Tavern Meme

[dragonny]

An Adventurer Walks Into a Tavern...

Stop me if you've heard this one.


Rules

1.  Your character is in a tavern for whatever reason.
2.  Something interesting happens.

Comments

OTA!

[fugitivi]

Fenris does not look subtle no matter where he goes or what he does - he was made to be shown off, not to go unseen - so generally he scarcely even tries. Danarius is dead and now he is the hunter, not the hunted: he delights in how slavers flee in the face of rumors of his presence, the elf with lyrium in his skin.

But tonight he is making his pathetic attempt at blending in, with a hood drawn up over his distinctively white hair, because he has come to Skyhold uninvited. How not, though? There had been such a big, ugly, magical hole in the sky and even when it was gone whispers of Corypheus had spilled down out of the mountains.

All was going fairly well for mission sneak in and eavesdrop on some demon-related gossip, until the comically large greatsword strapped across his back catches the fabric of one tavern maid's dress when she tries to stride purposefully by, causing her to trip and dump a whole platter full of ale steins over his head as well as and the heads of anyone sitting at either of the two tables next to his own. For good measure, she'd even grabbed at the excess fabric of his cloak on the way down in a last ditch effort to remain upright, yanking the hood off and almost strangling him for a moment before the ties give way and snap and the whole thing just falls on top of her in a big, undignified lump. "Fasta vass," he splutters loudly, dripping and suddenly ill-tempered (as though it hadn't been mostly his own fault.)

Someone better step in, because he does genuinely look like he might start throttling her as she tries to stand back up. "What is the meaning of this?" Surely he's been caught! Doing absolutely nothing. (Old paranoias die hard.)

you will regret that OTA I am sure

[deviatus]

As the Inquisitor had seen fit to leave Dorian behind whilst she went traipsing about the Hissing Wastes--a field trip he had no problem sitting out quite frankly, considering how poorly his complexion suffered when blasted with sand and wind--he was left to his own devices.

Devices that mostly happened to be sitting in the tavern trying to out-drink Bull's Chargers, but still. Nothing out of the ordinary.

And then a strangely tattooed elf sends a tavern wench tipping arse over teakettle and comes up sputtering like a wet cat. And are those the dulcet tones of his homeland he hears swearing so viciously? This, he cannot resist.

Rising from his seat, he comes over to offer the poor girl his arm and set her on her feet again before the elf trips over her a second time.

"There," Dorian says, scooping a half-tankard of ale from where it spins on the floor and setting it on the table with a flourish. "You've managed to clean the floor and we're all thankful for that I'm sure. Now if you could please fetch the poor man a towel before he catches a chill, he'd be ever so thankful, wouldn't you friend?"

He glances at the elf, arching an expectant eyebrow.

omg no regrets bless this

[fugitivi]

Fenris bristles, but that's nothing terribly strange: he is always in some bristled or semi-bristled state, except perhaps when utterly soused. Which is what he'd been trying to be here (no Fenris, you were trying to overhear demon-type gossip), only now he's wearing his alcohol instead of drinking it.

Perhaps it is for the best. While living in the mansion in Kirkwall he'd developed a taste for Tevinter wines of exquisite and wildly expensive vintage well beyond his usual means, and regular tavern swill had never been quite so easy to stomach after that. It usually serves only to make him even grumpier.

"The floor certainly needed it," he grouses, because for a guy that used to let slaver corpses lay about like so many useless knick-knacks and decorations in his hallways he gets awfully judgmental about bar cleanliness, "though I did not." Yeah. He is so going to have all of his drinks spat into if he tries to come here again. When the poor lass skitters off with some mumbled promise of a towel, he turns a closer eye on the man who'd like as not stopped him from making even more of an ass of himself. He has a rather Distinctive Look, as it happens. In Fenris' experience, in all the south only the men of Orlais tend to have such stylish facial hair, and Dorian certainly doesn't sound like an Orlesian. "Who are you?"