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.

Gethin stops short in the doorway, eyes dark with suspicion as he looks around the dusty and eerily empty room.

"That's strange."

He steps back outside.  Looks at the smoky glass again.  Then back into the dingy establishment.

"Hello...?"

Gethin's tries to slip back outside but a crush of revelers sends him crashing back in, the door in his face.  The Bearded Shield-Clappers, dwarven masters of the craft, must be conducting a street performance, right outside the inn.  Peering through the panes of beviled glass, Gethin sees but the mass of people, making space for the masters.

The sudden explosion of people and noise almost had Quinn reacting in a way that would have been ...... unfortunate for all concerned.  Stumbling into the empty lobby he looked around with a slightly shell shocked expression, his mind running through a repetitive chant that started with a hot meal and ended with a long soak.

Not seeing anyone, and frankly out of patience, the mage slams his staff into the floor.  Instead of the expected thump of wood, there's a peal of thunder that echoes through the building.

"Aaaaaaurgh!" Matwau is already feeling claustrophobic, regretful of having ever stepped inside this crazy place. When the mob rushes Gethin his panic starts to build. With a mountain lion's snarl he draws his tomahawk and barks at the crowd to stay away.

Now it is time for Faedran to place a hand on Matwau's shoulder.

"Easy now, the ways of Loudwater are strange but outside there is no threat, merely celebration," he says in a calm voice, his lilt turning the last word into a singsong.

Inwardly, he curses Brother Griffin for ever sending him away from the garden-in-the-city.  Still, an errand was an errand, and he meant to be about it eventually.

The tavern reminded him of a dead tree - the shell of life was there, but the heart was long gone.  "Something is amiss here," he declares, looking about for any sign of life.

Ravex wasn't sure what to think, so he settles on his default: anger. "What trick is this?!" He bellows, placing his hand on his Khopesh. "This town reeks of magic-tosser insanity!"