Calzones and Conversation
-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=<* H07: Stoneworks' Calzones *>-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=- Set in the comfortable village of Vadran, Stoneworks' Calzone is a staple of the local economy. The small stone building sits off to the side of a main pathway, and smells of spicy meats, mushrooms, and garlic. Inside the building are a set of thick, farmers-made slat tables, complete with long benches. Lighting is provided in the traditional khazad-aul way, by mushrooms and tamed lichen placed in glass sconces along the walls.
Aside from its roaring fire, one of the busiest places at Stoneworks is actually towards the back--a window into the kitchen's prep room, with its own bar of heavy stone. From here, the call of "Order up!" is heard. Near that is the main kitchen door, from which Stoneworks' well-known calzones emerge, straight from the sturdy, wood-burning stove that fires them to cheesy perfection. On the menu are all the essentials, from varieties of in-season meats, to traditional, khazad mushroom fare, and from the local fields, root vegetables. A variety of khazad-aul breads may be ordered, lending their own unique and clan-proud flavors to the calzoney goodness.
The establishment is run by Embma and Jaruda Shaletracker, and their small clan, cousins, visiting cousins, and extended family. No matter the weather or season, there are khazad-aul of all ages about, and stonebeasts in the rear stables, chewing on the occasional gemstone treat.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- At a glance around H07: Stoneworks' Calzones =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Duncan 14m 5'0" 200 Lb Storm Dwarf Male 'Tall' Khazad often accompanied by a Khazad Digger. Heinrich 2m 6'0" 240 Lb Arvek Nar Male A red hobgoblin in the heraldry & armor of a knight Sebropert 0s 6'6" 422 Lb Sith-Makar Male A black and copper Sith'Makar with burn scars. -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-
On such an overcast evening, it's hard to say quite when the sun goes down, but it's pretty dark out already. And cold, but the cold sneaks up on you and chills you to the bone. Because of this, the public houses are full-to-bursting with patrons seeking warmth, both of fireplaces and food, and of company.
Out in the small country village of Vadran, the most popular tavern is Stoneworks. The aroma of calzones comforts like a thick, soft blanket. Into this friendly establishment strides a tall, brawny man... er no, not a (hu)man, a hobgoblin... in the heraldic attire and armor of a knight. His stride, although confident, betokens the tiredness of a long day coming to its close. He looks around for an available seat, a rare find on such a night.
Cold nips at soft skin, but inner warmth keeps them warm. Hard scales can fend of blades, but to the cold seem no thicker than lingerie. Giant stone ovens brought in all, but the draw for Sebropert was nearly instinctive.
The giant Sith-Makar, weighing twice as much as most men, sat at a table where his back could set against the warm stone behind the wood-burning oven. The table was a bit separated from the logical place to have placed it, and scuff marks showed where he had dragged it to its current locale.
Others avoided the large horned creature, his single blue eye darting about curiously as he consumed hot cheesy calzones - warm and burnt around the edges. It was not a pretty sight to see him eat, but he actually seemed to be humming contentedly to himself as his chin tendrils writhed in food-ecstasy.
Heinrich passes through the crowded room trying his best to avoid bumping into other folks, but needs to suddenly freeze in place more than once in order to keep from colliding with less observant patrons. Finally, he wends his way toward the table Sebropert had moved and where he is now dining. The arvek says in a voice that is guttural like a hobgoblin's usually is, but whose accent is blatantly Alexandrian, "Peace on your nest, sir. There are precious few places to sit tonight, might I impose upon you to join you at this table?" A knight is a gentleman, and this one tries to act accordingly. His bearing is proud, like that of a soldier, but friendly.
Friendly, warm, but a barbarian at heart, Sebropert looks up at his guest with a string of cheese still connecting his jaw and the calzone in his hand. His tail flicks across the floor and pushes out one of the chairs from the table. "Peace on your nest, redskin," he garbles around his food. If the invitation isn't obvious enough, he pushes one of the several plates of calzones towards the knight.
His jaws chomp and clack and he swallows the food before lifting a finger high in the air. "Foulwater for my friend!" If the smell from Sebropert's own mug was any indication, foulwater was his name for a common beverage fermented from corn or potato.
Duncan has arrived.
Heinrich smiles in a look that, although well-intended, might still frighten human children simply because of the hobgoblin's anatomy. Sitting, he says, "Thanks." The server is quick with the drink, and Heinrich eagerly accepts the mug, taking a deep drink before allowing it to touch down on the table.
He says, "I'm Hank. I heard a rumor today that Mictlan is reachable again now; the mists have finally opened." He beckons the server to bring another platter of calzone and sets into a piece that's here already.
Duncan steps into the warmth of the tavern interior. He shrugs off a pack and a worn fur cloak, leaving them against a wall near the kitchen. He glances at the door and then at his gear and then nudges it with a booted toe a bit farther out of the way. Next he turns to find an open spot at a table.
Sebropert rumbles in response, the sound accompanied by a single flick of the frill atop his head. A giant bite of calzone disappears and he uses his free hand to stroke the tendrils under his jaw. "Mists," he mused. "Always mists. Come, go. So much mist. Ea land of mists. Bring good, and bring bad. Which now?" His broken common making his thoughts a bit hard to catch sometimes. "Am Sebropert, " he finally introduces himself, a hand extended to shake as softskins were prone to like. The irregularly large claws on his fingers not seeming to be a concern of his.
Heinrich shakes hand/claw. At Duncan's approach, he smiles again and says, "There's room here and plenty to eat, friend. Seb-ro-pert here seems a right neighborly fellow. I'm sure he doesn't mind." He looks at the sith'makar. Then, "You're right about that. I was still just a kid when the Mists took Alexandria, but thankfully they brought it back."
"Was not here," Sebropert commiserates. "Still in Am'Shere," he motions to a chair at the table, which was quickly becoming the table least likely to host a human. "Peace on your nest, ironskin." The Sith'Makar turns his scarred absent eye away from his companions so his one good eye could seem them both.
With the flick of a heavy claw, he pushes a warm calzone in the Khazad's direction. "Since here, so much. What in Mictlan? Never been. Or have? Invisible border make no sense. Am'shere from big water to big water."
Duncan grins broadly as he accepts the calzone. "No borders, eh?" He eyes Sebropert. "Possibly the most sensible thing I've heard all day!" He looks at one of the walls - in the direction of Alexandria. "How about cities, then? Do you have any large settlements?"
Heinrich says, "I've not spent much time there myself... well, really none, to tell it truly. But as I hear it, the place is something of a home for a community of your People, a home away from Am'shere. They say it features the bones of a collossal dragon." At the khazad's comment about sensibility of no borders, he smirks and nods.
Sebropert thumps his tail on the ground. "Villages. Some tribe wander. Other make village. Line not invisible. Line made of wood. Make wall. Outside wall, not village." Sebropert gives a chuckle and takes a large swig of his mug. "Short friend needs foulwater!" He calls to the waitress.
"I know this place!" Sebropert exclaims. "Dragon bones near home. Know the way." He offers a sharp- toothed grin. "See. Problem with invisible line. Did not know was elsewhere."
Duncan chuckles. "More often then not, that is the problem," he admits. "But villages, and no major cities...just goes to show you, there's good and bad in every land. You've been to Alexandria, I take it? Spent time there, seen some of the sights? Your villages probably don't compare..."
Heinrich tells, "So there was this lich that had apparently grown exceedingly bored and came to Alexandria to amuse herself. She claimed that the sorceress Sandy was her great great granddaughter or something. She invited the most powerful of Alexandria's heroes to fight her servants. At some point, Sandy compelled the lich to agree to leave Alexandria alone, but her boredom was yet unsated. So, she turned her attention on this Mictlan. There was she ultimately defeated, but the magical energies of the fight seem to have taken their toll on the community there, and Ea is said to have closed off access to Mictlan. This was only a few months ago. Then a wild elf hunter, Ga'Elian, I think, got a whole heaping host of wild elves to come out of the woods and do some natury magic to heal the corruption of the land. It must've worked because the area suddenly bloomed into a second springtime. Good hunting. Anyway, the magical elf-spring has now faded and Mictlan is now rumored to be open again."
"We have big city. Biggest city. Empress city," he waves a hand in the air. "In Am'shere." Pushes a plate in the center of the table. "Big city." He breaks apart a crust and scatters the crumbs around on the table. "Villages. Full of Sith'Makar. Very few softskins. No need many city when all is Am'shere." He makes a cirle with a finger as if to say the whole table was Am'shere.
"Think lich tell truth," he says with a finger tapping one of his large nostrils. "Smell same," he explains with a shrug. "Then again, most softskin smell same."
Duncan sits back and gnaws on the calzone. "A great city, eh? Like Alexandria? Merchants and guilds and different districts?" He pauses as a drink is delivered, raising it in a half-toast before taking a long sip. "Ahhh. How far is it from the portal?"
Heinrich takes up another slice of calzone and digs in. He looks at Duncan as he asks, then to Sebropert, curious.
Sebropert taps his chin with a claw, his eye screwing up into the air. "Uhhh... Score of days, maybe?" He looks at the two, as if sizing them up. Placing a hand on the table he leans forward, and his eye slides back and forth between the two of them. "Can run on all fours?" His eye twitches back and forth again, and the ridge that suits as his eyebrow rise as if to say that the ability to do so was required for such speed.
Duncan smirks. "When I have to," he replies. "My digger carries me faster than most horses ride, if that means anything. A bit faster than the 'Swiftclaws' as I recall. As fadt as their wilder cousins."
Sebropert pulls his head back and his frill flips up. "Digdug more fast than swiftclaw?" His head shakes. "Don't believe it! Short leg digdug slow. More fast than smallrock." He slams his fist on the table and lets out a loud hissing laugh.
End of Log----------------------------------