The Emperor of Curd
As a group, you trod to the closest tavern in the garden district, the Emperor of Curd, the clatter of your steel-shod boots an accompaniment to the boisterous shield-clappers, performing from atop balcony and beneath awning, for all who will listen. They smash their towers and bulwarks together to the delight of the dancing ladies who twirl their shiny-stone necklaces in mad appreciation. With deafening insouciance, revelers splash frothy coconut rum concoctions upon the chests of your armors.
Hastily, you duck away from the revelry and find yourselves under the awning of your destination. Through the smoky glass, you can see the silhouettes of patrons inside, playing cards, eating from platters, drinking from tankards, talking it out, or sleeping it off. You want some of that. You tumble inside.
Into loneliness.
No patrons.
No cards.
No platters.
No drinks.
No slumber.
Worst of all, no talkin' it out.
Just a spare lobby with a few sickly palms and dusty couches. A reception area, unmanned, is off to the side, with a counter between guest and concierge (but no concierge at the moment). On the counter sits a single bell, tapped to be rung. Beyond the counter and the space behind the encounter is a wall lined with cubby holes. Depended from chains, a sign proclaims this establishment to be The Emperor of Curd.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:19, Thu 26 Mar 2009.