The Multiverse Inn

[Micamo]

Zedata nods sadly. "Indeed... Did I not mention the impalement? I suppose it's better than what those damned Southerners do, but what can you expect from a bunch of seal-hunting tent dwellers?"

P'xwth frowns. "What's wrong with seal-hunting and living in tents?"

[elemtilas]

How old?
The oldest people on the planet, where I live, are about 125 years old.

"Humans usually don't make it much past 50, most die in their late thirties or early forties. Some demons are older than three centuries, though most of us have to work that out. It's difficult to remember, especially for those of us who have died a lot." Zedata cringes, "I have had a run of bad luck in that regard. The 'deadfellas' of my homeland aren't treated at all well... On a related note, you would not believe how much impalement hurts."

Oh, that's a very short time! There are a kind of people here, maybe a kindred of Man -- I do not know all their kinds! -- they only live perhaps forty years at the longest. They are called Dhargs. Men rarely live beyond perhaps one hundred and fifty years, though I've heard of a few who have made it to their two hundredth year.

Let me see, I know I was born in the year of the Flying Circus, which was in numbered years...um...well, I don't rightly know! Come to think of it, I'm not certain what year number this is, though I know tis the year of the Brass Waterpot, and that just began not quite a fortnight ago. Hang on, Sir, I'll ask the Box.

Canash reaches down under the table and fetches up a curious wood and bronze box from a sack. It is richly finished of a very dark reddish wood and has a large opaque crystal on top as well several smaller crystals, brass knobs and a stubby horn of brass. There are several brass grilles on the sides.

She leans over the brass horn and speaks into it: Box?

Nothing appears to happen, so Canash thumps the side: Box! Wake up in there you recalcitrant little buggers! Tea time is long done!

At last a shifting fog appears in the big crystal, resolving into mercurial ripples. The ripples become a swirl of cloud, revolving round the face of the crystal -- once, twice, thrice -- and then it turns to mercury again and a kind of Face rises up out of the liquid seeming crystal. It is a smooth face and upon it an expression that can only be described as irritation: it has pupilless eyes and a mouth without tongue, yet it sees much and says more! -- it seems to look for a moment at Canash, and then the Face brightens up! A voice crackles from within the Box: "Evening greetings, o Mistress of Starlight and Deep Mysteries!"

Canash's face reddens noticeably. Whisht! That's quite enough of that, Box! Ahem. Sorry, Sir, the Box likes to address me that way (I have no idea why!).

The shimmering Face looks about from the crystal: "How may we be of service o Lady of Unaccustomed Impatience? But may we first enquire as to the nature of this most curious Place, for we can not determine your present location within the confines of Gea. Have you perhaps recently travelled beyond the Voids surrounding All That Is? Alas! we must warn you that our Mark VI Undiquator will not function until we are brought again within the confines of the known world..."

Box, you know I don't understand a word of it when you get all thaumical on me! Listen: I need to know when was the year of the Flying Circus. You know, in numbers.

"(sigh) Of course, o Mistress of the Midnight Feathers! All shall be as you command, for our poetico encyclopedicon is ever at your beck and call! We shall now consult our ledgers on the Enumeration of Years... Bide now in patience!"

The mercurial Face disappears momentarily, replaced again by the swirling cloud; then reappears just as quickly! "O Mistress Ever Young and Ever Graceful! The year of the Flying Circus was the year of your own birth, for so you once told us. According to the Enumeration, the year of the Flying Circus was even the seventeen hundred and fifty-fifth year of the zodiacal era of Pesqas, which era has passed into the lore of the historians these eleven days gone, and also the three thousand eight hundred fifty-fifth year both of the Hipparchian age of Pwerncas and also of the Star Age that is called Calior. It is also, o most inquisitive Mistress!, the sixteen hundred and sixty-ninth year of the Fifth Age of Men and the civil calendar of the Empire. We have taken the liberty of applying our findings in a most advantageous and proactive fashion, if you please, o Mistress of the Raven Braid!, for according to our calculoscopion, this year of the Brass Waterpot shall be the three hundred and forty fifth year of your life. May we be of further assistance to our most graceful and youthful Mistress, or is there any further Question she would pose to us?"

Er, no Box, I think that answers for now! Thank you!

"Very well, o Mistress of the Long Feet and Steadfast Stride! May we remind you that, even though we seem to have become lost outside all confines of Space and Time, our research and archival functions remain perfectly intact and most pleased to serve you in a fashion most instantaneous, rapid and efficient, that is only possible for an advanced class iv device such as ourself!" The Face in the shimmering crystal smiles benevolently, then nods towards Canash: "O Mistress, we are your loyal Mark VII Pegopansophicon, constructed by the artificer Stephanos Laboriosoi in Ringomongers Row, and for now we bid you a good evening!..."

The Face sinks back into the rippling mercury and the mercury itself sinks beneath the swirling fogs and at last the crystal turns opaque again, as it was before. Hah! Three hundred and forty five years only! Seems like rather more...but not so very old after all!

[Ànradh]

The Face sinks back into the rippling mercury and the mercury itself sinks beneath the swirling fogs and at last the crystal turns opaque again, as it was before. Hah! Three hundred and forty five years only! Seems like rather more...but not so very old after all!

Zedata stares the box in dumbfounded silence. "You are at least as old as me, yet clearly mortal. How?"

Ooh!
I thought that only these on a camp reside temporarly in tents, but residing permanently in them?

It turns, momentarily distracted, "Uh, yes, they pack up the tents and drag them around from place to place, chasing food that often isn't there..."

P'xwth frowns. "What's wrong with seal-hunting and living in tents?"

"Aside from the smell?" it asks haughtily, billowing its own decayed reek around the room with a dismissive gesture. "A complete lack of intelligence. Imagine starving to death in the snow rather than live in our cities? We tried to bring them culture and they fought us! They actually fought us!" Zedata leans forward, putting its face close to ground level. "Don't tell me you're one of them?" it rumbles.

[Micamo]

P'xwth stands resolute, and stares the demon before her directly in the eye. "Three times, the nations of the south have united to cross Quul'shxw'ay'm into our lands and try to conquer us. Three times, we did not even bother to fight them. And three times, they failed. Winter came and took them all every time. And we emerged and burned their frozen corpses, victorious."

[Egerius]

The door of the lonely British phone box opens again, Argenzu enters the inn again - with his fully-charged laptop under his cloak.
He goes back to his seat near the window, starts the laptop (which makes a quiet "kloom" upon startup) and resumes working on things only he can comprehend - unless, of course, someone else understands written Buonavallese!

Have I missed something?

[elemtilas]

The door of the lonely British phone box opens again, Argenzu enters the inn again - with his fully-charged laptop under his cloak.
He goes back to his seat near the window, starts the laptop (which makes a quiet "kloom" upon startup) and resumes working on things only he can comprehend - unless, of course, someone else understands written Buonavallese!

Have I missed something?

Oh, hello! I think the other tiny girl and that giant deadfella are going to end up fighting before long! They've got that look in their eyes! Oh, and we were able to sort out how old I am -- almost as old as Zedata here! Only thing is, he's dead and well, I ain't! Hihi! I wouldn't mind crossing knives with Pecweshte some time, but watch out for Zedata -- he said he steals peoples spirits and wears their skins and that's how he's able to die so long! I'm afraid he couldn't make much more than a scarf out me, though!

Friend, why do you travel in a bartleigh box?

You know, that red armoire over by the door?

[opipik]

looks at Argenzu and his laptop
Oh, you have an old laptop!
It looks like it was made some 100 years earlier on our planet, but that brand! That brand!

[Ànradh]

P'xwth stands resolute, and stares the demon before her directly in the eye. "Three times, the nations of the south have united to cross Quul'shxw'ay'm into our lands and try to conquer us. Three times, we did not even bother to fight them. And three times, they failed. Winter came and took them all every time. And we emerged and burned their frozen corpses, victorious."

"Your Southerners weren't us. Our armies were stranded by a civil war- foolish provincials and their infighting- but that army took to the harshest wastes of the land and thrived. The nomads call them the Reivers, and can't find them, let alone kill them." Zedata straightens and rests back on his haunches, wobbling slightly. "But no, you're not one of the tent-dwellers; wrong colour for a start."

I wouldn't mind crossing knives with Pecweshte some time, but watch out for Zedata -- he said he steals peoples spirits and wears their skins and that's how he's able to die so long! I'm afraid he couldn't make much more than a scarf out me, though!

It brushes imaginary flecks of dusk from its sleeves "I'm currently wearing multiple skins; my magnificence can't be contained by a single mortal's remains."

[elemtilas]

P'xwth stands resolute, and stares the demon before her directly in the eye. "Three times, the nations of the south have united to cross Quul'shxw'ay'm into our lands and try to conquer us. Three times, we did not even bother to fight them. And three times, they failed. Winter came and took them all every time. And we emerged and burned their frozen corpses, victorious."

"Your Southerners weren't us. Our armies were stranded by a civil war- foolish provincials and their infighting- but that army took to the harshest wastes of the land and thrived. The nomads call them the Reivers, and can't find them, let alone kill them." Zedata straightens and rests back on his haunches, wobbling slightly. "But no, you're not one of the tent-dwellers; wrong colour for a start."

Never quite understood color myself... How can her colors be of the wrong sort? Ought she be a different sort of color?

I wouldn't mind crossing knives with Pecweshte some time, but watch out for Zedata -- he said he steals peoples spirits and wears their skins and that's how he's able to die so long! I'm afraid he couldn't make much more than a scarf out me, though!

It brushes imaginary flecks of dusk from its sleeves "I'm currently wearing multiple skins; my magnificence can't be contained by a single mortal's remains."

I see! Canash's eyes narrow slightly: Well, don't you try anything like that in here, mister, or it shall go very hard with you! You think impalement is bad? Wait til you're beat to a pulp with your own kneecaps!

[Ànradh]

Never quite understood color myself... How can her colors be of the wrong sort? Ought she be a different sort of color?

"To be one of the nomads of whom I speak? Yes. I always thought the nomads were pale, but she is to them as snow is to coal. Quite striking actually."

I see! Canash's eyes narrow slightly: Well, don't you try anything like that in here, mister, or it shall go very hard with you! You think impalement is bad? Wait til you're beat to a pulp with your own kneecaps!

Zedata cackles, and casts off its ragged shroud, revealing more hard cords of black flesh and spiralling mosaic-like formations of ossified scales erupting from its skin. It stands as high as the ceiling will allow, unsheathing its hind-claws into the floor for purchase and spreading its arms for balance. "Look at this perfection?" it beams. "What else would you add to it that I should want yoooour hide?"

Spoiler:

I think I forgot to mention that I'm using bold text to represent when Zed growls as he speaks.
Also, I keep forgetting to refer to him as 'it'.

[Egerius]

looks at Argenzu and his laptop
Oh, you have an old laptop!
It looks like it was made some 100 years earlier on our planet, but that brand! That brand!

Old? That's the newest technology available all across my planet. Ok, the design is an old hat, but this laptop here has...

• A 3 GHz PowerPC processor - with room for a second one
  A dedicated graphics chip, capable of serving two monitors with 2048 x 1536 pixels (16.7 million colours)
  Dedicated sound and disk drive controller chips
  Two half-height FilNuò expansion slots
  A 5.44 GB diskette drive, 2 TB Solid-State-Drive
  The latest operating system (i.e. Mac OS 9 with some advanced features, but without the Unix core as on Earth)
  Three expansion ports and an Ethernet connection (in addition to WiFi)

100 years earlier, you say? How many years has it been since your ancestors left Terra?

Oh, and we were able to sort out how old I am -- almost as old as Zedata here! Only thing is, he's dead and well, I ain't! Hihi! I wouldn't mind crossing knives with Pecweshte some time, but watch out for Zedata -- he said he steals peoples spirits and wears their skins and that's how he's able to die so long!

And, how old are you?
(Thinks:) Stealing bodies to stay alive... I know this. That's ancient mythology... it's that Terran television series... called... DOCTOR WHO!
Zedata, are you the Master?!

Friend, why do you travel in a bartleigh box? - You know, that red armoire over by the door?

Oh, you know, I've been promised an adventure with experimental technology - Time and Dimensions of Space, a technology developed by scientists all over my world, mostly young people.

We've been working on this since the beginning of electrification. It's an obsession on finding the huomines or humans, to restore our original home with them.
The technology was somewhat described in that television series Doctor Who - we call it Lu Segnjor Pelerínu (="The Wandering Elder") that is most probably of Terran origin...

(Remembers that Canash doesn't know computer tech - and probably no TV either:)
Oh right, television series... Well, you know plays, theater, right? Now, television series are played by actors, then recorded on a camera, something working like an eye, sending the moving images to boxes with screens, like windows, but it's a bit hard to explain electricity and electronic television...

Anyway, I went into that red box, flipped a switch and... appeared here. I could get home anytime, I just don't know if I found back here.

By the way, I'm not speaking my native Buonavallese or my parents' Slavic, but Wilandish - it's Gothic, but 2000 years later, and it's a compulsory foreign language from fourth grade on - and I like it.

Wilandish = some Old Norse and most British English sound changes applied to Gothic. The character speaks with a slightly outdated accent, comparable to the Received Pronunciation of the Second Doctor.
Listen closely!

[elemtilas]

Never quite understood color myself... How can her colors be of the wrong sort? Ought she be a different sort of color?

"To be one of the nomads of whom I speak? Yes. I always thought the nomads were pale, but she is to them as snow is to coal. Quite striking actually."

Yes -- Pecweshte's skin, what little I can see of it around her scarf and hood and cape!, is much like mine. It is her eyes that are so different... Men call us blanckmên because of the radiant whiteness. It is quite a stark contrast to the blaowmên; to me they look utterly black, but I'm told they are actually, um, blue. Yes, a very dark blue. Yet different are the blaqmên who are light, but their skins are clear and you can see the veins inside, where you really can't with us because we're more opaque. I can easily see the shadows of their veins, and their skin is not radiant like ours.

I see! Canash's eyes narrow slightly: Well, don't you try anything like that in here, mister, or it shall go very hard with you! You think impalement is bad? Wait til you're beat to a pulp with your own kneecaps!

Zedata cackles, and casts off its ragged shroud, revealing more hard cords of black flesh and spiralling mosaic-like formations of ossified scales erupting from its skin. It stands as high as the ceiling will allow, unsheathing its hind-claws into the floor for purchase and spreading its arms for balance. "Look at this perfection?" it beams. "What else would you add to it that I should want yoooour hide?"

Steady now! Need I remind you my hide has clothed me these seventeed score years and is as smooth and youthful now as it was centuries ago when I came of age! You collect a new hide every now and again -- our hides remain nearly changeless until we grow very old indeed!

Spoiler:

A Question!" Do you speak Scots by any chance?

[elemtilas]

looks at Argenzu and his laptop
Oh, you have an old laptop!
It looks like it was made some 100 years earlier on our planet, but that brand! That brand!

Old? That's the newest technology available all across my planet. Ok, the design is an old hat, but this laptop here has...

• A 3 GHz PowerPC processor - with room for a second one
  A dedicated graphics chip, capable of serving two monitors with 2048 x 1536 pixels (16.7 million colours)
  Dedicated sound and disk drive controller chips
  Two half-height FilNuò expansion slots
  A 5.44 GB diskette drive, 2 TB Solid-State-Drive
  The latest operating system
  Three expansion ports and an Ethernet connection (in addition to WiFi)

100 years earlier, you say? How many years has it been since your ancestors left Terra?

There you go with chips again! Or are these your inedible stone chips? What does all of that really mean, anyway?

Oh, and we were able to sort out how old I am...

And, how old are you?

I had to ask the Box here, because I can never keep track of the year numbers. Anyway, the Box says I am three hundred and forty five years old.

Friend, why do you travel in a bartleigh box? - You know, that red armoire over by the door?

Oh, you know, I've been promised an adventure with experimental technology - Time and Dimensions of Space, a technology developed by scientists all over my world, mostly young people.

Ah, dwimcrafty indeed these, um, scientists? What thaumery are they wise in?

We've been working on this since the beginning of electrification. It's an obsession on finding the huomines or humans, to restore our original home with them.

Electri... Wait, have your wizards also distilled the spirits of Elektra City as well? I understand from our sawyers that such deep dwimmery is very ancient in Gea, for they still recall the seven lightning globes of Ibizand. But those were lost for a very long time. Twas big news in Auntimoany a few years ago when artificers here rediscovered the distillation process. Does your Box drink the spirits of Elektra, then? Where do you keep that bat trees which house the salamanders?

The technology was somewhat described in that television series Doctor Who - we call it Lu Segnjor Pelerínu (="The Wandering Elder") that is most probably of Terran origin...

(Remembers that Canash doesn't know computer tech - and probably no TV either:)
Oh right, television series... Well, you know plays, theater, right? Now, television series are played by actors, then recorded on a camera, something working like an eye, sending the moving images to boxes with screens, like windows, but it's a bit hard to explain electricity and electronic television...

What is a tivi? Oh! It's a kind of theatre! Is a, a camara? like an iconograph? I hope not! My Box has one of those. Frankly, they creep me out like you wouldn't believe -- and here I was worried about my new friend Zedata stealing my own spirit and soul! Canash shivers: No, I do not trust them at all! I gave my Box explicit instructions to never paint an eidolon of me, and I never ask it to paint my family. A foolish Man, clearly a foreigner, made an eidolon which by accident, I think, was of me. He gave it me and went off with his friends before I could refuse or even look at it -- but when I did, I can tell you I was in no way prepared for the shock of it!

Other people say I am beautiful, and I am familiar enough with my own face seen in a retrospeculum, but to see my true self painted was a revelation indeed! Foolish Men and their dim understanding of the nature of dwimmery! I don't think he even understood what it was he was seeing in the depths of that image... I saw, perhaps a little like your tivis, my entire being -- not just the outside me that you see now, but my Inmost Being -- in every moment of my life here and now in Gea -- my birth, my living, my dying from Gea and I think even my translation beyond. I saw things I know must have been, and must even be, but have no understanding of what they are or what they mean, except that they are somehow me. Perhaps when I am older, more touched by grace, then I might look within that eidolon again...

Anyway!

Uy! Okay, enough of creepiness! A theater, you say? Yes, we often go up to the House of Opera and watch a theater there. I like the music Men make, it is so unlike ours! But the screeching high voices of the human women and boys grates on my ears and makes me dizzy! Even so, I have to admit it is thrilling to hear a single girl sing so very high one moment, and then sing much lower the next. They warble and trill like birds! We can not do that!

I remember now: did you not once tell me that you call your Box a computer? I do not know if mine is a hiqahercepici or if it has stone chips in it or not. Here, I'll wake it up, so you can talk to it. It always confuses me when it talks all thaumical, but maybe you'll understand it!

Anyway, I went into that red box, flipped a switch and... appeared here. I could get home anytime, I just don't know if I found back here.

Huh. I've heard of Men going in to explore the worlds contained inside a bartleigh box, but I never thought I'd ever meet a person who actually lives inside a bartleigh box world! Your folk must be dwimcrafty indeed if they can pull that kind of magic off. Plus I have to tip my cap to your artificers -- that red box is pretty spiff!

By the way, I'm not speaking my native Buonavallese or my parents' Slavic, but Wilandish - it's Gothic, but 2000 years later, and it's a compulsory foreign language from fourth grade on - and I like it.

Canash perks up excitedly: Gutish! Qutissas is the Talarian name for our own everyday tongue called Avantimannish. It's a very old word they say. Comes out of the West, where all the Men of the Eastlands came out of.

Wilandish = some Old Norse and most British English sound changes applied to Gothic. The character speaks with a slightly outdated accent, comparable to the Received Pronunciation of the Second Doctor.
Listen closely!

Huh. He sounds a lot like our emperor!

Canash looks down at her Pegopansophicon -- the swirling fogs are resolving into mercurial smoothness. A Face rises up from the depths of the metallic sea and fills the dark crystal with its light: "Evening greetings, o Mistress of the Splendorous Ravenwings! We note that, yet again, we seem to have travelled beyond the confines of the known Polycosm; therefore our warnings of yestereve hold true this day as well; but in what way may we be of service to you, in this and all worlds, o our mirthful and gregarious Lady?"

Box, my friend Argenzu here talks like you sometimes, and he has his own magic Box and all. I think he might like to ask you some things...

Canash sets the Pegopansophicon upright so that the Inter Face is now looking out at Argenzu. Its pupilless eyes dart back and forth, examining his features. It speaks at last: "A rat that is not a rat is before us sat!" The Inter Face grimaces in what can only be described as the cheesiest grin in the history of rotten puns! "Yes, quite. What, pray sir, would you ask of us? We are the Mark VII Pegopansophicon in the happiest service of the Lady Brass-Spoon Rattles-Jar Three-Leg-Dog Running-Home and we eagerly await the opportunity to serve her Friend Argenzu..."

[Ànradh]

Yes -- Pecweshte's skin, what little I can see of it around her scarf and hood and cape!, is much like mine. It is her eyes that are so different... Men call us blanckmên because of the radiant whiteness. It is quite a stark contrast to the blaowmên; to me they look utterly black, but I'm told they are actually, um, blue. Yes, a very dark blue. Yet different are the blaqmên who are light, but their skins are clear and you can see the veins inside, where you really can't with us because we're more opaque. I can easily see the shadows of their veins, and their skin is not radiant like ours.

Zedata makes a display of examining the skin on the back of its hand, stretching its bladed fingers straight as it does; there's something odd about the joints, for the knuckles seem to be doubled as though each digit consists of two fused ones. "The Reivers' demons often take white skin to act as camouflage, long fur is also popular. I really should visit the Reivers more often... they're the only race I've come across that treats demons even remotely civilly. Shame about the weather."

Steady now! Need I remind you my hide has clothed me these seventeed score years and is as smooth and youthful now as it was centuries ago when I came of age! You collect a new hide every now and again -- our hides remain nearly changeless until we grow very old indeed!

It drops back into its semi-seated position. "You'll find that it would decay somewhat faster should I wear it... so pray nothing untoward happens to my current state of manifest glory." It re-dons its robe, struggling with its beweaponed extremities, and adjusts the crude garment until it sits properly.

Spoiler:

A Question!" Do you speak Scots by any chance?

I know the odd word or phrase as ,most Scottish dialects have incorporated bits and pieces of it, and there's poetry abound written in it, but otherwise, no.

[Egerius]

Argenzu watches Zedata with an open mouth, trembling. One can clearly see his large front teeth and his tongue.
He whispers "For God, nobody's ever going to believe me" in a strange accent, almost inaudibly. In fact, he spoke Slavic.
Argenzu wrinkles up his cloak in fear before he can reach his laptop, seemingly pressing keys at random.

The brown fur on his wrist loosens and falls onto the keyboard, so much fear goes through his mind and body.
"You will not", he says, in Buonavallese, whispering and slowly pulling out a large, silver ring out of the cloak, which has been hanging unnoticed around his neck.

"This is beyond me. Beyond my comprehension", he thinks.
Finally, Argenzu can overcome the paralyzing fear, takes his laptop and runs away... to the bathroom.

[eldin raigmore]

[meta]

…. the artificer Stephanos Laboriosoi ….

Steve Jobs?[/meta]

[hr][/hr]

[on-topic]:

My name is Single-Passenger-Spacecraft-Pilot.
Humans in my home society call my kind "space centipedes". (Well, that's the informal name; the formal name is less misleading but more of a mouthful.)
My race has a home planet, but almost all of my ancestors have been conceived in space, and returned to space once adult, for many generations. And, anyway, family legend says that the planets where we have been born and raised are a long way from our species's "home" planet anyway. I know the planet I was born and raised on isn't it.
(We're triphibious; we're born to walk and run, then molt to fly and land on trees and hilltops, then finally molt again to be able to live in space).

I want a slightly-stimulating, mildly-intoxicating drink; but I don't know what you have here that would serve. Could you give me a menu of such drinks? And maybe a barkeepers' assistant could help for a while to answer questions about the available item?

Thank you.

[elemtilas]

…. the artificer Stephanos Laboriosoi …. Steve Jobs?

Meta answers: You're halfway there!

[Egerius]

Argenzu steps out of the bathroom, no longer shivering, with his laptop under his arm.
He looks around, avoiding to look at Zedata. He quickly returns to his seat, stuffing the large ring back under his cloak.
He continues working, swiping through hexadecimal numbers, typing lines.
"Ugh, I need something. Bartender, what's on the menu?"

Spoiler:

…. the artificer Stephanos Laboriosoi …. Steve Jobs?

Meta answers: You're halfway there!

My suggestion: Steve Wozniak!

[gestaltist]

The Barkeep smiles smugly: - There is no menu - he says. This place is where the minds of gods and demiurges cross. Your drink can turn out to be poison or ambrosia. It depends on the fate the Lord of your universe has prepared for you. - he hands out drinks with a shrug. He has seen it all through the eons.

Spoiler:

Guys, I am traveling until Friday with limited internet access, so please no further appeals to the Barkeep until I am back.

[qwed117]

Kyoli enters the bar. He is a man around the age 27 years old, bearing three wide gashes scarring him from his left ear to his chin. His dark grey hair shines, creating the appearance of graphite. This matches his cloak, a black puddle surrounding. He has a single "tattoo" a thick horizontal black mark on the right side of his face. His left eye appears to be covered in a cataract. His grey beard outlines mouth and connects to his sideburn.

He is visibly disappointed in the fact that the Bartender is missing, but sighs it off and sits down at one of the chairs.