storage, the upper floor containing the rooms for guests to stay in overnight. Both floors had high ceilings, which were crowned by rafters, mostly aesthetic in nature, and at the very top of the open space connecting the first and second floor above the bar, frosted windows which streamed gentle daylight. The grand entrance at the northern end of the space was cloaked in dancing shadows and light - torch sconces burned green wood so as to make just enough smoke for the entrance to be lightly obscured, contained within a superficial wooden arch that obscured both the room's occupants to the left and right, as well the patron entering for the first few steps they walked; a bit light chicanery to complement the true magical nature of the inn.


    The main floor was made of thin layers of bark and wood, layered gently enough so as to create a slight incline moving up from the bar itself. Currently, the large, scale-like layers were shifting about, and where the layers separated, thick branches would rise, growing unnaturally fast, weaving together to form tables, benches, stools, and chairs. Some collected stones emerged from sections of the wall which were layered like the floor. In a much larger alcove in the eastern side of the space, a small fireplace was formed, and three smooth high-backed chairs around it. The parts the walls that lacked the scale-like bark displayed carved reliefs - mostly nature scenes, each one occasionally adjusting with time.

    Overall, watching the movement of the inn as it decorated itself seemed chaotic; to the trained eye of the proprietor, it was like watching an acrobat doing a routine - a living thing the inn was, thinking, designing, placing and replacing. Emerging from one of the closed rooms in the southern end of the inn, Sparo got to work placing table settings, some tapestries from all over Tamriel over unused scale-work on the walls, that sort of thing.

    As the animation came to a halt, everything settled in with a slightly magical spark and dusting of tiny leaves. Sparo ascended the gently spiraling stairs that ran counterclockwise up to the upstairs balcony, and dressed the rooms, which were themselves fairly simple in size and accessory. When the various other elements of preparation were complete, he made his way to the central bar, adjusted his long black hair into a neat ponytail tied with a ribbon, and got to work setting out and cleaning peuterware.

    "I wonder who will join us this day, old friend?"
     
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  2. Dustman

    Dustman The Silver Blade

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    Official OOC Post:

    Welcome to the Sparrow's Hideaway. I will be playing your host, Sparo, and the inn, which as you have read, is very much alive.


    Thread overview:

    The magic: The visitors of the inn are from any time and any place, wanderers who have stumbled upon the place randomly, as the beginning lyrics state. The inn has no specific time nor place it exists in, but moves around, appearing anywhere where it would not be expected to be. That being said, it is not a time machine.

    When a person enters or exits by themselves, they exit or enter at the same place. When a person enters or exits with another, the intention of the first person to enter the doorway determines the location of the followers. If the people are from times which are different by a year or more, they will be unable to remain together.

    Any other questions regarding the magic of this place can be dictated to the proprietor, in character. This also includes questions about the magical nature and possibilities within the inn.

    This post will be updated as more statements are needed.
     
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  3. fellowknight

    fellowknight Devil Of The Details

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    In the bowels of the windswept woods, three silhouettes trailed one another on a somewhat intentional path towards the structure. For the older man at the rear, however, the direction was completely random, for he’d grown fatigued and done with this $&*%. In the few days since he'd been hired by the apparent twins, he'd kept their formation tight, silks hidden, and mouths shut. They had affairs to see to… at a wedding, or banquet, or some other, Karsan really didn’t care to remember. Had they managed to keep to the roads and stay with the Khajiit convoy, it'd have been an easy three days for one-thousand coin.

    But their luck saw them run into a handful of musty bandits, and an eyeful of fancy garments and silver was all they needed to hunt the trio for days. Karsan had thrown them off the trail, but they'd slowed to a painstaking crawl and every damn brush of the wind, or distant howl, or crackling twigs chilled the small-stepping youth to the bone; not that it helped he was downwind against their rancid perfume and musk. It progressively disagreed with his stomach..

    As they trudged and kicked up leaves, the outline of shelter peeked through a bend in the trees and ominously begged their attention. As it panned into view, partially obscured by the trees, they took cover in the foliage just short of the path’s curve, watching. Together, the skeptical pair spied from the safety of the underbrush and glanced back quizzically at Karsan Myre, the tipsy bodyguard whom lagged behind to vomit on a tree. The girl drew her lute closer in hopes it would work like a hammer, and the young boy plucked a silver dagger from his belt, wiping sweat from his brow. After relieving himself of a poor campsite meal, Karsan substituted a napkin with his cap and wiped his lips, stumbling past them to "offer his expert eye".

    “Who d-do you suppose is in there?” The young Breton had shuffled closer and tried to steel himself, but terror cut through his stupid accent. “F-fire worshipers?”

    “Dunno, and don’t care. I smell food and I’m hungry.” Karsan glanced at the knife in the boy’s hand. “Hope you don’t plan on using that pillow-fluffer.. It’s @#$%ing useless.” He mumbled without looking away from the surprisingly well-kept building. All he really cared for was a trough to rinse himself in, or any exposed barrels of dry food. There was nothing so far, just the lone tavern underscored by its imposing nature.

    “Wait.. What?” The teen fingered the blade around in his hands, and shook his head dismissively. “N-no way. I sharpened it just last night. My father gave me this from our own blacksmith---”

    “Oh, p*ss off. Your father gave you dog@#$% on a stick. Think those bandits laughed at you.. Just because? Your little knife is shaped from barely tempered steel. Not refined, pounded, or sharpened, just layered, pressed, and textured. Not made to scare off chickens, much less ruined by a whetstone. Shiny @#$%’s not even balanced right..” The boy scoffed and looked from his sister to Karsan, then finally to the knife again, disbelief clawing his features.

    “..@#$% this.“ Karsan grunted after a long pause, sliding his cap back over his greying hair and stalking along the implied path, which snaked to the building’s main entrance. He figured if it was a trap, he’d take his chances with the marauders and their drink. And they’d have to deal with a desperate, half-starved man.

    “Where are you going!? It could be a.. trap.” The boy’s sister called after Karsan, but her tone grew stifled as she realized he wasn’t turning back. She and her brother exchanged looks once more, swapped hushed prayers, before following reluctantly. What was in the building was disputable. What the surviving bandits would do to them was not.

    When they scampered to close the distance, Karsan had thumbed back his hood-less cloak to secure his axe in his grasp, and pressed against the heavy doors with his wrinkled boot. As they came open, and a thin sheet of woodsmoke crept out, Karsan’s right arm immediately curled into a low-guard position with his axe in-hand. He peered and swiped through the ghostly fog as the furnishings and decor of a grand dining hall came into view, no-- a tavern. Two-storied, decently spacious with plenty of chairs, clean floors and tables, and almost entirely vacant. Out of habit, the man glanced back at the metal door hinges-- no rust, they were in perfect shape.

    Immediately the subtle warmth provided of a fireplace kissed his skin as the vague scent of aforementioned food washed over him, coming from over the counter or wherever. Karsan didn’t lower his axe, but he did find himself drawn in like a dog to supper, his exhausted companions finding seats at the table nearest. Their caution had been quenched and though he sat on a proposed stool, Karsan wasn’t completely convinced.

    He inspected the lone barkeep as he’d continued to fluidly arrange dishes along the countertops of the bar; in the brutal homeland of the nords, the man’s demeanor and gestures were soothingly composed, maybe even naive. But Karsan cared to ponder intents no more as he plainly set his spiked-hatchet on the counter with a solid thud, plucking a leather pouch from his belt. He clinked it onto the counter as well and leveled his gaze with the stranger.

    “Ale, two pints.. No, three.” He began flatly but passed a brief expression of mutual disfavor, as if unspoken words soured on his tongue. Possibly on cue, his stomach groaned and his scowl deepened slightly. “You cook with cast-iron, steel, or silver?”
     
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    #3 fellowknight, Jan 29, 2020
    Last edited: Feb 4, 2020
  4. Dustman

    Dustman The Silver Blade

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    The acrid stench of the vinegar Sparo was using to scrub the bowl in front of him was dispersed suddenly, as howling wind from the grand entrance flooded the tavern.

    He turned and placed the dish with the others in the washtub behind him, and in turning, noticed the wood filigree at the inside edge of the bar's circular counter shift.

    A bare branch sprouted three rosebuds, one marked with long thorns. A snail formed into being beside them, delicately gripping the branch, and beginning to nibble upon their petals.


    "Three travelers, two young and gentle, and one old and grizzly, armed? The snail is a predator, no, a scavenger. They're being pursued...how did I do?" Sparo mumbled to no one in particular.

    His question was answered, as in strode the thorny rose, axe in hand. The younger ones took a seat near the door, in one of the nooks. They looked exhausted, poor things. The man looked unfazed by the smoke, as it passed his face. 'A laborer, perhaps, works near smoke?'

    He picked up another tankard, keeping track of the approach of the man as he entered. He was looking suspiciously around the space, common for travelers. A touch of human comfort might take him off-edge, and Sparo locked eyes with the man.

    "Ale, two pints... No three...." Despite his presentation, Sparo could tell he felt more at ease. "You cook with cast-iron, steel, or silver?”

    'Ah, I guess he must be a blacksmith. That makes sense.'
    Sparo put on a friendly smile, the crows-feet at the corner of his eyes wrinkling.

    "Good day. You may call me Sparo; I am the proprietor of this place. We use pewter mostly, sometimes stone, depending." He displayed the mug he was currently polishing. "Our pewter is an alloy of tin, copper, and antimony. We don't use lead anymore, really killed the flavor." Sparo cast his gaze over by the entrance, back to the rough-appearing man, and lastly to the man's exhausted Breton companions, before settling on his tankard again. "My steel is close by, however, if such service is required."

    Casting down his eyes, he filled the tankard from somewhere beneath the bar counter. As he placed it down before the man, the inn settled loudly, producing a groan through the framework. Sparo's friendly countenance twitched slightly. "I would tell your son there to sheath his silver. The inn is very sensitive to such things."
     
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