The Inn At Borders End

by **The Confederation of Mercenaries** » Sun Sep 27, 2020 4:05 pm

The Verschwaldian City of Ostpunkt, so named for being on the west coast of the lands ruled by the forest lords and a place suspiciously devoid of forest. A mercantile city of only minor repute with bustling, narrow and winding roads all leading to one place - the port. However, on this pleasantly warm summer day as a chill wind blew through the closed-in streets, one in particular seemed to run contrary to popular belief. If you took a left down Kalstrasse starting at the main square with the many stalls of fish, dirty roads and the bellows of criers declaring news from lands far, and then continued down a series of roads and glorified alleyways. Less and less people populated these until eventually it was just the curious onlooker from a window. Despite the fact you can hear the bustling of the docks just right past the next buildings it never seemed to come into view. You turn onto an actual road now, paved with cobbles it has no name, and doesn't seem to go anywhere. You follow it down towards the sounds of the docks and as you turn the corner you are presented with The Border’s End Roadhouse.

It appears to be a rather large townhouse, and the only one at the end of this street with it's doors facing towards you. Bay windows with crooked wooden crosses separating the panes. The sign squeaks in the wind, gently rocking back and forth. The sign showed a cliff of some unknown shore. Faded waves crashing against the rocks. The door, heavy Eiseneiche Wood banded with Iron forms a solid and imposing door. You push on it. Despite the creaking it swings open without issue, almost without effort. and in you go.

Inside is warm. Warmer than outside on the best of days, it's still pleasant. You'd take off your coat if you were wearing one. The ceilings are low but not claustrophobic. Thick wooden beams line the space above your head, and a variety of mismatched chairs and stools stand around equally mismatched tables. Round wooden ones banded with Iron like the door. There's at least one bench. You think that square one is made out of bronze? Must be a trick of the light. You're drawn to the bar. As thick and solid as the rest of this place and behind it stands a man who matches the place. He's huge, bigger than most men you've ever seen with an equally impressive beard to boot. He stands tall and proud despite the fact he seems distinctly taller than the roof of this place to begin with. He laughs in an accent you've never heard, and in a voice you innately understand he half-shouts:

"Welcome to The Borders End!"

_RULES

The NS Project only, but you're welcome to join the region if you want to participate!
There are no sign up sheets, characters should be described and named in their posts.
Feel free to describe, customize your environments. This is your story as well.
The Bartender is a communal Character, feel free to use him as you see fit
There is no such thing as god modding, only poor writing, lets write a great, exciting story. Other writers will let you know (or I will) if there's a problem.
As above, anyone is free to join, this is an introductory RolePlay for people to get used to Roleplaying in the The NS Project
Any questions? Please ask me The Confederation of Mercenaries
Ruleset Shamelessly stolen from Enfaru

by **Scow Creek** » Sat Oct 03, 2020 5:22 pm

Maeve always felt comfortable in these kinds of places, mostly because she could surprise and kick any man's ass who annoyed her. Clad in a thread-bare tunic, and deer-skin leggings a shoes, she pushed her way through the door into the tavern expecting that if she stayed long enough, she would find what she was looking for.

The stench of stale beer and aged vomit hit her nostrils the second she entered. It didn't repel her; on the contrary, it told her that she was in the right place. She threw her worn leather bag on the nearest table, and flipped back her long red locks in a non-chalant but very intentional way of announcing that she had arrived. Once a patron's eyes could be pried away from her natural beauty and near-transparent tunic, they would notice the 9-inch dirk on her hip They might not notice the 6-inch sgain dubh tucked in her right shoe...or a variety of weapons hidden under the belt that held up her leggings.

She shiffled through her bag, and pulled out a worn wooden box. It had been her father's, and had accompanied him on many a journey. The water, salt, and wind from those journeys had worn the outside and rusted the hinges, but they were still functional. She opened the box, and watched the dry-needle find its way. When it finally pointed steadily to the north, she looked ahead and to the left. She had been told 280 degrees was the location. As she followed her mark, her gaze zeroed in on a table across the room.

Straight ahead, though, a rough and handsome bearded bartender was engaged in an apparently hilarious conversation with some nondescript sad sap at the bar. The rest of the bar's patrons seemd to be engaged in various stages of conversations in various states of sobriety. Her glance kept moving from the bartender to the figure at 280....all alone at a table, nursing some sort of alcohol and staring into space.

She noted his presence, but decided to approach the bar first. After all, she had travelled more days to get here, and she needed a drink as much as anyone.

by **Verschwald** » Sun Oct 18, 2020 9:42 pm

“This place looks a likely sort! I daresay it’ll do us for the night.”
The small horse-drawn cart clattered to a halt outside the Inn, wheels rattling like castanets as the driver gently coaxed the horses to a stop. The voice that had spoken before called out again, this time addressing a weather-beaten, salt-and-pepper looking man who rode alongside it.
“You’re a local, Ralf. One of your haunts?”
“Can’t say so, m’lord. Not sure I’ve ever seen it before.”
“Well, that’s likely a point in the establishment’s favor, in my book.” The speaker, riding a second horse and cutting a very different figure, was dressed in a well-cut doublet of some fine cloth, and a fur-lined velvet capelet - expensive, but not extravagantly so; though when compared to the first rider’s weather-stained leathers, the very picture of fashion. One of the Inn’s stableboys came over to take his mount’s bridle, and he dismounted, nodding his thanks to the young boy.
“You, boy. I trust your master can house our mounts and wagon?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, m’lord, we’ve plenty of space for you and yours.”
“Excellent!” He called over to the driver. “You’ll see the wagon away, and the horses fed, Martin, there’s a good man.”
“M’lord.”
The fourth member of their party - a young woman, of perhaps sixteen - hopped down from where she’d been sitting beside the cart driver - Martin - and joined them. Seen up close, the family resemblance between her and the well-dressed man was unmistakable - they shared the same sand coloured hair, and there was something in the facial structure as well. Distinctive cheekbones. Her clothing was of a similar cut, as well - a fur-rimmed jerkin, suitable for a long journey, and well made to boot.
“There’s no sense to us standing around in the cold, father.” She nodded towards the heavy wooden door leading from the stable courtyard into the Border’s End proper. “As I’m certain we’ve been on the same ship for the last few weeks, I’m equally certain you could use a real meal cooked over a fire that doesn’t rock and sway, just as I could!” With that comment and a smile, she led them inside.

--

The atmosphere was like walking into another world from the dreary cold of the coastal city. Warmth from the open fire in the hearth, and the contradictory smells of roasted meat and stale beer created a heady brew quite unlike anything other than the common room of an Inn. Many of the patrons looked round as the group entered - some looked away with their curiosity sated, and others looked on, either in boredom or envy, curiosity or hunger. This last category were met with answering glares from the leather-clad man - Ralf, his name had been mentioned as outside. The young woman led the way to the bar, smiling up at the huge, bearded bartender like he was a friendly uncle.
“Welcome to the Border’s End!”
“Thank you!” She stopped just short of the bar as the bartender finished with the previous patron and made his way to the spot she’d chosen. “I’d like to rent a room for my father and I, please, just for the one night. A spot in your Common Room for our two men, too, as well as a hot meal for the four of us.”
“But of course, my lady.” - For she was certainly a lady, anyone with a pair of eyes could see that she and her father were no commoners, though beyond this courtesy he grinned at her like an old friend. - “I’ll have one of our best prepared. If I might ask your name for our records?”
“I am Anna, and my father is Herr Lambert von Arcoseide. We are of Volkshafen.” He nodded in acknowledgement.
“Two for an upstairs room, two for the common room, and four meals, will be twelve silbermunze. Will you be needing fodder for your horses, too?” When she nodded, he continued. “Fifteen, then.” She pulled a pouch from her belt and counted out the requested coins, seemingly oblivious to the eyes of some of the patrons drawn to the clink of coins as she placed it back on her belt. “A pleasure doing business, my lady.” He nodded to her father, who was surveying the room with an expression somewhere between interest and befuddlement. “My lord. I’ll have someone show you to your rooms once they’ve been turned out. I trust vegetable soup and rabbit will suffice? Fresh caught just this last night.” The bartender’s grin was infectious, and Anna felt her own smile growing wider as she was caught along with it.
“Yes, that sounds lovely, thank you.”
“Then I’ll bring some out shortly. Choose any seat in the house!”

by **Caliphate of Cordova** » Sun Nov 22, 2020 5:53 pm

The deputy trade minister and the palace guard

The door to the quaint tavern in Ostpunkt opened and more than one patron gave a lingering stare at the large, dark skinned hulk of a man that entered before returning to their own diversions. Zakwan Ksikes stood momentarily in the door frame, taking in the room, making mental note of any possible troubles or threats. That was his job and it came second nature to him. He was in a rather foul mood which he attributed to the miserable wet cold and the ever-clouded skies he had been enduring. How he longed for the sun and warmth of his Cordovan homeland. But Zakwan had a mission to fulfill and his sense of duty was impeccable, even if we was not altogether pleased by being tempoarily reassigned from command of his watch to play chapperone to a mere administrator. While the trade minister was tasked with building relations in the port town, Zakwan was on the watch for a Fogfolk he was told should be assessed for recruitment into the palace guard and was making his or her (he wasn't sure which) way west from the Fogland homeland, across the vast stretch of the Verschwald realm, to the port city and this very Inn.

He noted the various tavern patrons conversing at the hearth or sitting idly at the tables. None appeared to be particularly alarming. He spotted a middle-aged man of more noble bearing with a young lady he presumed to be a daughter, given the strong resembalnce shared between them. They were dressed in finer clothes and displayed the refined demeanor of people of wealth and good manners. This gave Zakwan increased confidence in the security of the establishment. His attention then turned to a lone red-haired woman whose threadbare tunic barely contained the signs of her womanhood. He almost dissmissed her as a rather rough looking prostitute until he noticed the weapon she bore. Satisfied with his quick survey of the Inn, Zakwan turned and nodded to a figure still outside, then stepped aside to allow his companion to enter, hand resting lightly on the hilt of the fierce-looking and battle-battered scimitar attached to his belt.

The visage to follow entrance across the threshold to the Inn was but a fraction of the size of the large Moor but more splendidly garbed and of clear Arab descent. Sabir al-Fazari entered with a countenance of carefree amusement across his lightly bearded face, eyes darting from feature to feature of the wood-framed tavern, the delight in the novelty of the struture clear on his face. "Ah, magnificent!" he mindlessly said out loud to himself as he made his way to the bar, Zakwan following a pace behind.

As the two approached the bar, the barman stepped in place across from the Cordovans with a welcoming smile.
"Welcome to the Border's End, travelers. Sit where you please and let me bring you something to quinch your thirst. How about a tankard of ale? 'Tis the best you'll find in these parts, if I do say so myself!"

"No" was the brusk reply from the Moor. "Alcohol is haram. We cannot drink that. Offer us something else."

Immediately, Sabir spoke up with a more diplomatic tone, "Whoa, wait a moment, captain. We are here in Verschwald to learn the customs and ways of these good people. People who have been buying more and more goods from the Caliphate, I might add." and there was a lilt in his voice. Turning to the bartender he continued, "I, for one, would love a pint of this ale you are known for."

The bartender's concerned look on his face turned to confusion. "Sure, but...what did he call my ale? Harem?"

"Haram" Zakwan stated rather forcefully. "It is... forbidden, in our religion" but his voice betrayed the obvious contradiction he knew he was making, and he gave a disapproving sideways look to his companion, but still respecting Sabir's superior position.

"So..." the bartender began while squinting his eyes at Sabir. "Ale for you, sir, even though its haram?"

"Yes, of course" Sabir replied cortly and dismissively, waving his hand as if to push the thought away. "We do consume strong drink in the Caliphate, make no mistake. Well, some of us, at least. Those with the latitude to do so and the cultural refinement to appreciate it. Why, my family estate produces a most delightful sherry, with delicious blackberry undertones. I could even arrange to have some brought here if you are interested in adding to your selection." he ended with a gleeful smile.

The bartender nodded slowly then turned back to the dark Moor with a quizzical look. "And you, sir? Ale for you, too, then?"

Zakwan refused to look directly at the bartender and replied in a proud, measured voice, "I bear arms in the name of the Caliph and as such, I do not drink alcohol." He then added, "Nor do I curse, nor play at dice, nor eat in excess of what I need, nor lay with women."

"Well, you're just the life of the party, aren't you?" the barman retorted in a nervous, joking manner. "I don't have much else to offer, I don't think....oh, wait, well....I just put up some barrels of cider to ferment. Last of the apple harvest this season. Mulled cider is quite popular here in the upcoming winter months. I could pull you a draw now as its sill mostly just juice. So, you know, maybe only a little bit haram?"

Zakwan rolled up his eyes in mild exasperation. "That will be fine."

"Very good! Now, you gentlemen must be hungry as well, yes? We have a fine vegatable soup and rabbit tonight." the barman stated and then frowned with concern, and carefully ventured, "You...do...eat rabbit?"

"No!" Zakwan exclaimed

"YES!" Sabir countered with a questioning stare at his companion.

Zakwan turned to Sabir, "It chews the cud and therefore is haram in the Dalil"

"Nooo," Sabir lulled dericively. "The Dalil never metions rabbit by name. It's a hunted animal so is halal. And the Prophet himself (peace be upon him) ate rabbit, if you know your hadiths!" Zakwan remained expressionless but quiet so Sabir turned back to the barkeep,

"Soup will be delightful, thank you." and gave an approving nod.

"No" muttered Zakwan, staring ahead at nothing.

"Ugh, ok, the soup and rabbit for me, and.." with this Sabir produced a large silver dinar from a pouch concealed in his robes, "just get the captain here whatever he wants, please."

The barkeep's eyes widened at the sight of the shiny coin; more than enough to cover the meals and drink and lodging to boot, if the guests required. "Very good, sir, I will send my kitchen boy down to the market by the pier to see if there is any fish left from today's catch, if that is acceptable?" he asked pleadingly. The large Moor nodded satisfactorily. Whew! the barman thought. "Excellent, take any table you like and I'll have those drinks out shortly."

With that, Zakwan waited for Sabir to seat himself at a table not nearly as strategically located as the Moor guard would have liked and then, with another long, patrolling look around the tavern, seated himself facing the door, wondering if the Foglander we was supposed to meet and test would appear.

by **Cantabrian Kingdoms** » Sun Nov 22, 2020 6:16 pm

A cloaked figure quietly opened the door to the Border's Inn, unnoticed by all except those who were keeping a vigilant eye on the entrance. The slender figure, face obscrued by the grey-green hood, quickly and deftly shut the door and moved briskly to the long bar without stopping to look around the tavern. Only after ordering and receiving a pint of ale did she raise her head enough to carefully scan the large room.

She quietly felt the satchel containing the sensitive documents she was to deliver to a Miklalandian representing what she only knew as the "Order". The Cantabrian nobles had asked the Guild to make this delivery, not trusting even their own heralds, and the Guild chose her. The weight of the moment was not lost on her. Her contact would approach her in the inn wearing a red feather in his or her cap and would ask her "Do you think the snow will come early this year?" to which she should reply "Storms usually come when the winds shift".

As she scanned the room, her heart nearly stopped as Néfele immediately caught sight of the robed Arab siiting blithely with that stupid and arrogant look on his face customary to the bootlickers who made up the Cordovan Court. This was unexpected and she immediately began considering a personal "bonus" operation. The Moor guard accompanying him faced the door but, luckily, she thought, did not seem to take special note of her entrance. Best to avoid going through him if possible. She was fast, she knew that, but the Moor's strength would be an advantage is he cornered her in a closed space like the tavern.

The Cantabrian assassin's heart raced and she breathed deeply to control it. Her inexperience was certainly made up for by her determination to succeed. She felt ready, excited, flush with anticipation that gave her a hyper-alertness. Néfele carefully considered the tools hidden on her person for the task ahead. A small vial of the potent aqua toffana poison concealed in her boot. Two throwing knives tucked away in her back. A knotted garrotte just inside her waist belt. And of course, the sleek, hardened Cantabrian dagger concealed in a special sheating sewn into her cloak.

But that would have to wait. It was not her main objective and she would only act if the right opportunity presented itself. Néfele spied the table again. It looked like the two Cordovans weren't going anywhere for the moment and would probably be here for the night. Plenty of time, then, and she certainly needed to meet her contact before considering any other actions. But if she could the two sepatated somehow.....

by **Riversa** » Mon Nov 23, 2020 9:11 am

by **The Foglands** » Sun Nov 29, 2020 1:08 am

Hassan had journeyed far to get here, a labor of gratitude for his savior. The first thing one would notice of his appearance was that he definitely wasn’t a Hassan, what with his short stature, pale skin, and face covered in an intricate maze of straight scars of varying size. No, a lifetime ago he was the Fogfolk Rǂati V’soatᶏn, soldier of H’siki Fel Ronvit’si, master of castle Qohntusbahi. A foolhardy warrior who got himself killed after trying to solo a group of five veteran Cliffraiders six miles away from any settlement. However, that was not the end. In the night a kind old Cordovan caravaneer, identifying himself as Ubayd happened upon his broken body, left for dead by the raiders he’d inadvertently killed himself with.

On that night, Rǂati Vsoatᶏn the wathani succumbed to his wounds, with Hassan al-Dabab the mumari born in his place. As Hassan recovered, Ubayd told him many exotic and strange tales, many of which he didn’t understand between the delirium and the terms themselves not translating well. However, over time, he did grow to understand. Once his wounds were set and he was able to move on his own, the old caravaneer wished him luck and gave him two parting gifts, the man’s own Dalil, worn from a lifetime of use and a simple blue taqiyah.

Hassan spent months studying his Dalil, learning of the good deeds of the Prophet (A.B.K.) and the doctrines of Fahum. It was fascinating to him, beautiful, even. He felt vigorously drawn to this new foreign religion. As Hassan saw it, this ‘Allah’ saved him by bringing to him the sagely tradesman, whereas the Great Corpse, the ‘Fogfather’, laid broken, suspended over his abyssal crater, his mummified face forever contorted in an expression of pure misery, idle and silent. This great foreign god was different though, active, bright, and powerful. And so, Hassan reverted. He no longer submitted to the fog, Allah (S.W.T.) was the true master of all. Hassan wanted to be among his fellow mumari’s and wanted to see the bright and rich land the old tradesman spoke of.

He met a cleric in a tavern in B’sotᶏvuhnum, a border town in the fog, The cleric drawn to him from the taqiyah he wore. Hassan told him of his reversion and his desire to go to the fabled Caliphate of Cordova, saying he would gladly pledge his moon cleaver in service to Allah and the Caliph. The cleric simply smiled and said he’d compose a letter telling the relevant parties in Cordova of the new revert’s request, asking Hassan to wait a few weeks for him to get a reply.

Soon enough the cleric got his response, and Hassan departed towards the falling sun, bound for the port city of Ostpunkt in westerly Verschwald; Moon Cleaver strapped to his back, Dalil against his breast, and taqiyah on his head.

His journey was long and often uncomfortable. The sun unobscured by the fog blinded his dark eyes and scorched his light skin, he spent most of his days with his blanket covering his body and his face pointed towards the earth. Despite this, he was eager. He would meet the Guard Captain in the strange bar, and Inshallah, the man would judge him as worthy and he could begin his life in earnest, a warrior in the land of Fahum, protecting it’s most important figure.

He came upon the Inn at Border’s End beneath a sorrowful overcast sky, it’s dour lighting like a far-off shadow of the great fog he departed. He quietly entered the bar, looking around and finding the ebony-skinned giant he was told to seek out instantly, his visage was of a kind Hassan had never seen before, and the fact the giant’s intense gaze locked onto his first only made him more nervous. He did his best to gather himself, doubting the giant would accept an ill-composed coward into his ranks. He walked up to the man and kept his thickly-accented voice as level as he was able, “As-salamu aleyka,” he began with a small defferential nod, “I am Hassan al-Dabab, I have come to join the ranks of the Caliph’s Palace Guard.”

by **Miklaland** » Thu Dec 17, 2020 7:11 pm

A grey-green hooded figure nursed a pint of ale, viewing the door through the corner of her eye and only occasionally switching to the Cordovan company to make sure they hadn’t moved. The average patron not reading anything more into her sharp gaze than a simple curiosity for the foreigners. The ale would have time to go both lukewarm and flat as it seemed like her contact went from late to very late.

A man entered the inn, his grizzled face carved by deep wrinkles from laughter and hard weather, a thick beard and moustache groomed into shape with beeswax and dirt and obnoxiously dressed in enough fine fabric to keep a small family warm come winter. Before closing the door, the traveller scrapped the street-dirt off his boots on the doorframe, exchanging a knowing nod with the barkeeper, the two bearded men sharing an unspoken bond as the Landsknecht walked away with a room key and tankard after a few hand gestures and grunts, leaving a fat purse behind. Beneath a wide hat ornated with feathers of yellow and red, the Cantabrian assassin could see he was Miklalandian Reussian by the fair complexion, a look most nobility had to achieve with arsenic.

The cloaked figures could feel her heart sinking, jaw dropping and softly wording “those fucking idiots”. Her handlers at the Guild had suggested that the ones pulling the strings on behalf of the “Order” consisted of a few disgruntled nobles, but even if the organizers themselves were high-born amateurs when it came to shady dealing, someone in their court should have pulled the breaks when it came to sending an intense merc dressed in gaudy bright colours as their representative. Discretion was out the window, and as she considered how to proceed, the door creaked.

A dark brown chapel à bec with lighter stains of dried mud, adorning the head of a thin man entered. A dirty cloak and worn leather boots, the typical outfit of a huntsman accompanied with the pungent smell of horse sweat. The hunter draped his cloak over one arm, revealing the estoc and bollock dagger the trained Cantabrian eyes had already placed hidden under the fabric. The estoc had been growing steadily to become widely employed as a hunting sword, usually for hunting wild boar, bear, and stag; typically from horseback, it was a long and strong blade, able to take the shock of meeting with an animal without breaking. However, the young assassin knew that the very thin, sharp point, was excellently designed for and used to penetrating chain mail, called “Pansarstickare” or “Borrsvärd” in the imperial dialect.

The Huntsman struck up a conversation with the barkeep, discreetly opening a bundle for the man to see. In addition to foraged thyme and sage, there were a number of weighty hunks of meat the hunter claimed were the prime cuts from a young boar. Having traded his ingredients for a bed and enough credit on his tab for the evening’s beer, the man turned to look for an empty table, showing the lone red feather decorating his hat, previously in a blind spot.

by **Ravanor** » Sat Dec 19, 2020 7:56 am

It had been some time since the raids, when every spring and summer came news of a village being attacked, or strange longships were sighted far too close for comfort. The Kalhai hordes sweeping across the coasts and countrysides, murdering, plundering, enslaving, then they’d leave, laughing at their spoils, letting the survivors tell stories of horror, bloodshed, and loss while they tried to rebuild, the freezing cold bringing with it the comfort that the Kalhai were stuck behind the ice for now.

But the raids had nearly stopped, smaller numbers of Kalhai, one village or ship attacked maybe for the whole year, sometimes whole years going by without a raid at all. Rumors abound for the reasons why, the more accurate of these was a new Khan had taken the throne and was making some big changes, but the common peasant would gladly say the Kalhai had probably died out or crawled back into the black pit that spawned their foul people. So it was understandably shocking when a trio started their journey far beyond Ravanor’s borders. Traveling south through Engazar, before finally reaching the land of Verschwald, and the city of Ostpunkt.

The Trio brought with them a large cart which was pulled by a team of strong horses, packed with supplies for the journey, a Ger tent, as well as their main ware: Barrels of Airag and crates of Aaruul. Traveling merchants seeking their fortunes selling cultural delicacies to foreign tradesmen. Atleast that’s what they claimed, but the stories of the Kalhai’s past deeds were not yet forgotten, and some still yet lived who saw the crimes first hand.

So naturally, trust was slow.

Today, maybe they’d make some actual progress on their quest. The cart was parked outside the inn, just off to the side of the road. The Trio all standing and stretching their legs from the journey. Two men and a woman, all of them standing taller than most people they encountered, one of the men standing even taller and wider than his companions, completely bald and bore the face of a weathered mountain. Deep, dark eyes and thick, protruding brow, jaw set in a seemingly permanent scowl.

The Kalhai woman, dressed the same as the men in a very simple Deel, though hers was opened and the top was left to hang from her hips, exposing her heavily muscled and tattooed arms and strong hands, the under shirt was sleeveless and colored in a bright emerald green color. Her hair was partially shaved on either side while the rest was braided together tightly and hung about her shoulders.

The final man was thinner than the woman, lankier and had a bit of stubble around his chin. His skin was a bit on the lighter side, though not entirely pale nor free from the scars and tattoos his kinsmen also shared. This man would speak a few words in their harsh and guttural language before he would nod his head towards the Inn’s door, the Woman following close behind him as they entered the establishment, leaving their much larger companion to scowl, grunt in frustration, and begin working towards taking the heavy crates and barrels from the cart by himself.

Once more the Inn’s door would open and two very foreign figures would enter. Anyone with any knowledge of the northern lands could easily guess that they were Kalhai. The woman would look around the room with mild disappointment, muttering into the man’s ear, before being waved off. The man himself would approach the bar, clear his throat and begin to speak in the Verschwaldian tongue with fairly fluently.
“Good evening, Sir! We are traders from Ravanor, hoping to trade some of our eh, brew, yes! We wish to trade our brew with you.” He said with a smile.
The Barkeep had already began to frown when the two walked in but was now quite curious and cautiously spoke.
“What kind of brew?” The Barkeep asked.
“Airag, brewed from Horse milk.” The Kalhai replied, producing a small, thin-necked clay bottle, and two tiny bowls, before pouring the very clear contents of the bottle into each of the bowls, then sliding one bowl over towards the barkeep.
“Here, try some, let us know what you think and we can start negotiating, yeah?” The Kalhai asked, picking up his own bowl and quickly drinking the small shot. He’d already dealt with enough merchants who swore it was poison until he drank it himself.

The barkeep hesitated for a moment before he carefully lifted the small bowl and brought it close to his face, a whiff told him it was a strong brew already, and seeing the Kalhai drink it had already set aside any fears of poison. The man saluted with the drink before he’d down it, hissing as it burned down his throat.
“Whew, yeah that’s strong stuff.” The barkeep said with a coughing chuckle. “Yeah we can talk about trading...”

by **Cantabrian Kingdoms** » Thu Feb 18, 2021 7:42 pm

For the backstory on Néfele´s mission, see here: https://www.nationstates.net/page=dispatch/id=1507864

The red feather! Néfele's heart quickened as she viewed the man clad in filthy skins smelling of horse. This was her contact? This was even more incredible than the dandy fool in silk cape she first thought to be the Miklalandian she was here to meet. But then her trained eye spied the blood-tinged tear in the man's skins just under the armpit and level with the heart. There was more to this hunter than meets the eye, she thought. Indeed, he was surely no hunter at all.

As the man began looking for a table, Néfele cleared her throat to address him, "Pardon me, good man, may I ask how the hunting is in these lands?"

The man slowly turned his head and took his time looking her over. In a country-voice that seemed a bit forced, he said, "It is fine when the passes are clear, but hard to make distance come winter."

"Winter seems to be afoot, my augur tells me."

The man paused and asked with an unusual intensity, "Do you think the snow will come early this year, then?"

Néfele slowly replied with gravity, "Storms usually come when the winds shift".

The two looked at each other for a long moment, Néfele for a moment unsure if this was a trap, quickly glancing at the estoc strapped to the man´s belt, or the most important meeting of her life. The man suddenly slumped into a more relaxed posture, setting Néfele´s mind at ease.

"I have a package for you to deliver to your master", she finally said.

"I speak for my master. He charges me to view the proposition of the fair royal houses of Cantabria. If they meet his expectations, I am authorized to give a response for you to take back to your Kings and Queens" he replied in his true voice and his haughty speech and noble inflections betrayed the lie of his disguise.

"I have no Kings or Queens, only employers. The Guild is no one's subject".

"Hummph. Will you look at that? A revolutionary idea, I would say. Best not to let it get out" he replied lazily as he looked away to take a draw on his ale.

"Where do you want to do this?" the assassin replied unperturbed.

"There is a private dining room upstairs. It should serve" the man replied and called over the bartender. "We'd like to use the upstairs room, if you please" and offered the bartender a large copper coin.

The bartender looked over the skin-clad man, then slowly rolled his eyes over to Néfele, then back to the faux-hunter. "I a'int running a whorehouse here, you know?"

Néfele checked her rage but looked at the barkeep sternly and in a measured voice replied, "Good sir, my brother here and I need to discuss family matters privately and would like to pay you for your accomodation".

The bartender gave a distrusting grunt, accepted the coin and beckoned for a servant girl to escort the guests up to the private room. As Néfele rose from the bar, placing a hand on the leather parcel with its conspiratorial papers, her attention was distracted by the door to the inn opening and the entrance of tall, very pale man with a scarred face and blue taqiyah. Néfele had never seen a Fogfolk before and took a moment to appraise the strong but rather pliant-looking newcomer. The Fogman approached the Cordovans and gave the greeting Néfele learned to despise. If the poison of Fahum was spreading to the Foglands, there was no time to lose and Néfele felt a jolt of urgency in her mission. The Moor stood and returned the greeting and after an exchange she could not make out, the Moor and Fogman exited the inn, leaving the Arab unescorted. She took a breath, remembering her purpose and the greater cause. But before following her contact upstairs, she muttered a quick appeal to great Freya to ensure the Arab remained alone...and vulnerable, when her more pressing business was concluded.

by **Miklaland** » Wed Aug 24, 2022 4:22 pm

The Huntsman was in no hurry up the stairway, showing no regard for the servant girl or Néfele as he took his time to fish a pipe out from somewhere hidden within his clothing and carefully with tender movements stuffed the tobacco in the bowl, light it with a coal he plucked from the hearth with nimble fingers. The worn wood creaked under each soft step, leaving behind a trail of aromatic smoke and mud he hadn’t bothered scrapping off before entering the inn, glancing over his shoulder to gauge the mood of the woman shadowing him.

For her part, Néfele proceeded with a practiced casualness, sizing up the man she would be entrusting her client's sensitive documents to. Her feet effortlessly glided up the steps, her hands folded inside the sleeves of her cloak, near concealed weapons she was gaining confidence she would not need to use. She was relieved her contact was this seemingly competent operator and not the boisterous fool that arrived just before him. As they neared the landing of the second floor, Néfele gave an incidental glance over the railing down to the main floor of the pub, spying briefly the Cordovan noble, still alone at the table. She hoped he still would be when her main business was done.

“This is good enough” The Huntsman stated, dismissing the servant girl with a wave of his pipe.

Néfele avoided eye contact with the young girl as she passed to descend the steps.

“If you would.” The man motioned in a well-practiced gesture for Néfele to open the door for him.

Néfele paused just for an instant before deciding she would comply. There was no indication she could sense from the man that this was a set-up or trap. There was always that chance, of course, it was an occupational hazard, but paranoia was not a trait that served a woman in her position very well. Still, her muscles remained tense and ready to react should anything unexpected happen.

It did not. Instead, she opened the door to a quaint, sparsely decorated meeting room, illuminated by a pair of candles on a craggy wood table and rushlights mounted on each wall. Néfele entered cautiously, examine the room for shadow, blind spots and cracks in the walls and floorboards where a potential eavesdropper might lurk. Convinced the room was secure, she stepped to the table, and while keeping her gaze on the Huntsman, who made a leisurely draw from his pipe, she removed a set of parchments from her satchel and placed them neatly on the unpolished wood.

“Please.” The Huntsman gestured for Néfele to take her place opposite the table and far from the exit as he started methodically breaking and dropping chunks of vermillion wax into a small pewter plate that was placed over a candle. Starting to review the terms, the man had a plain, if somewhat disinterested expression and was only noticeably reading when he had to occasionally brushing off some of the ash that spilled from his pipe. He would occasionally turn to Néfele as if to ask a question, before dismissing the idea and returning to the parchments. The silence was deafening.

Néfele stood quietly by as the Huntsman reviewed the documents. Professionally, she was unconcerned what the man thought, if he would agree to whatever terms were offered or if he would decide to burn the papers and quit the enterprise. Her job was to deliver the documents and so she had. The Guild had done the job it was hired to do. If the two sides could not reach an agreement, that was not their concern.

But personally, Néfele was concerned and did hope for a favourable response. She had scores to settle with the Córdovan invaders, as much as her Guild masters impressed on her a professional detachment. An alliance between Drakland and the petty Cantabrian kingdoms would, perhaps, tilt the balance of power favourably. And if she could help that cause in a clandestine manner, she would relish the chance to do so.

After a long, silent wait, she began to feel impatience rising inside her. She said nothing but her gaze became fixed on the Huntsman, her mind willing him to make a damn decision already. Almost as if he could sense her expectancy, and slightly amused at it, he finally placed the papers back down and gave an expressionless look at Néfele. For a moment, she was sure he was going to reject the Cantabrian proposal.

But with a wry smile and one last puff on the spent tobacco in his pipe, he produced a ring, still gleaming from lack of use and fresh from the craftsmen who had painstakingly engraved the intricate signet of the new house of von Drak af Kantabria.

The Inn At Borders End

The Inn At Borders End

Arcoseide Arrival

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