Latest revision as of 18:06, 6 July 2014

Participants

• Chance
• Douglas
• Fenris
• Natska
• Sveta

Date

6/7/477

Log

The event is hosted by the bartender on duty today, who announces solemnly that the stories may be about anything and everything, and will be judged by two simple criterion: how convincing it is, how impressive the events in the tale are, and most importantly, how entertained the patrons - who are the ultimate judges - are by the tale.

Drinks are served, food is dished out, and it's little wonder why these events are held, if the crown going across the counter is any indication of sales.

Chance smiles as he looks around at the crowd, striding in from upstairs, and signing his name on the register "I'll just go wait over there then, oh and don't mind the name, I'm harmless." He chuckles and winks mischievously as he waits, likely overlooked near enough to stage to not need to get on a table to see over other patrons.

Fenris saunters into the taproom of the inn with his hands buried in the pockets of his long, dark coat. "I heard there was a call for tall tales," he says with a smile, "And I suppose that there are few taller than my own!" The tiger scribbles his name into the roster and slips into a chair by the other competitors, as excited to hear stories as to tell one!

With larger crowds of people to be served it is no surprise to see more people working the floor. Serving maids carrying things through the growing crowds along with more than one keeper behind the bar; behind the scenes preparation for basic foods churns along at a brisk pace already. There are many things the public does not see for such events to be so enjoyable, but that's part of the beauty behind the drink-serving beast. One of the bartenders, just as busy as the rest (and no doubt, for his position, better dressed) remarks, "No bias for the regulars, now, hm? We already hear so much on a daily basis."

Indeed, the first tale-tellers are on their way up a makeshift stage put together from drink crates and wooden planks, in a spot usually reserved for performers to ply their trade. Most of them come up in plain clothes, a few have, either by chance or otherwise, manage to dress up appropriately for such an event, but all have their own tales to tell.

The audience's reactions are varied, if a little predictable - tales of giant crops and fish are roundly booed. Those of meeting Creators might have once drawn attention, but less so since the events of the last few months. Those which are plain outlandish receive dismissive waves. The bartenders are busy amongst themselves in between serving drinks, conferring with each other, perhaps, on the quality of the tall tales told. At last, though, it's Chance's turn to come up to the stage.

A late arrival, Natska makes her way into the Freesword Inn. She stands at a table off to the side and listens to the tale-tellers for a bit, reaching up to scratch behind one of her ears as she ponders the evenings event. Finally, she comes to a decision, makes her way to the registry, and adds her own name at the bottom of the list in a tight scrawl.

Chance takes a deep breath in, calming his nerves as he waits for his name to be called, mentally going over his tall tale, and finding it harder to come up with one then he suspected, when suddenly a bolf inspiration strike, drawing a wide grin from the little weasel. Walking up to the front of the stage the small weasel leaps up onto the ledge of it. "So it's a tale you want? Well let me tell you, I've one taller than me!" He lets his voice rise and ring out, projecting it to be easier to hear. "I'll tell you all of the time I had to fight a Kitsune who was impersonating a solacious." He starts with a grin sliding into place. "I was out in the marketplace, with to friends, a great strapping badger, and big burly Croc. We were out to sample some foreign flavors, but found a furious fox ranting at the merchant." He strode the stage as he spoke gesturing widely with his hands as he spoke, "Now we're about to go in and calm the fool down, but another fox, claiming to be a solacious shows up. I look at them, and know, somehting ain't right, then I see the tail tucked out of sight." He stops then suddenly leaps to the edge fo the stage "STOP!, I cry that's an imposter, unhand the noble you phony!" Taking out his stave the weasel twirls it like a dancer's baton, "The trickster does not listen, so I take up my stave. The kitsune conjures some burning smoke laying low all five guards, blinding the croc, and fouling even the badger's aim." With a fina whirl he tosses the staff up into the air, "I shout to the lout, charging in fast. You left me no choice, take up arms, AVAST!" Catching his stave the weasel smirks "Sadly the trickster had little fight in them, one good solid thumping was all that it took. The guard thanked us all, but everyone knew who handled the job, but I stay prefer to stay humble." He smiles, and bows, striding off stage when done.

A half-filled glass placed before a patron at the crowded bar receives a sudden jolt from the bar-neighbor's elbow and alcoholic spirits spread across the countertop. The two sitting on the side of the poor bull whose drink has discovered gravity lift their own glasses out of the way. The bespectacled lion lifts a hand in passive assurance to avoid any hurt feelings between the bull and the boar whose elbow accidentally invaded his fellow customer's tiny personal space bubble due to Chance's exuberance. "Now now, gentlemen, just relax," he says soothingly, clearly, but not loudly enough to detract or draw attention away from the event. The rag resting on the lion's shoulder is pulled free and draped over the slowly spreading puddle before a well-practiced twist of the wrist wipes the liquid up and away. What is leftover is remedied by a half flip of the rag and, ultimately, leads to another filling of the overturned vessel for the thirsty bovine. Mentally, a note is made: all on-the-house treats he offers always come out of his personal pocket at the end of the day, but a skilled eye would note that the grey-muzzled lion likely isn't hurting for funds. Meanwhile, during the liquid emergency, a keen ear listens in to the stories being told. Such multitasking skills are useful for just such a profession.

Natska politely claps for the weasel, her palms softly coming together. The jaguar's ears twitch and she gives the small rogue a grin, quite impressed. In the lull between tale-tellers, Natska flags down a server and orders a drink for herself, relaxing into her seat and waiting for the next one up.

Fenris takes the stage casually, standing before the rowdy crowd with the practiced ease. "We have heard of wonders tonight!" He says with a smile, "Beasts and creators! Tall tales and entertaining lies! But I can promise that my tale is true! every word!"

"You all know of the darkness that has descended upon the once lovely Mossy Stone," The tiger pauses for effect, then continues, "Yet few have met that dark Spirit who is the source of that darkness! I will not speak her name, lest she be listening, but surely something dark stalks the once fair streets." Fenris reaches into a pocket and starts to pour forth sand onto the little stage, kicking it into motion with a bit of earth and air magic, forming the familiar image of the darkened Mossy Stone in the shifting sand. "Not so long ago," he continues, "I was a part of a brave and foolhardy group who sought to lift the pall of evil from that cursed place. We found only the unquiet dead roaming the streets until we came to the dark and ruined chapel, where even the glass of that sacred place turned against us!" The sand at his feet spins and swirls, showing the frightening glass golem from the tiger's memory. "And despite the heavy losses and injury we suffered at the slicing hands of this guardian, it was far less terrible than the horrors that awaited us below in the catacombs." The tiger looks out to see if he still has the audience's attention.

Mumbling and muttering. Certainly, that's quite the tale from Chance. But is it a tall one? Patrons down their drinks and try to decide - it certainly is the kind of tale that one might conceivably happen on the streets of Firmament...hopefully, there aren't any guards with long memories or good eyes for records about to confirm or deny its veracity. At last, the long pause ends with quite the applause from the crowd. "'S better than big pumpkin tales."

Fenris' tale, perhaps, bites a bit too close to home for some of the patrons, who look uneasy. Others simply mutter some variation of "not another ghost story", although with suitable respect.

Fenris continues his tale. "Beneath the Chapel, in the forgotten darkness of the catacombs, we were met by the whispers of the lost dead of Mossy Stone," he says, sending bursts of air magic around the room, carrying his own whispers to all corners of the taproom and making lights flicker. Hushed cries whisper from the corners and dark places of the room, "My baby! Where am I? So dark! Pain! Fear!" "In that darkness was not a monster," Fenris says amidst his magical whispers, "But the trapped and angry and frightened spirits of the dead, made into an amalgamation of dark thoughts! How could we fight our own!? Who were we to condemn the lost?" Fenris gazes over the crowd. "There we stood, useless weapons in hand and bloodied from our fight with the cursed glass of the chapel," he says, "Until the callers of the Spirit Shaila, who were with us called upon the lost to fight for themselves!" This was the part where the tiger feared he would lose his crowd. "We could not fight the dead, so we begged them to fight for themselves!" The sand swirling at his feet rises in a pulsing, swirling mass before blasting apart in a wave! "And so, the brave dead of Mossy Stone burst their own bonds! They saved themselves from the unclean spirit of undeath and lifted some of the shadow that lay over that lost city!"

Chance listens to Fenris' tale, a timid expression on his face as he applauds them. Chance has had more to do with restless spirits recently than he'd like to admit, but it is indeed a heroic tale, he manages a smile and continues to applaud Fenris. Still shivering at his own memories of restless and bound spirits.

The expression on the older lion's face as he tends to orders alongside the other bartender responsible for the event spells a little grim at first. It's always a gamble to tell stories aiming for captivation through dark suspense, for the song one plays on the heartstrings of a crowd can have far-lasting reverberations long after the tale is told. Such echoes can spell good or bad, for not all tall tales are happy-go-lucky and funny. Douglas offers warm smiles to those that glance his way throughout the tale, as a means of nonverbally saying 'just listen and enjoy it'. He turns away with a slightly nibble on his lower lip to fetch a clean dry rag before tapping a keg to fill a tankard. The smell of barley and hops -- warm, grainy, and bitter -- spreads through the air as a thick head forms from the pouring. He has his own means of judging the stories and they aren't necessarily related to the content of the tale or the crowd's reactions; he'll likely have a few opinions to share when all is said and done.

The jaguar wrinkles her muzzle at the talk of dark spirits and restless dead, quietly taking a swig from her mug. Her ears go flat for a moment, but then she grins - a lopsided, mirthful expression, eyes alight. Natska pushes herself up from her chair and rubs the back of her hand along her muzzle, then swaggers her way up the steps and onto the stage. There, she pauses and waits for the room, head tilted up ever so slightly as she surveys the crowd. "Bravo sirs, and I regret that I don't have a tale as exciting as yours to tell. However..." she trails off, thinking. "However. I do have a tale to tell." Her tail tip flicks, back and forth. "You see, way back when in my early years, I had trouble fitting in with the other cubs in my village. On account of... well. On account." A finger lightly brushes the edge of her pendant, a subtle gesture. "And one summer it was really getting to me in a bad way. I just wanted to get away from things, from people, from all of the whispers and looks and everyone. I started wandering further and further from the village, worried my parents, and started going so far that I would spend nights asleep out in the forest. And one morning..." she trails off, looking around the room again, and her voice lowers. "One morning, I was woken up at the break of dawn by a beautiful voice I heard singing."

Natska pauses, licking at her teeth as she catches her breath and eyes the beer she had left behind on her table. "I got up, and the voice stopped. I looked and I looked all morning, and I couldn't find whoever it was. But a few days later I happened to be in the same area late at night, and I curled up in a special hide-away-hole I had made, and I went to sleep. Sure enough, the next morning, I heard him singing again!" The jaguar makes a little jumping motion. "So I jumped up, and raced towards where I heard the singing from, and... nothing." Her ears droop, tail falling, her expression tinged with feigned sadness. "But I was a crafty little cub, and I was on the hunt now. So I gave it a few days, and I crept back to where I had thought I had heard it from. And THIS morning, I laid there and listened before I moved, making sure I knew exactly where to go. It was a pretty song," she says, tone wistful, "about the new dawn and building life and hope and love for the world... I nearly cried, listening to that voice. I waited until it seemed like he was nearly done, then quietly, carefully crept through the brushes to find out who it was." The jaguar's tail flicks. "And on my honor, the voice was coming from a giant willow tree! Not, I say, one ah the growin' folk, but an honest-to-goodness tree, deep roots as thick as my body, branches that lifted to the sky," she raises her arms, fingers curling, "as big as the house my parents lived in! I asked him where he learned his song, since I was just a cub back then and didn't think it was anything weird. The two of us chatted the morning away, and he helped me deal with... things." She pauses, smiling fondly, tail swishing. "But the next time I went back, the tree was gone. Like it never was."

Natska stands there a moment longer, smiling, then tips her head in a small nod and hops off of the stage, quickly scampering back to her seat.

Some appreciative claps at Natska's story, hackles raised now at ease from the more peaceful tale. Another round of drinks is served, enough to ply the customers for a while for the bartenders to retire and discuss amongst themselves as to which tale told so far has been the most worthy according to the criterion laid out. Even so, others take their turn upon the stage, time to tell their tall tales, of battles, sea creatures, spirits and more.

Chance grins widely and applauds the feline, sure it wasn't heroic, but the feline opened up about herself, and told a good tall tale. His applaus is eager and enthusiastic, he had enjoyed this tale a good bit.

Fenris relaxes in his seat, enjoying each tale as it is spun, cheering and applauding and joining in on some good natured heckling when the opportunity arises. The jaguar's story strikes a chord somewhere. A spirit, maybe? Or just childhood fantasy. He glances back at the deliberating bartenders. He wonders if another story would have been a better choice.

"Was that everyone?" asks the lion to the other bartender as he stands beside wiping out a glass that had recently held strong spirits. The rag circles around inside, over the lip, wiping any taste of liquor free while quietly speaking. As an impartial judge it can be rough to focus on specific aspects of the tale-telling process rather than judging on the content itself, but Douglas Kielbasa knows that doing so is the only way to be fair. He uses a very particular list of things to critique, as basic as counting each to a value up to ten (simple enough for most people to use whom have such a number of digits), and averages the simple numbers together to create a score for each contestant. These numbers, along with why he feels such a way about them, he shares with the one responsible for organizing the event in a soft whisper so as not to give anyone overhearing a false impression. He's not one for public announcement if he can help it, despite the fact that he thrives well in such a socially positive atmosphere.

Natska quietly sits at her table, listening to the rest of the entrants, tail swishing back and forth as she nurses along her drink. As more tales are told she relaxes further, smiling an easy smile and enjoying the stories and the inn's crowd this night, clapping and cheering where appropriate and following along with the group.

At last, the final scores are tallied by the bartenders, and averaged. With some pomp and ceremony, one of them heads to where Naska is and urges the jaguar, if she will, to the stage. "And the award goes to Naska for the best tall tale, with a total average of seventeen out of twenty points. We felt the content of the tale made up for the lack of storytelling effects - it was belivable, yet poingant. And the reward, sponsored by the guild, goes to her."

Fenris cheers happily for the jaguar girl! It had been a good story, after all. The tiger was happy to have such a peaceful sort of gathering. It had been too long! He settles back in his chair, ready to enjoy a quiet lunch after the contest.

Chance frowns for a seond or two, but is quick to join the applause for the jaguar, all for being a good sport about these things!

Natska blinks, sitting up straighter in her seat as she is approached; she is certainly willing to go to the stage, but she is modest enough to accept the prize with a graceful curtsey and a bow of her head. "Thank you! And thank you, everyone, I really enjoyed listening to your stories."

"And, as a note, all contestants today earn a free drink of their choice-" The lion is undoubtedly interrupted by joyful cheers; it's hard to beat free drinks. "Just come to me and I'll take care of you, but please: No disguises today. You can all marvel how funny people look after a good stiff drink, but only one per contestant." Douglas lifts a hand and softly chuckles as somebody in the crowd, a farm girl, blows him a kiss. He drapes his rag over his shoulder and prepares to deal with the inevitable rush.