Dead World, Chapter I: The Something of Something's Something

[The Kneumatic Pnight]

A tavern—the stereotypical meeting place for a ‘ragtag group of adventurers’. True to form, this dank, mildewed, wooden building was filled with mercenaries of all stripes—alone and in groups—all ready to put their skills to use. The reason for this particular tavern, the Rusty Axe Alehouse, was its connections. Specifically, its connections to the ‘Behemoth Syndicate’, a criminal group particularly noteworthy for its willingness to employ outside muscle, particularly now that attacks on Behemoth holdings had become the month’s news.

The Rusty Axe Alehouse was overfilled with people; serving wenches of the typical variety moved deftly about the mobs, tending to too much for far too little and making sure to pretend it was the time of their lives. The bartender (and owner) of the tavern was a stout, balding Dwarf with a stern face and a red beard; he wore chain mail and kept his hands on the axe that gave this bar its name, while simultaneously eyeing every occupant of the bar suspiciously at once.

There is an unseen tension filling the tavern. As much as every mercenary here is making an effort to enjoy the comforts of the tavern, at any time, a representative of the Behemoth Syndicate would arrive and provide them with an ‘in’ to one of the most lucrative jobs this side of the three towers.

Of course, only the Gods knew if any of them would survive it.

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[OOC]
For, perhaps, want of a bit more time to nebulously plan shit—or maybe simplicity—I'm providing a time for all of you to get in. If you're not a group, become one, if you are, I don't know, do shit. Once everyone has a post (or an outside explaination) and are comfortable with what's down, I'll move you all on in the most blatantly obvious way possible.

[Sithdarth]

Way back in the corner sat a rather battered looking warforged. Sitting next to him was an empty chair. Well empty to everyone else. In this poor warforged's mind that chair held a dear friend. No more than a mere hallucination and yet so very real.

The warforged cast the occasional furtive glance around the room. Not an altogether strange action considering his present company in the tavern. However, this warforged was not afraid of the people gathered around. He was afraid of the gremlins. Little monsters that hid in between the seconds. Just waiting to pop out and tear an unwitting warforged to pieces. Several "experts" on magic and the bests there of had informed him that no such creature lived. This warforged was to wise for that. He knew they were just a pawn of the gremlins. Passing hidden messages through ripples in water and dust in the wind. They wouldn't get him that's for sure.

That's right, whispered the voice in his head, they can't get you because you're too smart for them. Someday you'll decode there messages and prove to everyone that you are right.

That's right, he reminded himself, someday I will have proof. Then I'll kill them all. Satisfied of his safety he returned to his imaginary conversation while absent mindedly, and quite harmlessly, cutting at some of the armor plating on his forearm with a knife from his table.

[PhoenixFlame]

Seated at one of the inn's tables rest a very busy looking wizard. Of course, few if any wizards often managed to look like they were not participating in a remarkably important world-shaking machination of the arcane at any given time. Vaeri Vuthairthos was no exception. The scarlet-robed, and similarly haired necromancer leaned back in the mildly uncomfortable wooden bench of a table-seat, while engrossed in the fifth chapter of "Necrosurgery, an Intermediate Guide to the Human Corpus." Fortunately, most people seemed to not hassle the mage reading a skin-bound, bloodstained and sigil-laden grimgore.

Perhaps it was a mage's defense-mechanism in such a strange enviroment to at least give an air of intimidation to ward away people who might try to take advantage of a wizard's weaker physical stature. Then again, the tome wasn't so roughed-up to look intimidating more than the fact that it had been a bit too close to one of Vaeri's latest experiments, and she hadn't had the reflexes to clean it before the patient's blood stained the pages. Pity, that.

She idly memorized a few pages from "Sigils for Joint Preservation" while intermittantly sipping a cup of tea, waiting for whatever grandoise Behemoth-Syndicate sponsored crusade might show up at any given moment.

[Arhra]

Lyana also sat in the bar, in a foul mood. A half full mug in front of her was her only companion. Her irritated demeanor and the very large axe - a sigil carved in the weapon's head betraying the crude enchantment upon it - at her side was a potent deterrent to anyone who might be interested in her for her exotic looks and amazonian build.

The reason for her anger was a sage. Or at least, he'd called himself a sage. Right now, he was lucky to call himself alive. Lyana had been... unhappy... to discover he was fraudulent. She had a very personal investment in learning as much about lycanthropy as possible and anyone who endangered that she did not consider her friend. Ever since her little affliction had come about, she'd been ostracised by her former companions, which hardly helped her temper these days.

In hindsight, as satisfying as helping the shyster learn that hell is other people had been, it hadn't been the smartest move. Flying off the handle like that could get her into bad situations - the man undoubtedly had friends other than the tough he'd thought was enough to protect him. Perhaps she should have killed them. Then she'd have only had to worry about someone missing the little worm. Well, at least she'd managed to get her money back. And more besides.

Though she was sitting on a reasonable amount of money (kept in several pouches about her person for safety), Lyana didn't think it would be enough for her purposes. The Behemoth Syndicate was said to be paying well right now, what with the repeated attacks on their holdings, but also it was riskier than some other jobs she might take. Still, if this job was as lucrative as the rumours said, it would be more than worth it. She regarded the room thoughtfully, sizing up the competition.