Fera's Rest (ye olde generic fantasy tavern // open )

The windows reflect the lights of the town not too many paces away, but Fera's Rest itself stands at the edge of the forest, a beacon of respite for those who find themselves along this road.

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If you've a craving for ye olde generic fantasy-styled tavern RP with which to test characters and get into their minds, then, lucky for you, Fera's Rest is on the menu. Freerange RP with organically-developing storylines, so it's perfect to considering how your character might respond in different situations. Practice good RP etiquette, feel free to link your character, and seat yourself somewhere.

• No need to ask to join, just so long as you carry on the current context or note what's happening in the story as you write yourself in
• If you've got an existing character profile, link it in your primary post(s), rather than cut and past. If you don't have a character link, or would rather reveal your character through writing, that's delightfully appropriate for a writing site, aye?

The tavern seems quiet tonight, so far.

A bartender wipes apathetically at the counter near the entrance, awaiting customers. Despite winter's early collapse, the evening is still young, and there'd be a lull until travelers and locals alike trickled in.

This lull serves well. Summertime would give few chances to do the work proper, he knows, so he's grateful for the silence while it's here. And besides: he's making noise enough, at this stage. From behind the bar are a small series of metallic noises, and a small huff of breath that spoke of frustration, or effort, or perhaps a bit of both. Another clatter, and then the voice made another sound, this closer to affirmation, before a pair of hands appeared at the edges of the counter, using the sturdy wood to assist his rise.

As he rose, Aras lifted a hand to wipe the hair from his brow, the other deftly slipping his tools back into the half-apron that hung around the narrow hips. "…There, that should do it." The words were half-addressed to himself, and to the bartender who was much more interested in attracting the attentions of a paying customer, than in the tinkerer he'd soon have to pay.

No matter. Aras leaned over the washbasin, testing the faucets, a thin, approving smile appearing briefly as the water flowed. This, at least, worked now.

(could I join?)

(( @PuffPoff_the_Miracle_cousin : Please do!))

(Its Tolya from discord, hi! I don’t think I have any medieval-medieval characters but Mellia Costa could be adapted.)

(( Go for it! I wouldn't say Aras is strictly medieval either. We can make whatever work, I think))

(( @PuffPoff_the_Miracle_cousin If you've got an existing profile on Notebook, you can link it. I'm making one for Aras now, actually. Or, you're welcome to slowly reveal the characters through writing and interactions, like I've initially done above. Whatever works best for you and helps the story flow.))

May I?//

((Please!))

Aras took advantage of the silence to assess the flow of water, tilting a head down towards the faucet to listen for burbles or pauses. Nothing yet, and a thin smile creased over his lips, nodding a bit to himself. Seeing as no one else was here yet, he'd bent, washing his hands and then his face of the grime of work….missing the knocks outside in the meantime as his head ducked into a towel. The newcomer had already been there for a few moments before he realized someone else had shown up.

Inwardly embarassed, the thin smile faltered briefly on the telltale Weaver's features. The grey eyes stared, waiting to see just how this person would respond to his presence…Weavers were not the most liked sorts of folk, not after the War. Nevermind the fragile peace that these Unitary soldiers had fused together…it was something else entirely for most folk to come face to face with those who'd broken the Covenant.

Mellia collapsed upon the ground of an unknown location, having decided there was nothing worth doing for the fight she had gotten embroiled in. She had no idea what world she had ended up in this time, so had chosen to simply transport herself to the most distant point she could manage. Completely exhausted and sporting a couple of wounds, she looked around for a place of refuge. Fortunately, she spotted a tavern nearby, and began to drag herself through its doors, working her way towards a table. Mellia quickly discovered she had misjudged her strength, as she collapsed theatrically on the tavern floor.

Mendax glitched, teleporting a few feet in front of where they originally were. "D-Damn it." They stuttered out as they glitched again, this time only in appearance, their eyes momentarily becoming a prism of grays. "A ta-t-tavern! I can get a ma-meal." They stuttered to themselves, pulling their black coat that was dusted with snow closer to themselves.

…And that small reaction, at least, was a godsgiven. Weavers didn’t exactly make others comfortable, whether you knew their history or not, but given that history…he was glad she hadn’t spit, and anything better than that reaction was an upside.

The thin smile attempted to curl again, this time as a peace offering to bolster a greeting. Before he'd had a chance to say anything, however, the door opened again, another figure - this one, perhaps, a bit off? - coming inside, and then…collapsing.

The smile fled again; something was definitely off. The grey eyes flickered over to the other patron, and then to the bartender, who was absent (in the back of his mind, Aras considered that of course the man would go missing the moment his tinkerer was up for pay), and then finally back again to the figure on the floor. A coppery hand rested on the bar, muscles tense, the other hand securing his tools. If he'd have to move fast, he'd better be prepared not to do so in a flurry of metal.

Mendax knocked on the wooden door of the tavern, admiring the frame of the door for a moment before walking in. They hoped they were not being rude, it was simply cold outside and Mendax did not have their usual layer of protection against the winds.

Grey eyes moved again to the door. Of course, things would have to pick up right as things also, of course, tended to go wrong. The fingers hovering above his tools twitched, feeling the Weave of the place, the invisible cords of connection that bound the world and these creatures in it. He couldn't smell any blood, but he could feel the raw edges in the fiber of the person who held the wounds, all the same.

The angled jaw clenched, and a quick move vaulted him over the bar's counter. A pause to turn and flick off the faucet, and another glance to gauge the latest newcomer (Mendax) as Aras moved towards the person who had fallen. Someone wounded might have someone else following them, after all, and this soldier had no desire to get between that.

(I should probably mention Mendax is a time traveler of sorts…. Meh. Maybe later.)

Mellia noticed the man walking towards her, and offered a grateful smile. She did not have the strength to pick herself up, but she managed to speak, her voice reduced to a whisper. “Thank you,” she said.

The grey eyes narrowed for a moment, assessing her, as well; wounded creatures had a tendency to bite, after all. The copper face set in an unreadable, thin expression, and even the casual observer would see the time passed just a moment too long between them before he knelt, offering a long-fingered hand whose pads were worn by manual work. The observant might notice he'd positioned himself so even here, he could keep the others in the periphery of his gaze, and his crouch was tense, as if he was used to trouble.

"You're hurt," he said simply, the low voice managing to make it fall somewhere between a statement and an admonishment, rather than a question.

There was a chair nearby, and he'd figured to help her to that, if she accepted it.

Mellia gave a quiet laugh. “Quite severely,” she said. “Would you mind helping me back onto my feet, and preferably then onto one of these chairs. I’m awfully sorry to impose on you in such a condition.”

A dismissive blink in a deadpan face; "Don't be. I'm not the one cleaning the floors." Was that a joke? His face had turned away to gauge the distance to the chair, and when it came back, he was all business now at least, a shoe scraping the floor as he adjusted his stance to better take the weight she'd surely be unable to hold on her own. The hooked nose flared, taking in a readying breath for the work of moving her.

Mellia reached one of her hands towards the man’s, shifting the force of her body weight from the floor to his frame.

Mendax took up a chair in the corner of the room, far away from the others, blatantly observing the injured women and the worker. Their hand glitched a bit, flickering and trembling for a bit after the glitch. However, they still watched, paying no attention to the glitch.

The intake of air puffed out as he accepted the weight, pulling upwards - carefully - and ready to steady her. Right as he moved, however, there was a nearly imperceptible jangle along the Weave. Old senses snapped his gaze to the source - the person in the far corner of the room - and there was a moment when the grey eyes locked with the other, the brow furrowing in an unconscious attempt to decipher what had caused the disruption of the metaphysical strings.

But then the weight of the woman was there, and Aras grunted, his attention turning as his lean frame did the same, trying to pivot her weight to the chair instead as he rose. He was fit, but not particularly strong, and she was weak, and not particularly helpful, and his distracted attention wasn't helping either, and this took a little bit of work.

(More about Aras can be found here: Aras Emox)

(Sorry for the sudden disappearance, my iPad crashed). Mellia collapsed into the chair. “Again, thank you so much,” She said.