Of all the cheap, skeezy, second-thought-inducing dives in the city, the unfortunately named Salty Seaman Inn down by the docks is easily among the top 10.

Owned by a man who, despite all his own protests to the contrary, is almost assuredly a washed up pirate captain doing a poor job of waiting out his retirement in the relative comfort of Tideswallow’s waterfront district; the Seaman plays home to some of the absolute dregs of non-Roe society. Sailors, dockworkers, deckhands, pirates, scavengers, lowlifes, and all manner of visitors who are only passing through Tideswallow for a brief respite before carrying on with their worthless lives outside the walls. On any given night, it is a veritable whose-who of societal outcasts, pariahs, and those who are unwanted but not so much so that they resign themselves to the Roe just yet.

In truth, the establishment itself isn’t half bad. The building is an architectural wonder (built to resemble the majority of a large ship, standing upright on its aft). The barroom is clean (if a bit sawdusty) and jam packed with trophies from the owner’s days on the sea (“But not as a damned pirate!”). The food and drink are passable-to-great depending on what you’re ordering. The upstairs rooms are emasculate. The basement rooms, on the other hand, are free to any who want to use them, but are also steeped in about an inch-and-a-half of standing saltwater most of the year. Really, the clientele and the owner’s constant attempts to make as bad a name for his own establishment as he can seem to be the only real reasons it has such a dismal reputation around town.

The bar itself is a well-known town landmark with a storied history you can hear all about from its various patrons and critics. Its owner, Mortimer, seems to be in a constant state of turmoil with the City Council over the naming conventions of his establishment. First called the Hag’s Tit (“After me dear old mother’s beloved pet bird, of course!”), former Lord of Entertainment Byron Shetharp forced him to change it under penalty of a fine so steep it would leave him indentured to the city for generations. Giving in only after a tavern brawl which ended in Mortimer losing several of his more important teeth and Lord Byron earning the moniker “Glass Eye” Shetharp, the name was eventually changed to the Fork’s Ewe (“From the old gnomish ballad about the lamb trapped between the two rivers. Don’t pretend ya don’t know it, ya glass-eyed old git! Here, quit walkin’ away so fast and I’ll sing ya few bars!”). Around this point, Lord Shetharp abandoned his seat on the council, uprooted his estate, and moved to Anvilreach. It is still believed to this day that Mortimer’s antics played no small part in his departure. The subsequent Lord of Entertainment proved to be less fun to pester. Lord Sulthor van Ellsworth, rather than meet Mortimer in person and play his games, simply began paying urchins to break the sign off the front of the tavern. Every time Mortimer would have a new one installed, another “accident” would befall it. Eventually, Mortimer gave up on the signs and simply painted the name The Salty Seaman over his doorframe. Not one to be outdone in terms of pettiness, Lord van Ellsworth began sending hoodlums in the middle of the night to paint over it. This began a weekly tradition that both parties still keep up to this day, almost nine years later...

As Shivom walked through the doors of the Salty Seaman, he was immediately glad he had skipped over this place and found a nicer spot to sleep. Rowdy, noisy and filled with oddball lowlifes, Shivom felt perfectly at home. However, while these places sometimes worked out as a place to stay, he didn't want to worry about his room getting burgled or any of the other hassles that came from living above a rowdy tavern.

Although a bit overdressed for this dive, his half-orc features were obvious enough that nobody batted an eye at his entry.

Shivom headed to a quieter end of the bar and ordered a beer. When the bartender brought it back, he said, "hey, I'm looking for Mortimer. He around this early?"

In reply to Shivom Grozvog (msg # 2):

The crowd was definitely loud enough, but still fairly thin. You suspect the taverns patrons tend to ebb and flow with the day’s work. For the time being, the patrons seem to be almost exclusively sailors off of the three ships moored in the harbor. A typical mix of humans, dwarves, a stray gnome here and there, and about a dozen kobolds sharing one of the large booths that make up each of the corners of the barroom. The noise is cacophonous and impossible to make out any one conversation in... but the bar itself is almost completely empty.

A single dwarf lies face-down in his seat, a small puddle of booze pooling on the polished wood surface before him. Aside from him, you have the bar to yourself. The bartender is a human man who looks to be in his late 50’s. His head is bald, but covered by a pale yellow bandana. He wears a simple cotton shirt with a tremendous open neck descending almost halfway down his torso. Overtop of it rests a sailor’s navy blue deck coat, stained and patched after many years of use. Various golden tassels and knots of rope hold the whole ensemble together. The rest of him isn’t visible behind the bar. He takes your question with a grimace.

“New in town, are ya?” He sets down the glass mug he had been washing directly in front of you. “Customary ‘round here to order a drink before ya start the small talk, ya know.”

"Sorry bud, a little cross-talk there. I'll have a glass of whatever beer you recommend," said Shivom. "And you're right about me being new in town. I'm kind of making the rounds and taking in the taverns. Haven't done a full-blown pub crawl, but maybe I will once I meet a few more people."


OOC: I thought I had ordered a beer.

In reply to Shivom Grozvog (msg # 4):

“Haha, no harm there. A mug of Timberfell will only run ya about 5 copper, and from there the talkin’s free.”
He takes the mug back and fills it from a cask beneath the counter. The frothy brown beverage he places back in front of you proves to be mostly head, but what liquid is in it winds up actually being a pretty passable light ale.

“So. As it would happen, my name just happens to be Mortimer. Odds are you’re lookin’ for me, I’d wager. So what can I do for ya before ya get this pub crawl of yours underway, stranger?”
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:18, Thu 24 Sept 2020.

"Well, a friend of mine told me this was a good spot to get out of the sun for a bit. He was right about that, nice place you got here. My type of folks. But it seems your bar could use a bit of entertainment," said Shivom. He spun on his barstool and surveyed the rest of the tavern. "I'm not seeing a stage, that's ok, I'll jump on a table."

Turning back to Mortimer, Shivom continued, "look, I don't sing, I don't dance, and I sure as fuck don't strut around strumming some elvish banjo thing. I'm more of a humorist. A bit of a jester, but without the tumbling or acting the fool."

With a tilt of the head, Shivom said, "give me a couple nights, see what you think. I can put out a tip jar and if you want to keep me long term we can talk after you see my show."

In reply to Shivom Grozvog (msg # 6):

He looks you over a bit. “A funny man with a bit of heatstroke, eh?”
His scrutiny grows. “Hehe... we’ll see. See if your sorta humor flies around here. As for that sunburn of your’s, we got a room downstairs you can rest up in to nurse that little annoyance...”

He passes a small brass key to you with the number 9 engraved on its plate.

"Appreciated, thanks", said Shivom, while pocketing the key and continuing to drink. "By the way, there's gotta be a story behind you painting the name of your place on the doorframe instead of hanging a proper sign. Looks like there used to be one, but it got ripped down or something. Big storm?"