YOU MEET IN A TAVERN

[dozens]

The Third Watch is the last of Sickovia's great Free Companies. Headquartered in the capitol city of Novasol, it sells its services to the highest bidder. And its second-tier services to the next highest bidder. And its most mediocre services to the lowest bidders.

The Captain has assigned you, poor devil of a Sub-Sub-Third-Watchman, to one of these lowest tier deployments. Luck you! Poor devil of a Sub-Sub.

And that's how you find yourself north of the capitol city, about 30 miles off the coast, on the island of Natockete, in the Sudden Pig pub and inn. Sent to answer the town's call for help investigating and being rid of the "dark water" off the island coast, choking sea life, flora and fauna, to death. Snatching low flying seabirds from the air with its oily tendrils, and even going so far as to attack small sailing vessels.

It is dim in the Sudden Pig. The walls and windows have been blackened by years of smoke and soot. You are to meet your employer, the burgomaster, name of Beryl, here. But they have yet to arrive.

There is a bristle-bearded fellow the size of a horse---with the long, rough face to match---behind the bar with corded forearms wiping smudges off of glasses with a rag.

A couple of locals sit at a table by the large fireplace, their coats and hats hanging on pegs to dry out, passing a long stem pipe back and forth, leisurely smoking and playing Hinky Checkers.

WHAT DO YOU DO

[neonio]

I adjust my hat, saunter up to the bar, and lean an elbow down, hooking a boot heel into the nominal metal feature. With my most endearing smirk and glimmer in my eye, I order a cow's milk, whole.

[owl]

The door swings open with a spray of rainwater, salt, and reek. Silhouetted against the darkening sky stands a woman of short stature: shes 4'5" on a good day, and Saints know those are in short supply lately.

She kicks the door closed before it can bring too much of the outside in and pulls her raincoat off, revealing worn leather the color of freshly expectorated chewing tobacco. Good gear is another thing in short supply of late, at least when you're three deep on the assignments chart.

Mauve Poinquick is no stranger to shit taverns and even shittier jobs. The only thing special about this one is its privileged location at the ass-end of the world, and maybe the impressive size of the tavern keep's mustache. She eyes him for a moment, her mind wandering back to the last time she met a man who looked like a walrus.. but no, she swore off men years ago. She's here to work.

Mauve grabs the empty seat at the end of the bar and raises her hand to the walrus. "Hey, tusks. I'll take a pint of your cheapest swill, so long as it ain't made from that devil water I'm here to dry out."

[vilmibm]

Bags Truckmeet is a god damned sicko. He never quite learned how one dressed for polite company; nor did he have any idea how to fit into impolite company. Bags wore an oversized trenchcoat stuffed with whatever clothing or rags he happened to come across. Sometimes a sock would fall out as he shifted; sometimes he'd trail a moth eaten cashemere sweater for miles on one of his infamous Sicko Lurches.

He opens the bar door and pushes right past his colleague Mauve to reach the locals.


i smelled your pipe

i wanted to ask about it

do you only use it when you check these hinkeys

or other times too...

Bags stars at the checker game, not making eye contact

[pilosophos]

Marco Biggs

Location
Sudden Pig

Interactions
Mauve, Bartender

Marco emerged from the rainy doorstep and slouched into the Sudden Pig. With a watery squelch, he sat down on an open barstool next to Mauve, and without even a nod of acknowledgement to his new coworker, ordered a beer from the bartender in a quiet, yet gravelly voice. He tossed a wad of crumpled up bills onto the countertop, barely enough for the cheap mud-water that he had, much to his dismay, become quite accustomed to.

Marco had always dreamed of being a member of the Third Watch, even when he was just a wee little lad. Like every little boy, he heard stories of valor, saw the posters of Third Watch heroes in the street, and played Watchman in the schoolyard. He became a cadet the moment he saw the chance and, with a very promising start, was absolutely ecstatic that he had gotten everything he had ever wanted.

He wasn't quite sure where it all started going wrong, but some time after graduating the academy, he had been kicked down the ladder more times than he had fingers, in frighteningly quick succession. Vague memories of former coworkers and commanders from units he'd been transferred away from lingered in his head, but he had known them all so briefly that he couldn't remember any of their names.

Marco furrowed his brow, trying to remember what his last Captain's was called. It started with a P, he wanted to say. Parker? Pince? Pig? He shook his head. No, maybe it was F.

After a few moments, he gave up and simply sighed.

Mavis was stood next to him, as terribly drenched from the rain as he was, but even in her short stature, you could tell she meant business. He wondered how anyone deployed here of all places could have any shred of motivation left in them at all. He opened his mouth, but hesitated before the question could form on his lips. He didn't really want to get to know Marge, acutely aware that he was just going to get sent somewhere else again.

But then, he reminded himself, that this was the rock bottom. Even if he just started flipping over tables, tossing checkers pieces all over, yelling and screaming obscenities, it wasn't like there was anywhere else for him to go. There's no Sub-sub-sub-Third Watchman... is there?

"So, uh, Marie," he said, turning to Mauve, "How'd you end up with the Third Watch?"

[archangelic]

Stephanie Sorryblade once ate a god (it was an accident). She has struggled with this for 3 long years and wears it on her face. She trundles into the tavern in a cowboy hat, a Hawaiian floral print shirt, and orders the sliders.

She sidles up to the rest of you, begins eating her sliders and with a mouth full of food says “hi I’m Stephanie, and I ate a god”

[curio]

I put on my robe and wizard hat

[momf]

Raven Sidelong drips from head to toe for a moment as he stands in the door before the fetid rain sizzles off him, leaving him perfectly dry. He loves the rain, just not on him. He turns to inspect the rest of the room, but the blade embedded in his chest bumps against the door frame. He sighs, guess I really do have to go all the way in.

The fireplace is welcoming enough. He sidles up to the locals and smiles broadly, unsettlingly, his teeth much sharper than they ought to be. "Mind if I warm up?" he says. At that moment, the fireplace jumps from a meager flame to a blaze, the center colored a light blue. He smiles as he feels the warm air desiccate him, "much better."

[dozens]

I adjust my hat, saunter up to the bar, and lean an elbow down, hooking a boot heel into the nominal metal feature. With my most endearing smirk and glimmer in my eye, I order a cow's milk, whole.

Horseface nods and disappears into the back for a moment. He comes back with a large mug in one hand and a teacup bovine under his arm.

He sets both down, slides the mug across the bar to you, and stands the micro cow up on the bar. It wears a tiny halter, and he loosely ties the loose end of the reigns to a rail running along the other side of the bar. The pocket cow looks up at you with its round eyes and lets out a small plaintively moo in a small high register. It sounds kind of like a cat's meow. You eye its swollen udders.

The barkeep leans against the bar, looks you up and down, and remarks, "I can tell from your outfit that you are a cowboy," and then seems to sing a few lines of a song to himself under his breath as he trails off. Something about "if you get an outfit you can be a cowboy too.."

[dozens]

The door swings open with a spray of rainwater, salt, and reek. Silhouetted against the darkening sky stands a woman of short stature: shes 4'5" on a good day, and Saints know those are in short supply lately.

She kicks the door closed before it can bring too much of the outside in and pulls her raincoat off, revealing worn leather the color of freshly expectorated chewing tobacco. Good gear is another thing in short supply of late, at least when you're three deep on the assignments chart.

Mauve Poinquick is no stranger to shit taverns and even shittier jobs. The only thing special about this one is its privileged location at the ass-end of the world, and maybe the impressive size of the tavern keep's mustache. She eyes him for a moment, her mind wandering back to the last time she met a man who looked like a walrus.. but no, she swore off men years ago. She's here to work.

Mauve grabs the empty seat at the end of the bar and raises her hand to the walrus. "Hey, tusks. I'll take a pint of your cheapest swill, so long as it ain't made from that devil water I'm here to dry out."

The barkeep shudders at the mention of the dark water.

He opens a tap behind the bar, fills up a glass, and slides it down to you.

He leans against the bar and regards you, twirling his prodigious mustache thoughtfully. "So I take it you're here about the devil water as you so aptly put it. I shure do hope you can get rid of it. It's a curse on our village, I tell you it is! Ships cain't arrive nor part for fear of the dark water. Ain't no fish left in the harbor, I tell you!"