Thread: The City of Gold

The tavern was a typically little shanty, teeming with sailors and fisherman who were resting after a long day of work. Most of which already had their fill of food and drink, but the merchants - all starving bartenders - would have been daft to turn down profit. Rather then urge their drunken patrons to stagger on home, the merry-men refilled the steins and flagons with any manner of alcohol they could find that lined the musty shelves. That evening an unusual customer had appeared uncloaked, but as ostentatious as her name. She was an exotic looking nomad, evidently from the desert or southern islands. The lyrical jingle of her satchel lit the merchants' eyes aflame - it would be a literal battle for her patronage as her mild wealth was more then apparent. 'Aye, lass. What can I get for 'ye? inquired one of the bartenders lawlessly. He was a middle-aged man, beaten by the sea but still appeared to possess his once dashing good looks. He watched her, unabashed, as she toyed with the tattered countertop. She extended a finger - long and elegant - and began etching invisible markings into the wood. Before long what was once unseen became tangible the markings became neat, limned by her uncalloused fingertips. 'Lass ... what is it ye be - Just water, the nomadic woman hummed mellifluously, and two pomegranates. The bartender was thrown aback by the etchings on his counter. Was the woman a vandalist? That may have been the case but no simple woman could bore into wood with her bare hands. He hesitated. The nomadic grew impatient and purposely flaunted the few septims she had at her disposal which sparked the bartender's lethargic, unsure actions. Here ye are lass, I'll be but a shout away if 'ye wan' anythin' else. She hadn't waited much longer to devour the palm-sized fruit in her hand. The juices spurted, cascading down her tattooed fingers and pooled at the conjuncture of her elbow where it fell in tiny dollops on the floor. Just as she lapped at the resin-laden stream on her elbow, two mysterious men skulked into the tavern. They were heavily tattooed, each bald and toting lanterns that appeared to emanate a blue light. The woman stiffened, but kept silent, flexing and collecting her staff which was propped at an angle against the bar. They circled the back, seemingly asking patrons about some unknown subject, but stopped when they took note of her presence. One of the men hollered loud enough for the entire hovel to hear, pointing and screeching some foreign language. They other brandished a shiv and lunged across the bar. In response, the woman flipped a nearby table, thwarting the attack. The language was unknown to all in the tavern but the locals knew cursing in any tongue when they heard it. While he attempted to withdraw the weapon, the nomad unfurled her hand and violently clutched the plain of his face. At first he struggled, confounded, but shortly after began screeching in agony. Transparent brumes of steam sputtered from his flesh the skin cooked, bubbled until she released him. He staggered backward and held his severely burned visage while his comrade rushed to aid him. Qu'un muahali , she uttered, twirling the staff to hold it in a defensive position.