"Let the lad be, ya obviously cannot solve his problems..."
Upon hearing those words, Solset silently thanked Meridian Skyweaver, the lupinal head chef of the Lower Ward Hostel. It seemed that everywhere he went, some bubber had to come up and try to make him smile, even though he had nothing to smile about.
As the son of an erinyes and a fallen astral deva nursed his elemental wine, he listened to the sound of near-horizontal rainstorm outside. Storms like these always sent cagers and primes alike running for the nearest shelter, whether it be their homes or nearby businesses. The Lower Ward Hostel was one such place. With it's simple but comfortable furnishings, and warm atmosphere, it was a favorite place to stay for travellers from all over. Solset currently sat in one of the large plush chairs surrounding the large fireplace. Behind were the many tables that made up the dining room, and the front desk. For the most part, the Lower ward Hostel looked like a typical tavern. Only the variety of races and the two extra doors on the first floor, marked with the symbols for 'male' and 'female', distinguished it from the others.
Normally, Solset hid his features beneath a pale cloak. But here, he was comfortable enough to take it off, revealing what many would mistake for an astral deva at first glance. Only the blood-red streaks and highlights on his wings and hair, and his melancholy expression proved otherwise. Perched on the back of the chair was his familiar, a celestial falcon named Ember. Out of all those he'd considered friends and allies, the bird was the only one who hadn't died or betrayed him.
The dice aren't loaded and Ciphe is an honest gambler, so as far as my side of the table is concerned, it's all down to chance. Can't speak for Aleor though...]
The tavern door bursts open, letting in a brief gust of rainy wind as the door closes behind the cloaked figure that has just come in.
Just inside the door, the figure pauses and looks around, shivers slightly and proceeds to remove the soaked grey cloak that had, up until now, been protecting him from the worst of the rain.
Beneath the cloak, the figure turns out to be a man of medium height with dull, brassy coloured skin, all of which that's exposed is covered in dark black geometric tattoos that the eye refuses to linger on. He wears little more than an open leather vest, festooned with pockets, his chest exposed, plain grey trousers and a pair of worn leather boots. His long brown hair is bound in a tight braid that extends the entire length of his back. Around his neck is a simple looking leather talisman of some description. At his wide black belt, he openly wears a long dagger on his right and three smaller knives at on his left, all of which appear to be quite ornate.
The man looks briefly at the fire as if pondering something, shrugs, and mutters under his breath. One of the tattoos on his left shoulder glows briefly with a dark light and he shakes the cloak once. After this brief ritual, the cloak is no longer dripping, but appears to be quite dry. The man folds his cloak and stores it in one of the many pockets that adorn his vest (though you would have sworn it wouldn't have fit normally).
He walks over to the bar [There is a bar, right?] and sits down, a smile and an eager look on his face and addresses the barman.
"Barkeep! A beverage, if you please. I'm feeling adventurous, surprise me with your fare. Money is not an object!"
Argh!PingThortFtar!!