The passing of time...

[Kheiron]

Damn he hated it here.
The noise, the smoke, the smell. The smell was worst of all, which struck him as a little odd given what he usually spent his day around.
Sweaty, unwashed and grime covered people who must have only had noses for decoration. If this was the result of just being near them, imagine how bad they had it, walking around as the source. He figured a better use for the ale they swallowed with speed would be to turn the tankards upon themselves and whip out some stout, abrasive cloth. But then they'd smell like the ale.
He sat there, huddled in 'normal' clothes, watching his own mug of the swill evaporate, wondering why he'd come. It had to have been years since he'd entered such a place and he didn't like it back then either. Years since he'd had a drink, or had a conversation, or saw a friendly face, or interacted with anyone this side of death that wasn't trying to kill him. He guessed there was the reason. Years of solitude can do strange things to you.
Perhaps it was a pang of lonliness brought on by some subtle reminder of better times. Perhaps it was some rational idea that he should reaffirm his connection to the living he laboured so hard to defend. Perhaps he just needed a root. Whatever the reason, he had, with scarce consideration, trundled off in search of a tavern. Now that he was here, surrounded by happy, breathing folk, he felt like they could all stick it up their arse and get fucked.
Damn he hated it here. The noise, the smoke, the smell. The smoke was worst of all, which struck him as a little odd given his own abilities with flame.
Perhaps it was the source. About half the crowd had their lips around a pipe or rolled log of dry leaves. He'd never put a flame to anything of the sort and why you'd want to breathe it in was beyond him. Smelt like burning arse hair from the outside, imagine coughing up something that had that smell condensed. He tried to blow the offensive odour away from him, but his efforts were pointless. He felt like sparking each lit tip into a proper flame. See how the good folks liked it when their whole heads were alight. That'd fuck 'em.
Damn he hated it here. The noise, the smoke, the smell. The noise was worst of all, which seemed entirely understandble. He'd basked in silence for quite a long time, the only voice he heard was his own. Sure, some of the experiments uttered sounds but nothing of consequence. Certainly nothing as loud or sustained. He noticed several small groups holding conversations and wondered how they managed it. He could barely hear the voice in his head, not one of them. His ears seemed to hum in protest as the happy, breathing folk continued their verbal tirades against each other. Death might silence them, a potent plague for them all to choke on. See how loud they were when it was a lung they popped out instead of the latest, dull as fuck gossip about their neighbours. Tempting. So tempting.
Damn he hated it here and he was just about to leave.

OOC: All welcome. Lets get this show on the road.

[Mal'nael]

While others read the daily herald, sent out from our obese king, necronomicon was alot more interesting for the devout. What could be used to punish the blabbering, pesky, living, drinking drunkards in the Tavern? Perhaps the spider boils would instill fear and respect. Fuck respect, just fear and chaos would be lovely.
Being focused at finding the most fitting punishment, he failed at noticing the black cloaked figure sitting beside him. How long had he'd been sitting there?
Dragged out from his silent and stinky friends to meet an equally silent, however not so stinky, contact. The Dark Brotherhood had always had contact with him, but they must have gotten new tasteless leadership. Why would otherwise a Tavern be the place to meet?

Dark assasins never talked, perhaps their tongues were cut out? But in any case the parchment, made out of human skin, felt familiar and homey. He knew the message would incinerate itself in two minutes, so he took a deep breath and started to read after quickly unclutching the lock.
"Being well-versed in the Dark Arts we require your assistance. You will ofcourse be working for free due to our previous involvements. But doing this will once again put us at neutral standings, so we know you will do your best. Follow our agent for further instructions."

[Rossco]

Off in a corner of the establishment -- though, by no feat of hiding or deluding oneself into the vagaries of privacy in the uncomfortably sweaty-close environment, and perhaps more out of sheer that-was-the-only-place-he-could-fit-his-fat-ass-in-ness -- was one, well, as stated, fat ass. Granted, a measurable degree of his apparent girth was due in no small part to the few vestments, tunic, another vestment, robes, thin leather under-armour, another robe, and again a cloak to top it all, with literal ... girthiness attributing, ah, far less, to his ... girthiness. From a distance, 'twas he a clean, perhaps overly clean, shaven, fair-skinned -- perhaps a bit on the unusually tanned side, for one with what might at first be presumed a 'sheltered' and 'lazy' existence -- individual. His hair was equally fair, a cleanly, suntanned blond-gold, turning about platinum blond or white at the very ends of each thin little hair; this cared-for mop of hair hung all to below his ears, in what appears to be a disheveled array.

Taken in stride, one can compare his various obsessively cared for physical attributes, in relation to those obviously less obsessed-over ones, as being either some grander kind of stylistic preference as to his appearance in a whole, or a generally disorganized inflection towards only giving so much of a fuck about his appearance as to randomly leave certain features altogether in disarray one day from the next.

Presently hunched, leaning, grinning; wide green eyes gleaming greedily at the tavern patron across from him, a few intrigued others surrounding the table. "Ba-ha, what a snide move, this one thinks! Oh yes--" not so much punctuating this point as rather interrupting himself mid-sentence with the slap of some foreign currency onto the table in front of him, "--we shall see the opponent defeated, quitequite." He snickers a bit. Contrary to what might expect, the mans voice is, in fact, not high, not snivelling, and not overly-pompous--or even pompous, in the least. Deep, clear, and low, with a steely assurance to his faintly monomaniacal speech patterns as to perhaps indicate some actual cynical knowledge.

A few more rounds of the loosely-ruled, fast-paced, barely-sensible game pass; the stakes on the table ever-rising with the addition of more, and more, and more, interested players... the winnings, indeed, quite one-sided to the large mans benefit. His attention--even care at all--seems to fade at an accelerating pace s he wins more, and earns further exasperation from his growing little posse of opponents, until he's left simply appearing brooding, forboding, warning, and grudgingly increasing his own wealth through sheer lack of enough will power to get up, give up, and move away from the game.



Yet, within the room, anybody of a particularly arcane fixation would rear no ... noticeable signs of malpractice from the man. For all intents and purposes, he appears of a simple and moderately lucky nature, with an obvious inclination to gambling.

[Ikkari]

Waiting. Ikkari spent a lot time waiting recently. He had plenty of patience though and the waiting seemed the easy part. The difficulty part he thought came from waiting in such a place as this. He much preferred wandering the world or relaxing in his favorite chair in the tavern back at the village. Ikkari shifted uncomfortably on the hard seat and wondered when the last time the table was wiped.

She always sent him to places like this. He knew she found it amusing. Of course he did, she always teased him about it. He took a large drink of his ale without thinking and immediately regretted it. It was bitter and unrefined like the look of most of the other patrons. She was most likely here, disguised and secretly watching his disdain for the place. He did not disguise himself or come cloaked. His robes were clean and the enchantments embroidered into them very visible. There was no point in hiding himself here. He looked about the place to see if he could spot her through the smokey haze.

He could not see her this time if she was there, sometimes she stayed away when she had her fill of the arcane. There were others that stood out though. A gambler in the corner was getting a lot of angry looks from some of the people he had unburdened from their money. Either he was very lucky tonight or his enchantment was very well concealed. Ikkari had never seen anyone win so much without a bit help.

A couple of necromancers sat at different tables around the room; he wondered if one of them was the one he was supposed to meet. They were usually dangerous and unpredictable at best. Usually preferring the company of the dead rather than the living. That would make sense why she make arrangements for Ikkari himself to meet this person and not herself. It would also make sense why she wouldn't be here, or at least have a better hiding place or disguise than usual. She didn't deal with necromancers or the undead unless forced into it. He took another drink of ale and tried to keep the disgusted look from his face.

[Avienda]

Avienda walked into the stinking tavern and inhaled deeply. Now this was her kind of place! Cheap bitter beer was her specialty. It's a good thing she brought her shiny knives today. Men always gawked at her more when they sparkled. Two paces in and she could see Ikkari. He always stood out in places like this.
She planted her foot into a man trying to get up out of his chair to grab at her. "Not today, pretty boy."
The man resettled himself and made some lude joke to his friend to save his ego. Avienda spied a plump serving wench who owned a brilliant set of twins. She hollered "Two tankards!" and saw the woman nod toward her.
There seemed to be a disruption in the otherwise jolly tavern. She sensed that Ikkari's brooding personality wasn't the only dark stain on the otherwise pleasant watering hole.
A wide man with bight eyes had to squeeze past her. He had a scar tearing across his cheek that extended to a bit of his ear missing. "Now that one looks fun", she noted to herself "and so does that dice game goin' on in the corner."
She thought better of the dice game. Avie grimaced thinking of the last time she lost her month's wages. But that bright eyed brute could use another long look.
Avienda looked back to glance at the man's rear before going to join Ikkari. Behind the piece of meat, she happened to glance an uncomfortable looking man.
"Keiron?" Avienda thought that was his dower face above a mug. Hard to tell without the ominous finery but after starring for a minute she was certain. "Keiron!"
The voluptuous serving wench gave her a moment's pause handing her two tankards. She took them with her left in order to drop coins in the woman's hand.

[Kheiron]

The fumes must be getting to him. It almost sounded like someone called his name.
Preposterous nonsense.
No-one had uttered his name in years, not even he. It had been so long the sound felt odd, even in his head.
Kheiron
Khe-eir-ron
Kheiron
Damn sexy name. He missed it. Last time someone called him by it was...
He looked up and suddenly found himself smiling like a split melon. He remembered that hair, red like his own but where his was rust, hers was fire. He remembered that careless grace that spoke of sensuality braced by power. He remembered those eyes, those lips, those breasts...those breasts. He found himself staring and quickly shifted his gaze back to eye level.
You better hope she didn't notice
He pushed himself up and began to make his way over. It was then he noticed a second ghost from his past, standing out like a third testicle on your forehead. He should have felt his presence, but didn't. Hell, he should have at least seen him come in, but didn't. He wondered just how self absorbed he'd become, sitting in the corner. The barmaid could have poked him in the eye with a nipple and he would have missed it. Stupid. He had to be more careful.
Now, though, there was a real question. Seeing one Oromean could be happy circumstance. Seeing two, in the same tavern, here, after years, hinted towards something else.
They're here for you!
He suddenly found himself wary. He remembered the way it was. They had accepted him as one of their own, but there was always something between them. The suspicion, the disapproval, the mistrust. A Necromancer, among Nature's Defenders. It was like a bad joke. There were even some who felt he should be banished, perhaps some feelings ran deeper. Perhaps they'd decided to act.
You're paranoid
Perhaps he was. He'd fought by their side countless times. Saved their lives, had his saved by them. He trusted them, they trusted him. If they were here for him, it wasn't to kill.
But If you're wrong, kill the woman first

"My friends!" He beamed, arms open wide, "What brings you to this stinking shithole?"

[Avienda]

"We are here for you Kheiron. You still owe me for loosing in a game of Knives."
Avie paused, taking in her old friend. She accepted people for who they were and what they could bring to a fight. How people chose to live their lives was their own business as long as they didn't try to stick anything sharp into her. This came naturally but magic seemed wholly unnatural to her. Necromancy seemed even more entrenched in magic. Wasn't anyone's own hands good enough for them? Well, as long as they didn't press their magics on her, she didn't care.

Kheiron looked happy but skinny. Mages usually were a bony bunch though. He looked like he needed another beer and a woman too by they way he eyed her cleavage like a starving man. Kheiron did have a nice head of hair and she liked the way his eyes had an intense and dangerous charm. His face was just too smooth. Mages had that problem; Clean hands and unmarked faces.
Avienda took hold of Kheiron's upper arm in a friendly greeting.
"It's good to see you my old friend. It has been such a long time. It is too bad that it is not for leisure but for a troubling cause. Either way though, I am glad to see you."

Avie upended one tankard to sate her thirst. She glanced back to see if Ikkari was joining them yet.
Maybe the men would talk late tonight yattering on and she could go have some fun. There were so many rogues about, a few with some nice battle marks. Maybe she could get in on a game of dice, no... not dice, maybe flipping knives.
She always wondered why some thought that battle needed so much talk. She had already thought out two escape roots, one through the window on her left, from this tavern and how to kill most of the patrons. No need for a conference there!

[Ikkari]

After his recovery from the last sip of ale he noticed Avienda had arrived and was talking to one of the Necromancers at a table. Wait. He recognized the man she was talking to! That was definitely the person they were looking for. He got up from the table, glad to leave the dirty mug and asked a passing barmaid to bring him their finest brandy in a clean glass. She looked at him oddly even though he gave her a good sized silver piece. He started over towards them and Avienda glanced his way, no doubt wondering what was taking him so long.

"Kheiron!" Ikkari said as he approached the necromancer, "It has been to long. It would have been nice to meet in a cleaner place and under better circumstances."

He glanced at Avienda. She was wearing a little less clothing today despite the cold and looked absolutely stunning. It was most likely her clothes were intended for the agility she would need to use those knives effectively. He gave her a quick grin and looked over to see if the barmaid was looking for him yet before tuning back to Kheiron, "We are having some trouble near our borders and your talent might be the perfect solution."

[Rossco]

Anybody with a few moments to spare noticing, might realize the game of gambling off in the corner was about to take a change of direction--after all, the rotund sir sat a bit straighter, a solitary brow arched at the two brazen haired chums reuniting. If this indication of his concentration being reinvigorated in something wholly not his present game was not caught, then the relative ruckus caused when he actually lost a rather significant hand, and thus half his astounding earning, would garner anybodies notice regardless. At that point, however, his gaze became a glare, and set on the now ecstatic fellow beside himself who had just oh so luckily pilfered of his hoard. Jowls shook some, nostrils flared so minutely, and a pinkness blossomed to his cheeks. Evidently, this man does not appreciate losing . . . by all appearances.

At this point, he slaps a hand down on the table ... a gesture of significant velocity, yet caused no sound ... and all the dice and coins and drinks and containers madly spun around, creating nearly enough noise, themselves, to distract all of the regular patrons -- in their stupor -- from the significant of the feat. A glass spilled here, some coins rolled about there, a few dice wiggled about. In all, absorbed as no more than buzzed anger by the other players; by anybody of particularly refined arcane sensibilities, it was a highly acute, very brief reverberation of some of the weakest energy palatable. This given away, anybody might assume the man was simply capable of no more than cantrips, and lacking of such vast poise and control that he wastes valuable, and doubly small reserves, of magickal energies.

"Ah, ah," he growls low, licking his lips and, and fiddling with a lapel or collar of some shirt or cloak or other vestment, "distressing, my-my. A turn for the worse, oh no. BUT--" he would bellow, not loud, but of a vastly lower, even unsettling, octave "--naaaught ovaa'! Ohhh nooo. Nooo, no. Ha, ah! I shall see my spoils returned, oh yes! Yes. Mmmyes." A spin, in his chair, eliciting a rather all-around comical movement of his circularity and many-layered outfit, to be facing towards the bar. A hand, raised, "Oh crude tavern wench, a drink! Yes, yes, this one requires a dri- no, bah, guffaw, place that decrepit lifeblood of folly back from whence you have acquired it, oh mockery of civil serviance, lest you be cursed a thousand dreams of unforgivable ill at whatever ill fate your slip of hydrating judgement might put poor Mushashi in, alas! A drink, you scoundrel, a drink--not poison--a drink! Wipe that smear of bloody ignorance from the tip of your minds tongue, wench, and realise that not all drinks are squeezed from the Valkyrie excrement of some unfortunate, once-savoury rag-tag collection of natures own little many forms of children! A drink--water, wench! Water!" He simply sits there, then, arm extended, holding a laughably blank-faced expression, arm aloft and finger crooked out at the flustered, if not offended and highly dubious, serving girl. Then suddenly, "...water!" To which she suddenly pieces comprehension of the tirade together, looks triply offended, and goes to get him some water.

He receives his water; doubtless taken right from some dirty bath water, and costing him fourfold more than any other liquor the establishment might have. Many piercingly threatening glares are also bared to him--more than even gambling away all their earnings would accede--and, to all this, he shows blithe ignorance, returning his attention entirely back to the game. Mood dulling, once more, to as it was before his concentration was lost at the realization of the Oromëans. An exception, however, is that his stiff posture is occasionally administered inbetween blindly groping for, lifting, and drinking from his dirty tankard of water--a sour expression always following the gesture; the expression souring, even more, when his attention returns to the game... which he is, quickly, making up for his prior losses in.

[Kheiron]

Kheiron only just realized he was standing about with his mouth open. Slack-jawed and staring at the gambler after his verbal tsunami, of which Kheiron followed less then one word in five.
And they call you crazy
His display was certainly distracting, maybe that was the point. Unfortunately, the enigma that weird man presented was preceded by another. One infinitely more urgent.
How the Oromeans knew you'd be here
"I was getting to that"
Dude, you said that out loud
"Oops"

"My friends" Kheiron repeated as he turned back around to face his old allies, "Seriously, what the fuck?"
He turned to Ikkari, pressed his face in close. "It's been what, two years?". He whipped out his finger and gave it a stern shaking. "Two years and I suddenly find myself in this decrepit sphincter of a tavern, without any reason I can figure, and you two just happen to show up, looking for me?"
He turned to Avi now, looked her in the eye...or tried to. Maintaining eye contact with this woman was going to be impossible. Still, he was mad and on a roll. No time to stop and gawk now.
"So?", he continued, wagging his finger at her, "What the fuck is going on?, Did you guys draw me here?". Back to Ikkari. "Utter some mumbo jumbo, compelling me to seek out civilization?" Back to Avi...eyes down, then back up. "Set me up, eh?, try to trap me in here?"
He stood there, chest out and fuming, staring them both down.
"So," He finally said, with a smile. "How have you both been?"