Awkward

Elowin

Elowin's thoughts in italics.

(Market): You say, "Seeking an ox tattoo."

Coran tells you: Sure.

You tell Coran: I'll come to you.

Coran tells you: Portal is open.

Bar at the Brass Lantern Inn (indoors).

--- Area 478: The Brass Lantern Inn ---------

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--- Bar at the Brass Lantern Inn  -14:2:0 ---

A wooden sign in a painted frame hangs next to the bar. Her graceful limbs tight with anticipation, 

Maire surveys the area. Garesh looms with his blade raised high. Garian the hunter lounges here, 

casually sipping his drink. Juggling bottles with fierce intent, Kammie, a lean bartender, stands 

ready to mix and serve any drink. Talking animatedly with one hand and balancing a tray against one 

hip with the other, Cherry, a vivacious tavern girl stands here.  You see a sign indicating there 

are WARES for sale here.

You see exits leading north, east, and west.

You close your eyes momentarily and extend the range of your vision, seeking out the presence of 

Coran.

You see that Coran is at A comfortable nook.  (29909)  (Prelatorian Highway, the)

Jarden greets you with a sincere smile.

Sorry, guy.

A comfortable nook (indoors).

--- Area 478: The Brass Lantern Inn ---------

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--- A comfortable nook ---------- -16:2:0 ---

A small square space carved into the western wall of the tavern, this dark nook is a perfect spot 

for private conversation or for watching the constant activity in the rest of the main hall. The 

space is primarily occupied by a hazelwood table that can comfortably seat half a dozen at most, two 

to each side. Deep benches are set into the walls on three sides of the table, outfitted with worn 

but soft cushions. A cowled figure skulks about here. A sonic portal, edges vibrating madly, is here.

  Oathsworn Coran is here. He is surrounded by one reflection of himself.

You see a single exit leading east.

"Heh heh heh," Coran chuckles.

You poke at a sonic portal urgently.

Coran says with a deep Delosian accent, "Sent it to you."

Coran coughs softly.

"I was already here," Elowin explains.

Coran says with a deep Delosian accent, "Ready?"

You nod your head affirmatively.

Coran chuckles long and heartily.

Coran lays out a collection of inks.

Coran gathers his inks together in one hand.

Raising his hand to his mouth, Coran begins to gently blow the inks into the air.

The ink momentarily swirls above your torso and then begins to adhere.

Coran frowns in concentration, and the ink begins to shape itself into a moss.

As the moss tattoo's shape is codified on your torso and the last of the ink leaves the air, Coran 

pauses for a moment, an admiring look on his face.

You have no ox.

Fuck.

"Ummmm," you say uncertainly.

Looking over yourself, you see the following tattoos:

Body Part    Tattoo                    Charges  Active  

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Head         a mindseye tattoo         32          Y

Torso        a moss tattoo             n/a         N

Left arm     a moss tattoo             n/a         Y

Right arm    a shield tattoo           46          N

Left leg     a boar tattoo             n/a         Y

Right leg    a tree tattoo             40          N

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Coran says with a deep Delosian accent, "Oo."

Coran says with a deep Delosian accent, "Erm."

You say, "I needed an ox...."

Coran says with a deep Delosian accent, "Wipe that off."

A moss tattoo fades from view and disappears.

Coran mutters discontentedly.

You chuckle long and heartily.

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He is a frog-like grook. Large, towering over seven feet tall and three more across his chest, wiry 

muscles support the large bones of his frame, though hardly the masses his race is known for. His 

hair is shoulder-length, the coarse ebon strands tied together with a painted red leather thong near 

the base of his neck. Eyes the color of molten silver peer out of his features, with high cheekbones 

and a slender, short nose below them. His eyebrows match the color of his hair, though they appear 

to be slightly bushier and seem cringed with age. His skin is rough in patches, showing a weathered 

look. The mouth that completes his face is an ordinary one, though two small tusks protrude from 

either side to accompany the large, sharp-looking teeth.

He is wearing:

   a pair of Landstrider's boots

   a ring of pestilence

Containers:

   a trader's satchel

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Strange.

Coran lays out a collection of inks.

As the ox tattoo's shape is codified on your torso and the last of the ink leaves the air, Coran 

pauses for a moment, an admiring look on his face.

Coran says with a deep Delosian accent, "There you go."

Kind of squinting at Coran, Elowin asks, "Are you a Grook?"

Coran chuckles and nods, looking at himself. "Apparently I am, yes."

Elowin nods and rubs her new tattoo, breaking eye contact with Coran. "That was 

rude," she realizes. "Apologies."

Coran laughs off your apology, shaking his head as his eyes gleam mischeviously. "Not at all. I look 

more like a troll than I do a grook. Probably because I used to be a troll, would be my guess."

"You're. Tall," Elowin observes, swallowing whatever else she was going to say.

You mutter disconsolately, "...h." ("Yeah.")

This is why we don't talk to people.

Elowin

Coran nods to you and grins, stretching his torso out with his arms behind his head. "So it would 

seem, aye. You are...not so tall, I do believe."

Coran tilts his head and listens intently.

Not quite so. Elowin seems uncomfortable talking to strangers, but the dark mhun 

doesn't seem that sad. Just very aware of herself at the moment.

Coran tilts his head towards you, eyes glancing your form up and down as he rubs his chin lightly. 

"You seem to be...ill at ease. Is it perhaps my presence?"

Oh, he's naked.

"What?" The idea leaves Elowin momentarily incredulous. "No, no, it isn't you," she 

assures Coran. "I've been, uh. Away from other folk," she explains carefully. "For some time."

But he bothered to put on boots. Waterwalking? But he's a magi, why bother?

With a swish of her skirts and a husky laugh, Cherry sashays in from the east.

Coran listens to your explanation before nodding slightly, his eyes seemingly sympathetic and 

understanding. "I went through a lot of that myself. Now...I interact every now and then, but I am 

on my own for the most part."

And where's his tool? Is he like a snake? Does it pull inside, like a child slurping noodles?

Ruffling her hair with one hand, and balancing a tray with the other, Cherry saunters out to the 

east.

You tell Coran, "((BTW, yr naked save some boots. If you wanna RP that, El would ask about it pretty 

soon))."

You tell Coran, "((If not, I'll just ignore it))."

Coran tells you, "(Yep, I know he is. And including it is fine.)."

Coran tells you, "(Damn clothes decay too often a lot of the time. I tend to just rp it out and go 

buy a replacement set at some point.)."

"By the way," Elowin says, pointing down at Coran's crotch with her pinkie, "What's 

the deal with that? Why even bother with boots?" Squinting a bit, she asks, "Does that hurt?"

A cowled figure skulks about here.  Oathsworn Coran is here. He is surrounded by one reflection of 

himself.

You see a single exit leading east.

Elowin glances quizzically at a cowled figure.

Are you not seeing this?

Coran looks you over as you look down his form, his eyes following yours as you point with your 

pinkie. "What's the deal with what, exactly? I wear boots because it helps me with some speed when 

out in the wilderness away from civilized society. And does what hurt, exactly?" He tilts his head, 

looking at you curiously.

Oh gods, what have I started!?

"You... ahm." Elowin's face falls as she realizes the sort of conversation she's 

locked herself into. "You know," she says, waving her open hand in a vague gesture, "Your bits."

Coran smirks a bit and raises an eyebrow in curiosity. "My...bits? If you mean..." he points down 

between his thighs, laughing softly, "...then no, they do not. Why would they hurt? I used to have 

clothing, but they decayed. And at my age, modesty is something I care little for."

With a swish of her skirts and a husky laugh, Cherry sashays in from the east.

Time to go.

Oathsworn Coran (male Grook).

He is 432 years old, having been born on the 12th of Ero, 260 years after the fall of the 

Seleucarian Empire.

Ruffling her hair with one hand, and balancing a tray with the other, Cherry saunters out to the 

east.

Elowin nods slowly. "Arright mate," she murmurs. Clearing her throat and taking a 

more formal tac, she places her palm on the pommel of her blade and gives Coran a tight bow. "Thank 

you for the tattoo," she says.

And now we walk away.

Coran squints back at you in return, waving his hand vaguely at you as well. "Do your...womanly bits.

..hurt? I'm not sure why mine should if yours do not. Yours are simply covered, whereas mine are not.

 Though, I suppose I should look into getting some sort of robe or the like so that mhuns like 

yourself do not gawk." He grins at you, his eyes sparkling.

They'd hurt if I ran around like that!

Coran smiles to you and gives you a formal bow back as you clear your throat and take a more 

reserved posture. "It was my pleasure, no worries."

Furrowing her brow, Elowin says, "There's a matter of support, you understand...."

Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shu-

Coran ponders the situation.

No!

Elowin waves her hand, as though attempting to tap into lost, ancient magics and 

erase this conversation from existence. It doesn't work.

"Farewell tonight, Sir," Elowin says a little too loudly.

Coran shakes his head lightly back and forth. "They...tend to hang out there I suppose. I'm not sure 

if they need support, though. I haven't noticed much of it. Unless I hit something I guess."

!!!

Coran utters a deep, rumbling laugh.

"Right!" you say, agreeing with the cosmos.

Go, go, go, don't look back, just go

And a hasty retreat is beaten.