R
Rando
Guest
To all players -
The rains of Spring are normally regarded as a blessing, melting away the last of Winter's snow and ensuring the growth of the new season's planting. However, when the rain continues unceasingly for 6 days and nights, it quickly becomes a curse.
The streets of the town of Habbendale are saturated and unpassable. No less then 4 wagons this week have become stuck fast on the main road through town, and remain there even on this night. Few people have reason or need to venture out in this muck, and tonight the streets are all but deserted.
The one buisness in town town that remains continuously patronized is Fobble's, arguably Habbendale's finest tavern, which is not too great a complement when there are only 2 others, and one burned down a foretnight past. Over the past water soaked week it has become, more then ever, a place to forget the drowning storms outside and drown yourself in a different way.
Fobble's is filled with the farmers of the area who have come to forget thier ruined fields and the days of sewing that has all gone to waste. They congregate in small clumps around dark corner tables, sipping thier ale and typically only speaking to ask the barmaid for another.
Most of the other people here consist of locals you all know, or at least know of. There is, ofcoarse, Fobble himself behind the bar, silently wiping down mugs and trying no to seem to happy about being the only buisness man making a proffit off of this endless storm. Every once in a while he will wipe his hevily jowled face with the bar towel to hide his grin, then collect himself and go back to his cleaning.
There is also Ezlie, Fobble's daughter and unpaid bearwench. She is a sweet girl of 16, pretty but already showing the signs of a hardened working life in a frontier town such as this.
Here too is a stranger to this town, a tall man who calls himself Archway De'Gris. He came strolling into the tavern a hour earlier this evening, drenched to the bone and looking quite worn from the road. In the sullen silence of the bar, you all heared him give his name to Fobble and ask if any where asking for him in these parts. You also heared Fobble remark that the name was new to him, and that he knew of no one searching him out. Archway then walked to an abandoned table near the fireplace and turned his back to crowd to dry himself in the glowing warmth.
So, here you are: the farmers, Fobble and his daughter, the stranger and the 7 of you, all, for whatever reason, not content to stay home on this dreary night.
"Elzie!", Fobble calls out from the bar. "You've let the fire go to little more then embers. See to it."
"Yes, Papa." says Elzie. She sets a fist full of fresh mugs down at one of the more crowded tables of farmers, and then moves to stoke the flames.
Outside, the driving rain pelts the ledded windows and the constant, rolling thunder grows louder with each crash. It would seem that the brunt of the storm grows closer.
The rains of Spring are normally regarded as a blessing, melting away the last of Winter's snow and ensuring the growth of the new season's planting. However, when the rain continues unceasingly for 6 days and nights, it quickly becomes a curse.
The streets of the town of Habbendale are saturated and unpassable. No less then 4 wagons this week have become stuck fast on the main road through town, and remain there even on this night. Few people have reason or need to venture out in this muck, and tonight the streets are all but deserted.
The one buisness in town town that remains continuously patronized is Fobble's, arguably Habbendale's finest tavern, which is not too great a complement when there are only 2 others, and one burned down a foretnight past. Over the past water soaked week it has become, more then ever, a place to forget the drowning storms outside and drown yourself in a different way.
Fobble's is filled with the farmers of the area who have come to forget thier ruined fields and the days of sewing that has all gone to waste. They congregate in small clumps around dark corner tables, sipping thier ale and typically only speaking to ask the barmaid for another.
Most of the other people here consist of locals you all know, or at least know of. There is, ofcoarse, Fobble himself behind the bar, silently wiping down mugs and trying no to seem to happy about being the only buisness man making a proffit off of this endless storm. Every once in a while he will wipe his hevily jowled face with the bar towel to hide his grin, then collect himself and go back to his cleaning.
There is also Ezlie, Fobble's daughter and unpaid bearwench. She is a sweet girl of 16, pretty but already showing the signs of a hardened working life in a frontier town such as this.
Here too is a stranger to this town, a tall man who calls himself Archway De'Gris. He came strolling into the tavern a hour earlier this evening, drenched to the bone and looking quite worn from the road. In the sullen silence of the bar, you all heared him give his name to Fobble and ask if any where asking for him in these parts. You also heared Fobble remark that the name was new to him, and that he knew of no one searching him out. Archway then walked to an abandoned table near the fireplace and turned his back to crowd to dry himself in the glowing warmth.
So, here you are: the farmers, Fobble and his daughter, the stranger and the 7 of you, all, for whatever reason, not content to stay home on this dreary night.
"Elzie!", Fobble calls out from the bar. "You've let the fire go to little more then embers. See to it."
"Yes, Papa." says Elzie. She sets a fist full of fresh mugs down at one of the more crowded tables of farmers, and then moves to stoke the flames.
Outside, the driving rain pelts the ledded windows and the constant, rolling thunder grows louder with each crash. It would seem that the brunt of the storm grows closer.
He was talking about everyone else.