"Any Pub in a Storm"

Roni sits at a quiet bar in a pub that looks like one only the undead would visit, yet this is daylight and all those bloodsuckers are cast from the light. She grins, and thinks a moment, looking around.

"Yes, this will do for now I would say. A new start, a new home."

She walked to a window and ran a hand over it. Thick dust streaked the pane and clung to her hand. "Needs a good cleaning."

She looked out through the window ...to the land... again, for she had done so a few minutes past, and shook her head.

"Why is it that no one can keep a place up-kept?"

Fagan strolls... rather, ambles into the pub. He looks around and sees no one he knows but that doesn't bother him. It's a raging thirst for ale he has, and he's determined to quench it. His gaze fixes on the bar, and like a crier with breaking news, he hurriedly scuttles toward it, one longish, pointy finger raised in the air. He wastes no whit of time making himself heard... whilst he's climbing to sit crosslegged upon a rickety stool, he's calling out in a raspy, if slightly squeaky voice, "I's say'n dere, ke'p... ha' ye an ale on da prem's's? I's drier t'an da domnabl' desarts o' T'rogd'r."

He roll-clicks his fingernails on the bar impatiently, craning his neck to look this way and that, waiting for his ale. Suddenly he realizes that he sees her, and his eyes fix on Roni, seated, a stool away. The keep seems to be a dawdler, and Fagan is perturbed.

"I's na be impress'd wit' da sarv'se hare, lass. 'sit allus dis slow?... He stares at her, and out the side of his mouth needles, "...ca' ye 'harr'h 't oop bock dere?!"

He smiles his charm-'em smile at the girl, and when his ale arrives, he states, having never taken a second of his gaze from her, "Ahh, shades o' d'liv'r'ns! Nah, if'n ye'll be pard'n'n' me a dight lass, I's gots ta be a-swig'n'..."

His voice trails thinly off as he grabs the tankard with one gnarly-bony mitt and lifts it to his mouth... his eyes remain glued upon the pretty one. A moment, no more, and the tankard's empty. "Say dere m' good kape, coul' ye be sling'n' me 'noth'r? Domn tas'y dat un warr, and I be stil' 's thars'y 's a raf'-rid'n' buc."

He sets the clay tankard down with a resounding 'clunk,' and again smiles at the girl. It's a smile that resembles a cross between a grin and a leer, but Fagan knows she'll soon understand the strangeness of it. Or so he hopes.

"Hid'y lass, I's Fa... er, Cla'rf't... er Fag'n.... sorc'rer and 'erb'lus' a' lodj. I's dobbles i' dis an' dat I's do, an' sooch... ooh dare, Fag'n ye bore! Pard'n me' missy... nah, I be a roon'n' at da gooms... what be yer na..." mid sentence a belch, seemingly from the lowest of nether regions, roars from his mouth. "B-r-r-r-aaaaaa-p-ph!" Still he hasn't looked away from her. He adjusts his gnome-sized cavalier's hat, and softly bites his lip, fidgeting with the buttons of his vest.

"Did ye ... oh, an' I's true sarry dat ye had ta be har'in' me barp... know dat oos gnomes al'us ha' nick'rnam'ns... us'ly mor' dan a coopl'? Aye, 'n' mine be Clat-ter-foot... - he says it with slow and caringly perfect diction - af'r m' wag'n-pull'r goat.... nah, wha' d' ye say yarn be? Name I's means?"

She sighs then catches a glimpse of the one come into the pub, blinking not once but twice quickly... her thoughts seem to be speaking for her - odd yet somewhat cute I guess... for one of the weirder races. Turning on the stool and remaining quiet, she sees the impatient one click his fingers, hears him ask the many questions and knows it is to pass the time till he gets the... the ale arrives and he drinks it down quicker then a vampire striking it's first victim. Leaning an elbow on the bar, she rests the side of her face into the palm... still she watches, amused and somewhat interested.

"Keep your shorts on; 'tis a bit slow due to new ownership." She speaks about his attitude towards the keep, knowing that Jack was a slow, old timer but he worked cheap, and knew how to maintain the pub.

"Clatterfoot. How..." she refrains from laughing, a smile crossing her lips. "I'm known as Roni." She extends him the hand that she was leaning against." I know you'd think someone would keep a pub like this kept-up..." Looking around the pub once again, her hand still fully extended, she shakes her head, and offers this odd one a faint smile.

A gnome is a gnome is a gnome. Likin' pretty baubles and pretty ladies, they're inventive, ever-curious and friendly, but more than a little distrustful of tall ones. Few are those who truly dislike them, except goblins and their ilk, though some, especially dwarves, consider gnomes an odd, if trusty and forthright race. They, the gnomes, certainly optimize their penchant for crustiness in speech, an irritating busy-ness of thought and movement, and their maddening way of forsaking tact ( to a gnome truth is truth, and damn the consequences ) in conversation by overplaying these tendencies. Satisfying their druthers, if a gnome isn't "after" something, the preferrence is to keep a bit distant and aloof. They're watchers at heart, and most have remarkable memories. One thing's for sure, a gnome'll sap your strength if you're not used to 'em... a bundle of nervous energy and constantly on the brink of something or other, they're outspoken and can be boisterous if "into their ales" so to speak, seemingly always in your ear or on your nerves.

Fagan, his eyes riveted on the comely stranger, winks when she introduces herself, but quickly second-thoughting that he'd been a bit impetuous, rubs his eye, pretending discomfort with a nagging winker.

"Roni 's 't? Well I's be! Same's my secon' coos'n Maggr'l's alde'st b'ys young'st pup... a darlin' wee un she be too, eyes 's a brigh'wat'r shin'n' blue and mar dimps dan a rune'sh tabl't."

He feels about the bar, checking to see if his second ale's arrived, his stare still fixed upon the girl's face... a stare that might easily be mistaken for "boorish" if his gnomish air didn't suggest otherwise... moreover it rather resembled the same kind of perisitent expectancy with which a grackle might eye a worm.

Not finding the ale, he scowls, muttering to himself, "Domn'bl' slo' fer new, er old, if'n ye asks me 'pinyun. Nah den..." the scowl beetles, maintained, but a cheerful twinkle of eye belies it's intent,"Sa ye be tinkin' dis be a day fer makin' friends? I says yer a strikin' look-sweet to m'self af'er I's gettin' da narv ta asks yer name, 'n' me bein' a stranger hare an' a'l... wel' I's be'd feelin' mar da so welcom' if'n ye'd say 'yah.'"

He takes her extended hand in both of his and rubs it gently, slowly, casually between the lightest cupping two-hand grasp he can muster. Ah... skin d' likes o' da belly o' a rabb't's babe.. but, sa cool 'tis!

"Nah Roni, wil'd ye be habbin' a beb'rage wit' me?...

A statue couldn't have kept it's eyes more indefatiguably positioned... barely moving himself to a more comfortable sit, and without waiting for her reply he calls out, "Kape! I's be a dy'n' doon hare ta th's en'... coul' ye be a dight fas'er wit' me ale?... and oh, ca' ye be bri'gun' dis lubbly lass a drink too?!"

He takes a carved stag's head briar and a bag of tobacco from his vest pocket and fiddles with them, apparently about to light himself a bowlful.. "Aye lass, I seed a war onc't tha' warr fas'er o'er dan ale-sarvin' hare.... 's noof ta make a civ'l'fied gnome wisht 'a be kick'n' arse!" He winks again... no winker this time.... and smiles at her.

Winking back, knowing his wink was no eye irritation, but a true wink - she had seen to many in her time - she takes another mug from below the bar, draws it full of ale and walks around to the front, to Fagan and the stools. She chooses the one next to the gnome, sits, and takes a deep drink of her ale - one would think her part dwarf by the way she doesn't spill a drop. Licking her lips, she places the mug down, and turns her full attention to the wiry one.

"'Tis my establishment now. It's an old place, but I think it's many more years till she'll need tearin' down."

She watches the barkeep come trudging back, stop and blink. How senile this one is, she thinks. The old barkeep had thought he was going after the gnome's ale, but seeing one on the bar, shrugs instead, guessing he forgot he'd given it to him. Roni smiles at the old one, and her fingers dance along the edge of her mug. Then she turns to Fagan.

"Traveled far did you?. Ain't seen any of your kind around. Clatter is it?" remembering the name he'd given her.

The barkeep, who so much seemed to blend in with the backbar as not to be there at all, looks to the gnome, holds his hand out, and in a deep hush says,"Two gold for the drink, mister."

Hearing, Roni arches a brow and waves the keep away. "I told him it was on the house."

Looking back to the fidgety one, "Plan to stay in these parts do you... Clatter?"

Fagan watches with interest as she gets the drinks, and is more or less amazed at her apparent gusto for his favorite beverage.

"I's impres'd! Ye drinks likes ye knows wha' 'tis yer doin' Roni. Na' many lass's likes de aley taste. Dem us'lly says 't be too bit'rish... Bu' aye an' aye agin! I trow i' be de bes' o' a'l beb'rage's, 'n' I's be t'ank'n' ye fer get'n' me dis un... owns it doos ye?... Dis poob be yarn, be 't?"

Not to be outdone, he winks at her and murmurs, "Hare's t' ye.." licks his lips, takes a deep breath and guzzles the ale she gave him.

"Oh, yess! D'litshoos!" And quickly he sets the tankard down and grabs his head. "Domn'd keld 't be too!! Ta ooth'r bin roomy warm, bu'... dis un!! "Lass, ye shoul'na be kapin' ale too keld... roo'ns 'ts fin'r p'ints.. and takes da bowkay fro' 't."

The headache fades about as quickly as it came, and Fagan's thirst is mostly appeased... temporarily.

"Ye be soom doomplin' Roni... Nah, wha' 'twas it ye be askin'?... ah, yes.. I's amemb'rin' nah... me name 'n' whar I's be a-coomin' fro'... Well, Cla'r, na... bu' Cla'rf't, aye. A'l oos gnomes habs a nick'rnam'n we's do... likes dere be Butshb'ater, 'n' Spin'l'legs, 'n' Le't'rtoop... a'l fine lads o' da vale. M' broot'r Zagan, he be's a moonk o' sarts, an' dem calls him "Baldgr'en"... ye see, he wares dese smal'itsh grane eyegloss's, 'n he be slick bald 's 'n egg. Aye, sa' dey calls me Cla'rf't... 'n' I kinds o' likes it... me wag'n-pul'n goat, she be's nam'd-sah.. 'er hoo'bs, dey cla'rs 'pon da coobldystoons o' de roods doon i' da vale.. nah, 'tis true 'noof she doos na car' fer da booties I puts on' 'er bu' dey sabes 'er pain'n an'.. ah, hel'harns!... ye nay be carin' 'boot me goat... any-sa, I's be a coomin' i' fro' nart' o' hare. On me way ta da soom'r fahr i' Tyn'all.. gots dis idee dat I mi'ht be arn'n' soom gol' doin' me tricks... l'il uns, dey lubs da lights!"

He waves his hand and five small glowing spheres of colored light begin to dance about Roni's head. Then he points to her flagon, and with the motion of raising and waving the pointing finger toward the tap, it moves there, where the tapknob depresses and the vessel fills. Full and foamy, Fagan returns it to a hovering-in-space-position before her. He laughs a gleeful little laugh... and smiles to her.

" 'd ye be habbin' 'noot'r me dahlin'?... aye... drink y'oop, lass, drink y'oop - ... an' fro' da vale know'd as Gli'rgem.. - dat's me home - ...ye'd likes it dere I trows. Al' lootsh an' grane and eb'rywhar spahkletystoons aboot... na ta mensh'n da fine foolks dere. Nah, be a-tel'n me 'boot yerself woul' ye?"

He snaps a finger and the pretty orange, blue and gold lights flare and begin to spin faster and faster about her head.

"Hee-heah!!... nah, tells me lass.. whar be ye fro'? and whar 't be yer goin'... 'n' how cooms ye t' be 'dis' poob's awner?"