Post by Arcady on Oct 17, 2006 15:30:15 GMT -5
Perhaps it's the nature of the beast, but wheresoever one finds a bustling hub of trade, one also finds a rowdy tavern. The Merchant's Grimoire is such a place. Visible from Mythras Port while being just out of reach of the sea spray, this slate structure boasts three stories and seventy-seven habitable rooms. Holding the design of a southern garrison of solid brick paired with the elvish beauty of spiralling towers, the Merchant's Grimore is a spectacle to behold, sporting both the strength of structure that the more practical travellers of the summerlands are used to and the sinuous elegance of elven creation with carved spires that look like windowed unicorn horns disappearing well into the morning mist, this particular establishment is known for its reasonable prices, it's beautiful barmaids, and melodious Albian minstrels play harp and flute every Enmasha eve.
Run by an Albian/Human Deus by the name of Ysghal with long golden curls and pointed ears, but near ebony eyes and the square jaw and hard edges that the Albians simply don't posses, the Merchant's Grimore is said to have the same rugged charm as its young owner.
Opening tall doors of carefully carved crystal leads immediately into the tavern proper, with a white and blue marble bar running along the left wall and turning the corner to cover half of the rear wall as well and numerous round tables decorated in slate blue cloths rimmed with lace. Each table has a lantern at its center. There's a difference between being a little rough around the edges and throwing all sense of beauty to the wind, as Ysghal would tell you...if he were behind the bar.
But alas, as usual Ysghal has found a pretty young thing to spin about the dance floor for the better part of the night, and so it's his full-elven sister who's left to tend the bar. Golden locks are pin strait and tied back into a number of careful braids and her dress is carefully arranged to show just the barest hint of cleavage while not appearing overly whorish--but there's nothing wrong with giving the patrons a little peek every now and again--they leave bigger tips if they see something they like, after all. Mharin, her name is, and she has soft violet eyes and is perhaps twenty years older than Yshgal--not that you could tell-damnable elves and their seemingly eternal youth.
"Welcome to the Merchant's Gimoire!" she tells you as you enter with a sweeping gesture of one arm that leads you instantly about the place, from the bar to the tables, the dance floor that takes up the right half of the tavern proper and the ivy hung over the staircase that spirals up into the in. "You can leave your cloak with Elahan at the door if you'd like," she informs you, and a silver haired bar wench to your right offers you a non-intrusive bow. "And you can place your order with me," she says, glancing bemusedly at the dance floor and adding, "as my younger brother is currently otherwise engaged."
Run by an Albian/Human Deus by the name of Ysghal with long golden curls and pointed ears, but near ebony eyes and the square jaw and hard edges that the Albians simply don't posses, the Merchant's Grimore is said to have the same rugged charm as its young owner.
Opening tall doors of carefully carved crystal leads immediately into the tavern proper, with a white and blue marble bar running along the left wall and turning the corner to cover half of the rear wall as well and numerous round tables decorated in slate blue cloths rimmed with lace. Each table has a lantern at its center. There's a difference between being a little rough around the edges and throwing all sense of beauty to the wind, as Ysghal would tell you...if he were behind the bar.
But alas, as usual Ysghal has found a pretty young thing to spin about the dance floor for the better part of the night, and so it's his full-elven sister who's left to tend the bar. Golden locks are pin strait and tied back into a number of careful braids and her dress is carefully arranged to show just the barest hint of cleavage while not appearing overly whorish--but there's nothing wrong with giving the patrons a little peek every now and again--they leave bigger tips if they see something they like, after all. Mharin, her name is, and she has soft violet eyes and is perhaps twenty years older than Yshgal--not that you could tell-damnable elves and their seemingly eternal youth.
"Welcome to the Merchant's Gimoire!" she tells you as you enter with a sweeping gesture of one arm that leads you instantly about the place, from the bar to the tables, the dance floor that takes up the right half of the tavern proper and the ivy hung over the staircase that spirals up into the in. "You can leave your cloak with Elahan at the door if you'd like," she informs you, and a silver haired bar wench to your right offers you a non-intrusive bow. "And you can place your order with me," she says, glancing bemusedly at the dance floor and adding, "as my younger brother is currently otherwise engaged."