PM to join [Baroque Bay] The sons and daughters of anarchy (Tarn)

[Tove]

22nd of summer, 518av

Early summer mornings brought plenty of activity amongst those with a calling towards the sea. Of course, the area filled with plenty of men and women who merely enjoyed the sights of Baroque Bay with little interest in sailing, but then there were those whose blood had been seemingly replaced by the salty water they so longed to explore. Most sailors Tove had observed are passionate, and damn good gamblers.

No doubt these men and women had obtained many stories whilst sailing the sea. Sailing the open seas seemed like a show of bravery to Tove. Facing the elements with no fear and finding new places hardly sounded like a coward’s job, at least not to her.

Tove had come to Baroque Bay for a great number of reasons. To explore the parts of Sunberth she had never been allowed to before, to watch new people, to learn the culture of places other than Sunberth, the list was endless. She had also hoped to pick up on something new as she watched over the sailors.

The sun beamed down on her back, heat gliding across unexposed flesh. The breeze provided just enough cool air to keep her comfortable as she sat atop an empty fish crate. Her eyes scanned those who passed her, many were adorned with tattoos and piercings, even those who had lived long passed the peak of their youth.

Aging had always confused the young Kelvic. Longer-lived races had often complained about how fast life goes by, but 80 to 90 years had always seemed to be plenty of time to the Kelvic. Tove would be but a baby if she were a member of these long-lived races, her life would end at the same time others her age would finally be considered adults.

With a small push forward, her boots thudded against the ground as she wondered where her legs would take her. It took her quite a long while to find the entertainment she had so longed for. It had been ten chimes after the 13th Bell when her eyes landed upon the large building, towering over most of the establishments that surrounded it.

Taverns had never really Tove’s forte, but she hoped the Drunken Fish would allow her to rest up a bit as well as shield her from further abuse inflicted by the sun’s merciless rays. Entering had immediately left her overwhelmed. The smell of rum wafted up her nose viciously, the sound of laughter and yelling left the Kelvic rather anxious. The Patrons appeared to be a jolly bunch of foreigners; the area would be perfect for people watching if not for how nervous the Tavern had made her.

Where to sit was the next question that had lodged itself within Tove’s mind whilst her eyes scanned the area for empty tables and lonely seats. The lack of seats had left her quite embarrassed, and so the only reasonable solution in her head at the time had been to plop down on the floor. So, she sat… by herself. Looking like a lost lamb in a wolf’s den. She had appeared to be rather pitiful to the onlookers that occasionally passed her by.

[/quote]

[Tarn Alrenson]

Tarn sighed, leaning back against the tavern’s wall. He let the noises of the Drunken Fish envelope him. Raucous laughter reverberated through the room, accompanied by the slurred shouts of men inebriated to various degrees. Tarn did not drink himself. He held tight to his coin, by old habit. Plus, he had lost too many friends—back when he still had a few friends to lose—by getting killed by becoming drunk and doing something or other that they would never have done with their full wits about them. The angry brand marking his gang affiliation only painted a larger target on his back. The Sun’s Birth was supposed to offer protection, but often it seemed to draw more trouble than it warded off. Nonetheless, he had left his spear at the barracks, somewhat clumsily disguised inside his bedroll. He still didn’t quite trust his fellow Dragoons, but he liked to go unnoticed when he came here. Tarn’s eyes drifted aimlessly. He liked to do this sometimes, to come to a crowded place, not with anybody specifically, or for any particular purpose, but just to listen. To watch the people come and go, the lifeblood of the city he called home. To his eyes, the city was infected, cruel, and unfair, but it was still beautiful in a sense. To his left, a salt-roughened sailor was spinning an epic tale of his adventures on the great rolling expanse of the ocean. It wasn’t true, of course. Tarn had heard the same story ten times before from as many tellers. He didn’t care though. Each person put their own twist on the story, told it in a different voice and with a unique tone. It was likely that most of the man’s audience had heard it before too, just as Tarn had, but they all sat rapt, cheering when the hero was victorious and laughing at the storyteller’s jests. It didn’t matter to them if the story was true, so long as it was good and eased their own troubles for a time while they immersed themselves in the life of a man dealing with challenges ten times as hard as theirs. That gave the story truth to some degree, Tarn thought, after a fashion. Tarn did his best to commit the story to memory. Not the words, as one would find in a book, but the way the sailor told it. His facial expression, the way he made his voice deep and sonorous, drawing his attentive listeners to their feet in awe before sending them crashing back down into their seats as he painted a dazzling portrait of action, capturing the frenzy of battle with quick words and a twisting inflection of his voice. As the tale came to a close, and the sailor’s merry companions bought him a drink in courtesy for a story well told, Tarn cast his eyes elsewhere around the establishment. Finally, his gaze was caught by an unusual sight. A girl sitting alone on the floor. Tarn shook his head. No, he wouldn’t interfere. He came here to watch, listen, and to immerse himself in the lives of others, giving him a brief respite to just be. He didn’t like getting involved with people on these visits. With a groan, Tarn straightened, stretching his legs, and walked out to the girl. She looked far from home in an establishment such as this one, as her choice of seat declared. When he reached her he stood to her side and in the kindest voice he could muster, he said, “Hey, you’re… um… sitting on the floor.” Technically true, but Tarn didn’t know why he had felt compelled to say it. No, if she was strange enough to sit on the floor of this grimy sailor’s tavern, she would just have to deal with his awkward attempts at conversation. Weekend Marathon Post Word Count: 642 Total: 3673

[Dovey]

22 Summer,518 AV
"Speech"
"Others"

Dovey very much wished she was still in bed.

Old Father Manowar had rotated her to the morning shift today, to pick up the slack for a couple barmaids who had come down with something nasty yesterday afternoon. Dovey had heard vomiting in the next room over as she tried to sleep last night; between that, and the general difficulty of falling asleep at exactly the time her body thought she ought to be awake and working, she had gotten very little rest. So when a fellow barmaid had shaken her awake bells ago and sent her to join the morning cleaning crew, she had been about as sprightly as a dead turtle.

She was only a little better off now for all the time that had passed, still yawning every chime or two as she padded about the tavern floor looking for patrons who needed serving. One relief she felt about the morning shift was the lower number of customers compared to the evening. The tavern was still pretty full - sailors were always thirsty - but it wasn't so packed she had to duck and weave just to make her way neatly through the crowd. The reduced crowding calmed her nerves, which in turn made her work-day feel faster; she thought it must be afternoon by now, which meant there was only about another bell before she'd be released back to her room.

Just as that thought buoyed her temper, some of the people before her moved off in another direction, revealing a sight that made her look twice in curiosity.

There was a lanky and rather lost-looking woman sitting on the tavern floor.

Dovey blinked hard, but the woman remained.

Well! Sailors could be eccentric, but Dovey didn't think this woman was one of those - she didn't have the size or the brawn of most of the seafarers who frequented the Fish. And the regular sort of patron probably wouldn't look so forlorn. Empathy tugged at Dovey's heart; the woman looked like Dovey often felt, as she served the belligerent patrons of the Fish. But Dovey always tried not to let any weakness show. Sure, the morning crowd was fairly mild, but someone might still want to take advantage of a lone woman's perceived vulnerability. Perhaps the barmaid should help get this stranger settled in a less conspicuous spot.

But before she could move to do so, someone else had reached the woman's side - a tall, well-muscled lad who stood awkwardly beside her before saying something Dovey couldn't make out through the ambient noise. He didn't look to be interested in imposing on the woman, so that was that, Dovey supposed! - except that she still needed to find some work to busy herself with, before old Manowar saw her standing about. Why not ask these two if they needed anything to drink? At least the woman was probably the least threatening-looking patron in the tavern.

Accordingly she approached the pair. "Can I get you two anything?" she asked, with the best I'm-selling-you-something smile she could manage in her exhausted state. "Ale? Something to eat? Find you a chair?" All the seats visible from here were full, but there might be one or two tucked away in a corner somewhere.



[Word count: 540]

Boxcode credit: Karin Ironyach

[Tove]

Tove’s mouth had become dry, eyes wondering about the room, hoping to spot something to distract herself from the awkward pit that formed deep within her stomach. The yelling and laughing piercing her ears, her hyper-sensitive nature betraying her longing to listen to the stories being told. It would take her a few chimes to acclimate to her environment.

Her knees pressed against her chest as her head dropped upon her knees. She had found a table to watch, one filled with many men and women, one man standing up whilst the other sat upon their stools. The man telling the story threw back his rum like water, which would have thrown her under the table if she were in his position. A very muscular man, his large beard catching the food that somehow failed to reach his mouth. A smile formed upon the girl’s lips as she listened to his exaggerated tales of pain and glory.

He painted such a vivid picture of what had, or had not, transpired. Waves crashing against his ship, the taste of salt and fear that had followed many terrifying storms, the bravery of his crew. Any time he spoke of any of his many accomplishments the crowd around him cheered, their flagons clashing against each other, the strong liquid within splashing around the place. The mess would surely be a nightmare to clean.

The Kelvic had been so lost in thought that she hadn’t noticed the shadow of a man that loomed over her. The words seemed so sudden, her body jolting upward which in turn caused her head to clash against a slap of wood above her head, most likely being a part counter of sorts. The collision of bone and wood leaving her head throbbing rather painfully.

“Shyke…” The word slipped off her tongue without any hesitation, her hand reaching up to cradle her head from the throbbing knot. Her eyes had locked on the young man who had gone out of his way to speak to her. “Oh, I ugh…suppose you are right. I mean you clearly know that I am sitting on the floor but…sorry I don’t think you need me to explain such the simple fact that you have eyes. Such a needless thing to discuss.” Her words were just as awkward as his own had been, though hers’ being more so laced with embarrassment than awkwardness.

The young man was tall, or at least he seemed tall whilst she looked up from her place on the floor. She couldn’t make out the details of his face, but he appeared to be a decent looking man. An awkward smile formed along her lips, she hadn’t prepared for a conversation with a stranger. She had become painfully aware of just how out of place she looked, which left her feeling somewhat insecure.

“Ugh, it wasn’t my first choice…but all the other tables seem to be occupied at the moment tables, and I don’t want to intrude on anyone as for that could make them angry, yes?” She is thankful when a barmaid approaches the two, a relieved sigh escaping her once more. Almost as if the hot air had filled her chest in a moment of stress, the release ridding her body of the pressure.

The barmaid’s eyes appear tired, yet she smiled so brightly, much like that of the many merchants strewn about Sunberth. The air around the barmaid seemed positive enough, if not sad and tired.

“I have only a small amount of Mizas on me sadly. I don’t know about...” Her word began to trail off she eyed the young man. Despite her nosey nature she had yet to ask his name, “...him?” It almost sounded as if she had been questioning his gender, which was hardly how she meant the words to sound.

[/quote]

[Tarn Alrenson]

Tarn smiled nervously. This girl really was strange, then again, with his manner of conversing, and his propensity for coming to taverns and not ordering anything, he would certainly be considered strange too. His heart went out to the girl. She seemed… lost, in a place like this. He related to her in that sense as well. While Sunberth was home to him, and he knew the city in only the way a child of its streets did, he still felt alien from it in a way. “I am fine standing, though perhaps chairs would be better for a conversation, if you would like to join me in one, oh sitter-of-floors,” Tarn jested. He turned to the waitress and was struck by a pang of sadness. He had never interacted much with slaves, people in the area he had grown up in were too poor to afford any, and the places where the rich people lived didn’t particularly like poor boys wandering in to talk with the workers. He’d always found the propensity for slavery in Sunbirth hypocritical however. The people in this city were anathema to any form of controlling government at all, yet welcomed the complete ownership and control of another person’s life. To him, it was yet another sign that morality wasn’t a factor in the matter at all, what mattered was who had the power to enforce what they wanted. He offered a kind smile to the waitress, or his best attempt at one. He had not had the opportunity to do that much of late. Weekend Marathon Post Word Count: 260

[Dovey]

22 Summer, 518 AV
"Speech"
"Others"

Approaching the pair, Dovey flinched when the woman whacked her head on the underside of the counter. Her own scalp ached a little in sympathy. But the stranger didn't seem to have been too hurt in the collision, and the barmaid quickly put concern for the matter out of her mind.

The woman's response assisted greatly with that. These two don't know each other? That put Dovey on edge; she'd met plenty of nice men in taverns, but not this kind of tavern. Not this kind of city, if the few portions of it she'd seen were at all indicative of the rest. Girl-who-hit-her-head-on-things might want to watch herself a bit more carefully, and not just around wooden obstacles.

Normally she'd tell herself it wasn't her business, probably wasn't even a problem - if she defined normally as last season, before everything went to shyke. But now - well, she'd been stupid enough to fall for the tricks of the wrong nice man, and look where it had gotten her? Gods alone knew what power she even had to intervene here if something did go wrong, but protective instincts had awoken in her, and she really couldn't make any other choice.

The lad's own answer hardly calmed her suspicious fears, though at least it didn't excite them further. He wanted to talk to the woman. Well, maybe there were good men in every city in the world, but she wished people wouldn't take chances. She opened her mouth to reply - and he smiled at her. Warmly, perhaps a bit stiffly. It didn't seem to be an intentional interruption, but nonetheless it disconcerted her enough to delay her response for several ticks. Polite smiles were one thing, routine enough for those with manners - but this kind, so deliberately offered by a total stranger, she was not so familiar with.

Was that pity she saw in his eyes?

It confused her. It disarmed her. At the same time she was instinctively offended - she was a perfectly competent person - she looked after herself! Never mind her current station in life, never mind that she herself would have pitied anyone else in her place. It shamed her to see herself helpless. Perhaps she was still hoping she would awake in Alvadas from a long nightmare.

Her saleswoman's smile had slipped; she pasted it once more to her face. "Chairs it is, then," she said. "I'll do my best to find you a couple. Don't worry, miss, a seat doesn't cost anything." And, a little inordinately pleased with herself for remembering the joke she'd had in mind before that smile jumbled her all up, she hurried off in search of anything at all a person could sit on that wasn't actually nailed to the floor.

At length she returned to the pair, a squat three-legged stool from the kitchens clutched in one hand and an actual chair in the other - she had snatched it practically out from under a man as he got up to leave the tavern. "Here you are," she said firmly as she reached the two. "You can set them up where you'd like. Anything to drink?" This last was addressed to the man, as the woman had already answered the question by saying she didn't have much money.

Dovey was disappointed in herself; she had let that strange kind smile confound her. She had better stick to the simple impression she'd formed at first - stranger from the wrong town; maybe twofaced, like the man she herself had trusted too much. She'd better still keep an eye on that woman's well-being.

Boxcode credit: Karin Ironyach

[Tove]

Despite his words appearing kind in nature Tove had yet to let her guard down. In a new place without the luxury of friends meant the need to keep an eye open was all the more important.

Tove sent the Barmaid an appreciative smile, "Thank you." Showing appreciation had always been Tove’s first reaction to any type of kindness, this had stemmed from the seasons she had spent as a slave herself. It had always felt nice when others thanked her for her work and so she always thanked them for their own. It would have been an unthinkable crime if she had not thanked the barmaid for her kindness.

"So... ugh..." Small talk was needless in most settings, and yet the Kelvic attempted it anyway. He had been the one who had invited her to converse, and yet she needed to fill the silence before him. She needed the comfort that had often stemmed from the needless conversation. In the hopes of finding something to speak of the Kelvic's eyes scanned over the surrounding area once more, on a mission to find something interesting that could be used in conversation.

Her eyes land upon the Barmaid once more, she seemed to be tired. Tove found her mind drowned in thought, relating to the woman more than she would have liked to. Not only was constant work physically tiring, but the emotional drainage that had often occurred with being owned by another was one beyond compare. Tove had been very lucky to have Lucille, and even then, it hadn’t been the most desirable position.

This left Tove's mind wondering around minuscule details that were frankly none of her business. The woman appeared to be strong-willed despite her situation. This puzzled Tove beyond compare, especially after seeing the fatigue that had basically been bouncing off the woman. A Tavern full of sailors wasn’t often kind to slaves and yet this woman seemed positive. Of course, Tove figured that this behavior stemmed from the harsh nature the barmaid may have faced when not looking the part.

"As well as the girl-who-sits-on-floors suits me, you may instead call me Tove. It's like toe only with a V...." Usually, it was customary for the other person to introduce themselves as well, but in a place such as this Tove had little to no social expectations. "I suppose it's only polite for me to ask your name." A small smile tugged at her lips in hopes of getting the stranger to speak.

Loud patrons had occasionally caught her eye as their cheers and laughter bounced off the walls. The tavern was far livelier than the few Tove had been in. Sailors seemed to cling onto good times more than others due to their harsh lives at sea, or maybe they simply inspired such liveliness? The Kelvic took note of this behavior. The inspiration for stories bouncing about within her mind, a light dancing behind her eyes as she noted even the tiniest of details. Being able to speak to a friendly patron put her at an advantage. She could easily study him without looking as though she were spying.

[/quote]

[Tarn Alrenson]

Tarn took the stool from the barmaid with a grateful nod. “Tove, huh? My name is Tarn, like…” Tarn thought for a moment, trying to recall a word that fit the sound of his name. After a brief hesitation, his eyes lit up as he exclaimed, “Tarnish! Tarn like in tarnish.” He winced a little as he chuckled at the foolishness of his own excitement. His ribs still weren’t completely healed from the beatdown he’d taken at the hands of a Daggerhand not two days past. “In any case, it is good to meet you Tove.” It was, Tarn didn’t get much in the way of friendly conversation nowadays, the brand on his hand saw to that. He missed this, in a sense, it was refreshing to talk with someone who wasn’t eying him like a rat eyed its next meal, or who didn’t scramble away at the sight of the mark of his affiliation. “And while we are on the subject of names, do you happen to have one?” Tarn addressed the question to the barmaid. The words had come out of his mouth without thought. Of course she did. Even slaves born into the station had them. It was a fool question. Tarn had never laid claim to any great intelligence; but he’d never thought of himself as stupid either. However, it seemed to Tarn that anybody listening to this conversation would come to a quite different conclusion. Tarn had kept his wits about him better when facing a crazed man with a cudgel at midnight than he was now! Was it because the two people he was talking to were both women? No, there were several women in the Sun’s Birth with him, including both of his primary combat trainers. Plus, he had talked to the hardy woman that had saved him from death in a dark alley the other day. Drawing a connection, Tarn decided it must be the fact that his conversation partners were both women, with the added qualifier that neither of them seemed ready and able to gut him like a fish at a moment’s notice. Honestly, the second factor probably played a larger role than the first. His mind raced as he tried to think of any common courtesies he had missed in the brief exchange thus far. One suddenly struck him, a habit he had seen at most of the bars and taverns he stopped by at to listen for stories. Dipping his head toward Tove, he said, “If I’m asking for the favor of conversation, I believe I must also extend an offer to pay for any food or drink you would like, so long as you aren’t too ambitious with your appetite.” Turning once again to the barmaid, he added, “And if she gets something, I would like some water—clean if you can spare it—but if she doesn’t, spare yourself the trip. I’ve learned that if you wait long enough, sometimes it falls from the sky for free.” Tarn grinned at his own jest for a moment before the corners of his mouth turned down with a pang of sadness. That was his father’s joke, one he had told often. Whenever the chance arose, in fact. It saddened him that he would never hear it said by the original man again. Like a story related secondhand, it never quite felt the same.

[Dovey]

22 Summer, 518 AV
"Speech"
"Others"

Dovey stepped back a smidge, watching the pair converse. It seemed like a casual, harmless enough talk, but she couldn't shake that sense of dread - a not again in the back of her mind which simply would not be ignored, however unlikely it was that this chat would end in a kidnapping. So her face was somewhat stiff when Tarn spoke to her, the soft wrinkle between her eyebrows a testament to her continuing discomfort with him.

"My name's Dovey," she answered him, flatly; her expression had darkened still further when she heard his question. Was he trying to be funny? Had that been some sort of a dig at her for being somebody's property? Normally she would not read so much into such words from a stranger of whom she knew basically nothing. But normally for a start meant not a slave, and what with that still-novel degradation, as well as her longstanding tendency to reinforce her own snap judgments rather than challenging them, she at once suspected the inquiry was a mocking one.

So her look was sour as her eyes tracked Tarn's respectful nod towards Tove. Now he was being all chivalrous; he didn't sound quite used to talking that way, though. Kind with the pretty patron, teasing - mocking - with the barmaid. Dovey's lips tightened as he turned back to face her. She didn't have any patience at all this morning - not with how tired she was - but she had to be patient, didn't she? It was her petching job, wasn't it? And her pay was a petching mattress on the floor to sleep on and a roommate who snored, and a boss who could beat her if she slacked. Gods.

She tried to smile again. "Understood," was all she said in reply to his words, though her lips twitched slightly at the jest about the water. That was funny. Ah, gods, she couldn't so much as think straight - maybe she was too down on the lad? He seemed sweet and open now. But then he'd made fun of her just two ticks ago - hadn't he?

The trouble was that every time she thought of trusting him - and only as far as one trusted any stranger, after all - that not again fear made its presence felt in the back of her mind. The world is full of awful people, it told her. Why shouldn't he be one? Well, what if he is?

Boxcode credit: Karin Ironyach

[Tove]

“The feeling is mutual, Tarn-like-tarnish.”, Tove failed to hide her amusement as the corners of her lips upturned, creating a small smile. The man’s words were laced with, what Tove thought to be, boyish excitement. This boyish excitement had eased Tove's nerves, now knowing that she wasn't the only one who knew little of concealing emotions during a pleasant conversation. He seemed to be a lovely young man but Tove still kept a careful eye on him.

Tove leaned in a tad bit closer as she strained to hear Tarn as he and the barmaid spoke. The woman introduced herself as Dovey, though her tone lacked the interest that was often present during introductions. Despite this, Tove liked the name. It seemed fitting, Dovey did, in fact, look like a Dovey. The Kelvic found the name pretty and easy to remember, she had always preferred simple names over long elaborate ones.

Soon after the introduction, Tarn offered to pay for food and drink. The temptation was there, but she refused to allow another to pay for her. She could easily just eat a Brat whereas he didn’t have that luxury. Well not to the same extent as Tove, a Brat would hardly sedate a grown man’s hunger for long.

“Oh, that is very kind of you but- “ Tove paused as she attempted finding the proper way to refuse his offer, “I am fine for now, I don’t drink and I have food readily available at home.” Hopefully, that would be satisfactory.

His joke had been abrupt, catching the Kelvic off guard. She attempted to conceal yet another smile, that is until she had seen the disheartened look on his face. It would do him well to change the subject, so Tove attempted to steer the conversation for once.

“So... Torn,” Her eyes shifted upwards, scanning the ceiling as she attempted to come up with something to say. He seemed to be the witty type, though Tove had no witty conversation stored within her mind. “What brings you to Sunberth? Are you, as they say, ‘A child of the ‘berth?’” She cringes, the question had sounded less bland in her head, “People say that, right?”