Five Tavern NPCs:
1. At this table a powerfully built man of deeply tanned complexion and raven hair, which is thick but cropped at the ears hunches dejected and leaning forward upon his elbows and onto the tabletop. His cloths are nondescript, plain, simple, utilitarian. He may too be a smith or a tanner for his bare forearms though caked in dust and dirt are of rippled steel. Less explainable, a vicious scar runs cruelly in a series of ugly white jags along the length of his right cheek from upper lip to temple. With a stout glass mug full of beer left untouched before him, the man seems most uncomfortable. He is as well visibly both agitated and impatient with his surroundings. Indeed the beer before him has suffered completely unloved; it has no head at all, no foam, no bubbles whatsoever.
Directly across the table a strikingly beautiful, young aristocrat is seated. She has luxuriously long blonde curls tied to tail by a single ribbon of black silk. She wears a finely matched, rider's ensemble. It is cut low in front to feature her most ample bosom both generously revealed and near bursting forth againt the draw strings that hold it thus so barely contained. Her eyes deep and cobalt verily envelop the man as she reclines about imperceptively against the back of her chair, letting her legs spread spread quite wide and suggestively far beneath the table. These end in black leather riding boots, which rest on the floor, glistening from fresh work and polish. The woman's contrasted upper to lower posture declares profound control.
And, there, too, under the table and so out of site of the man, the woman plays almost boredly with a delicate yet well wrought silver stirring spoon. She drags it slowly yet precisely along the golden lip of a porcelain cup of painted azure. On the slender ring finger in part holding the spoon, she wears a shiny, interleaving band of electrum. It features a generous, pear-cut ruby oversized for both band and finger, which sparkles convincingly in even the reduced light.
Eerily, too, about every 20 minutes the ruby glows blood red just for a moment. When it does it illuminates softly just the expanse of the woman's hand. At that point an exchange between these two at the table occurs. First, the woman laughs with cold disdain directly into the man's face. Then, the man as if on cue, mightily shrugs his shoulders. He then inhales deeply. Finally, he looks to the woman as if to speak. Yet, before he can utter a single word, the woman intervenes, apparently to own his soul with but the secrets of her cleavage, which she thrusts lowered and forward as she triumphantly and decisively proclaims outloud and to man, “Mine!”
After that, the man just stammers for a moment, yet inexorably he falls silent, his eyes for the time fixated fiercely on the woman's breasts. Even so, each time she does this, each time the ring glows, her laugh hurts, and the man is cowed, and the woman triumphs, then the man's thick maw clenches still more white knuckled a little tighter around the very wide handle of the solid oaken club he has propped up against the table leg. This occurs even as he sizes up and eyes the other patrons in a flash of clear bad intent before drifting back subdued again to the table and his untouched beer.
Treasure. The man has a small burlap pouch, filled with the fragrant pedals of red and white roses and an exceptionally translucent cubic almandine worth 25gp. His club is masterwork, richly carved by a local druid, who for its construction selected the finest branch from the heartiest oak in a nearby grove. This weapon was then given to the man in return for work rendered on the druid's home. Along the club's shaft in draconic is written Skull Breaker, which gives an extra d6 concussive damage on a critical. The man also has a note tucked tightly into his belt. Its torn parchment requests in darkly green ink a rendezvous to occur at the abandoned temple of Dunatis on the edge of town at midnight, tomorrow, with one, 'Rakar'.
The woman carries only two small belt pouches though of fine soft leather. One contains 14pp and a lid for the porcelain cup, which has a thin leather draw string attached for sealing the cup. The other holds only an undersized brass key. The woman's ring is magical and aids in the casting of a cumulative charm person. It operates by reinforcing a chosen suggestion at periodic intervals, controlled by the caster. At it's highest rate of reinforcement, which is on display above, it reinforces a previously cast suggestion to utmost concurrence. The woman at current level only has to utter the previously chosen trigger (in this case, “Mine!”), and the man will act instinctively and directly to carry out her command - here, his unremitted service as bodyguard is being finalized. This item is the Ring of Minion (only 1 minion at a time) and is worth, 5000gp. The woman also has hidden in right boot, a throwing knife made of steel. It features a very keen silver edges and is +1 magical;+3 against lycanthropes. Finally, the woman's silver spoon is worth, 4gp, and the procelain cup, which is Karakian is worth 13gp. Inside the cup rests perhaps 5 grams of white lotus in its very pure powder form. It's very fine quality and valued at 20gp.
2. At this table a dwarf cut from block granite, wearing polished full plate but without helm under a crimson traveler's cloak stands erect at strict attention in the center of the crowded bar. His heavy beard only reinforces his savage scowl as he scrutinizes each patron in view, carefully and one at a time. If a person flinches under this pressure, the dwarf fixes his attention even more coldly and bores ruthlessly into that person. He stares. He keeps staring. And keeps staring. When the unfortunate eventually demurs, the dwarf lofts up his clay pint high into the air upon, which he drains it completely, then belches enormously, and next crashes the pint into the tabletop where it shatters into myriad shards. The tabletop is littered with shards. Occasionally, instead of belching, this steel clad dwarf intensifies his gaze terribly and then roars directly at a person, I SEE YOU! When this happens, the recipient whatever his or her social rank becomes visibly uncomfortable, but around him or her, most of the other patrons give discrete knowing glances or just cover their drinks and nod on the sly and approvingly. Either way, the dwarf then bellows to a serving wench, "gimme anotta fuggn alee!" He means business, and he gets immediate service from the now trembling girl even if she has to interrupt what she's doing for other customers. No one present voices complaint. In fact the bartender hangs back from the scene, deliberately, just shaking his head. It's hard to be sure in the shadowy light, but he may be trying to hide a grin. The dwarf is obviously combat capable, and a cruelly notched, double bladed sword rests within easy arm's reach.
Treasure. The dwarven full plate is +2 magical, burnished steel with a multi-pointed star emblazoned in iron on the breast plate. The bastard sword is a Sun Blade called Cold Truth. The dwarf has a belt pouch chalk full of gold: 59gp. Also at his belt is a potion of free action. Around his neck is a leather band looped through his holy symbol, a small plain stone. This last identifies him as Justicar of Muir, Lady of the Sword, Goddess of Paladins – one at a time, he's testing them all, and each I SEE YOU announces and just for to give fair warning this time, a successful detect evil.
3. At this table four young adolescent half elves, dressed in plain but quality scholarware of off white, consisting of both tunic and trousers and with both still with vibrant red trim. They sit jostling around the table's central, rectangular wooden board. The boys are all about the same weight, height, and have similar coal black hair, charcoal eyes, elven ears, and ivory complexion. Each is crouched over his side of the board and is frantically gesticulating and shouting. Thus, each attempts to influence his particular playing piece, a lead miniature, which resides on the board. There is a slight humming audible from the entire tabletop. As the boys struggle and concentrate, each miniature shoots this way and that across the playing surface. The miniatures bump into each other. Then they do battle. The victors thrash the falling, who then again retreats in haste only to begin the crisscrossing, anew. Occasionally, after an intense effort by one of the players, his miniature launches a thin electric bolt at another, or a burst of flame, or a cone of ice. When that happens, the afflicted miniature squeaks shrilly and then falls to the board and does not recover. As each miniature is successively conquered, the boy controlling the loser groans annoyedly and drops out of the game but continues to egg on those still competiting. When only one miniature is left, its owner, the champion declares loudly the phrase, Arkaata Arakata! Then the entire group as one hurls their arms to the ceiling in a rousing cheer and demands another table chug.
Treasure. Each young spellcaster possesses a spell book with the same four 0-level wizard spells: prestidigitation, ghost sound, light, and mage hand. They all also have small leather belt pouches, containing 18, 36, 31, and 24 sp, respectively. One has a sturdy dagger in a sheath with a maple leaf etched skillfully into the leather (5 gp). Written in the lapel of the tunic worn by each of these wizards to be in bold script and in both common and elvish is the phrase, "Property of Izzel's Academy".
4. At this table an otherwise towering minotaur relaxes, naked and hulking; i.e. rejuvenating. He smokes abundantly a cherry scented tobacco, potentially cloying in an enormous corncob pipe. On each of his magnificent exhales, he blows immense rings of greyish blue smoke, which travel slowly while expanding across the tavern towards the bar about 20 feet away. When one of the giant rings reaches the bar, it even the more anchors perfectly onto the pole of an empty coat rack mounted on the back wall before vanishing in a substantial puff against the rack base. Periodically, the minotaur sips copiously from a great and fine golden bucket. After he does, he pauses. Then he clears his throat. And then he croons as follows in a wonderfully rich and textured bass:
Camp town ladies sing them songs doo dar doo dar, spend my money till it's gone doo da dee dar day,...
34 bottles of wine currently sit on the table. 23 are uncorked and empty. 9 of these are on their sides. Dangling from each of the minotaur's massive horns are halfling length arrangements of pale knuckle bones strung together from some medium sized humanoid. As the minotaur sings, he shakes his great head slowly from side to side, and the knucklebones bump into each other, going, clack clack, clack clack. On the floor immediately beside the table is a formidable iron glaive, which extends mightily into the aisle. There is also another bucket; not golden. It's made of wood. No one steps on the glaive.
Treasure. The glaive is oversized but otherwise standard military issue. The tobacco is of high quality if too sweet. The gold bucket is thick gold plate worth 22gp. The other bucket contains 28gp and156 sp and a paver's brick. The knucklebones offer +1 AC to bovines and their kin. One of the remaining bottles of wine is a potion of vaporous form.
5. At this table, a fantastically large tub of lard of a woman, barefoot in a tattered but brightly hued, rainbow frock (just like three sheets sewn together but thrown over and draping around her swollen form), sits bloated and enveloping an entire chair while collapsed faced down but turned to one side into a humongous clay bowl of cold rabbit stew. The meal's mountain of gravy (sienna), meat, carrots, and taters sticks densely snug and fully attached to her prone cheek even as she snores grievously. Her other cheek, the one out of the dish is covered in bright rouge. Its supine but closed eyelid garishly shadowed in smeared smokey indigo is rudely contemporizd by the heavy tubular black eye lash. And big mamma smells. She smells bad, severe, even from across the room. It's in her folds like putrid egg nog.
The folded over woman does not move but rather heaves gargantuanly, wheezing then snorting. Timed to this rhythm her enormous chestnut hair threatens to explode behind her, a disheveled armageddon, for the silky purple ribbon (about a yard around), which previously restrained her heaping locks has slipped out of position to creep precariously close to the bottom of a now truly massive hair clump. Last, a very grand pewter mug, etched with mighty steeds charging across a field lays toppled on the tabletop beside her. It's former contents puddle just across from her unconscious flesh heap.
Against the table leg to the woman's near left, an equally garish halfling reclines, arse on the floor, portly and sullen. He has violent violet hair, harpooned into feral spikes and has pasted his face stark white to form the base for a hugely painted frown and grotesque crying eyes, both of blackest pitch. Short even for his own kind, the halfling's legs are bent sharply at the knees as he sits. He wears loose cotton trousers of checkered oyster. He's fur footed. And he wears up top, a worn and in places, torn jacket of charcoal suede, which blankets a roan cotton jersey. The jersey is both stretched at the sleeve ends and profuse with stains while being stuffed deep into the front of the halfing's pants. The halfling looks around occasionally as he sits with an elbow propped on one knee. He's droopy as unconcerned he twirls a wicked steel dirk with great adroitness upon the tip of his pointer finger, which is armored with a silver thimble. He pays no attention to the rudely anchored, humungous woman collapsed at the table immediately above him. Indeed, a bottle of wine stands lodged and uncorked between his thighs. It could be merlot.
Treasure. Under the drape the woman has 3 substantial cloth pouches and a great sack. Pouch 1 contains an orange. Pouch 2 contain 1114cp. Pouch 3 contains a very large slab of greasy mutton and some sausage chunks. The sack contains near the bottom a freshly cut human head, its visage still locked in horrified betrayal, shock and pain as if to announce fanatically that the cutting instrument had been both dull and slow. The bottom of the sack is soaked with blood but not dripping. The halfling's dirk is extra long, and though +1 magical of piercing (1d4+1), it has a noticably dull and weak edge. The coin purse in the halfling's jacket contains 4gp, 10sp, and 15cp. The thimble is thick and worth 9sp.