Elendor
Toss the turnip!
Bardur's clumsiness leads to Dorn displaying a hitherto unrecognized talent.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Esgaroth: Market Square
Game Date: January 3058
IC Time: Dusk
Weather: Clear
Description: The Market Square
You have arrived in the two-hundred eighty feet by two-hundred eighty feet open-air market known as the Market Square. Four buildings, brighter in colour than most of the buildings in town, border the market and are filled with shops of every kind, along with the taverns and other places people like to meet. Hawkers walk about with carts peddling goods, and entertainers draw a few crowds when the weather is decent. People from the outlying areas, and the occasional groups of Dwarves or Elves, may be seen amongst the locals.
The very center of the Market itself is a fenced-off hole spanning ninety feet in circumference. A few steps descending through the hole leads to the Market Pool, an area directly beneath the town. A few pulley contraptions bordering the area might suggest that it is used as a means of transporting goods directly from rafts into the market square.
Obvious exits:
West leads to Center of Bowman Street.
East leads to Center of Avenue of Tales.
North leads to Center of Firespark Lane.
South leads to Center of Merchant's Way.
Market Pool leads to The Market Pool.
The Town Hall, Tavern, Gamer's Den, Armour Shoppe, and Weapon Shoppe
----
Dale-Lands Time and Weather Service
Real Time: Tue Jan 29 05:04:26 2013 MST
Dale-Lands Time:
Sterday, twilight on a clear winter's night, January 21 of 3058
----
Dusk is drawing in, and Laketown's marketplace has become a melee of bustling people moving this way and that: some to their homes, some to their final business appointment of the day and some simply hoping to pick up a final bargain - after all, if they don't buy it then who will?
Today, however, not all the shoppers are of the Mannish race. A squat, broad form shoulders his way through the crowd, jostling folk as he passes. The reason for that becomes apparent as soon as one's close enough to see him: Bardur son of Mardur has a hefty sack balanced across his shoulders, so that his head is bowed and his wagging beard is near to brushing the boards below. He looks up, breathing heavily, to get his bearings and then sets off again, knocking over someone's basket of turnips as he turns.
[Dorn(#13467)]
Undaunted by the fact that he's never been to a human city so big, Dorn, son of Lufur(yes--- laugh it up, boys. He has a beard!) has wandered along the other dwarves, into town from their camp and onto the market. He's bought nothing since he has nothing and really, needs nothing either so his hands are in his pockets. It did almost come to a skirmish by the gates as the humans told him he couldn't bring his sword along but aside from wielding weapons, dwarves are weapons! Deadly and sometimes chubby ones but weapons nonetheless.
Dorn is not chubby though hope remains that some day he'll grow into it. Wearing a leather armor and a cloak with a hood pulled up on it, the young Warder doesn't seem particularly in awe. But, as he is standing near the over-burdened Skald, Dorn takes a step back from the scattering of turnips coming his way thanks to his less than nimble fellow dwarf. "Ach! First they take our weapons and now they thorw their vegetable at us," he mutters grumpily. Someone hasn't had his morning ale, it seems!
The stout farmwife lets out a tirade about clumsy fools who trip on their beards and something about faces and ducks and that'll be thirty coppers for the lot, thank you very much! Bardur lifts his head to stare at her blankly, the stony features quite forbidding. The sack is slipping on his shoulders and he grunts and hoists it higher. "Go on, pick them up," he suggests to Dorn gruffly. "That way you'll look like you've achieved something useful. What did they send you out for, anyway?" A vegetable rolls up against his foot and he turns that same forbidding look on it. Edging a little closer to his fellow Dwarf, he mutters out of one side of his mouth (the beard barely trembles), "The Men-folk eat these? No wonder they lack in strength."
[Dorn(#13467)]
Giving an almost matching blank stare toward the farmer's wife as she says things that are words but make little sense - what the duck, hu? -, Dorn simply shrugs his shoulders at the human female. A dubious stare is given to the closest turnip and he steps a bit closer to push it toward the woman with the tip of his boot as if taking it in his hands would poison him with some unknown human vegetable disease. "Not sure. Maybe it goes well with... duck?" he admits freely, ignoring the 'useless' comment as he usually brushes off such accusations. He is there, see, he even rolled that thing back to the wailing woman. Admittedly, bird meat is not what Dorn gets to eat very often. It's got wings thus the dwarf has an inbred suspicion toward it.
Even though it's unclear whether the Warder took his fellow's advice or he's just bored, he balances another turnip on his boot, then bouncing it upward, catching it in his hands and tossing onto the crate. Then another and another, in different manners but avoiding leaning down and actually picking it up like a normal person. Hey, if you're picking something off the ground, it means you're doing farmer's work and that's not right for a dwarf! Unless it's gold. They like gold.
The farmwife, needless to say, looks quite outraged at Dorn's antics. Never mind ducks: she's gobbling like a turkey as she watches those precious vegetables getting bounced and battered like balls. "Thirty coppers," she repeats more slowly and loudly (maybe Dwarves are deaf?), sticking out her hand expectantly.
Bardur, on the other hand, is gazing at his fellow Erebor citizen in awe. "You know," he states consideringly after an admiring pause, "You're really quite handy at that. Perhaps we should set you up as an entertainer. I could charge the crowd a few coppers apiece ..."
[Dorn(#13467)]
"A few coppers? Oh no, I'm worth much more!" Dorn exclaims cheerfully as he points at the farmwife. "She says thirty so I'd say thirty it is. But I want half of the profit and free ale while I'm standing," he continues all business-like, his hood nicely in place seeing as his feet are what are making all the work. No reason to have yet another "ITZAH DWARF!" moments there. Another Warder approaches and calls out:"Come on, Itzy, you're making the humans mad. You don't want to get in trouble again, do ya?"
Oh no, that Dorn doesn't indeed. With a huff, the young warrior picks up the last turnip and hands it to the farmwife, peering at the human and flashing a smile. "There you go, you can now go back to trying to sell these to your unfortunate kin. That'll be thirty one coppers for my assistance, ma'am." And in return, a hand is held out to the trader.
When Bardur gets that distant, thoughtful look in his eyes, it's always a bad sign. Sure enough, as his cloaked companion continues his vegetable-juggling antics the Dwarven skald begins to chant, stamping his feet in time as his hands are busy keeping that sack hefted on his shoulder:
Toss the turnips, toss them high!
Catch them, kick them, watch them fly!
One now, two now, three and four
Come on, lad, there's plenty more!
Off his head into the basket,
Dorn will dunt them if you ask it!
Not exactly highbrow, but there you go. The Mannish race never appreciate /real/ poetry anyway.
At the other Warder's shout he turns to face the newcomer and states huffily, "Excuse me, I was in the middle of composing something."
The farmwife, meanwhile, is getting more irate by the moment. "Oh no you don't!" she proclaims stoutly, withdrawing her own hand and placing it on her hip. "My goods were spoilt, and I want compensation." Her glower takes in both the dreaming Bardur and the slighter-built Dorn. "Father and son, are you?" She bends down, clearly trying to see under the hood of Dorn's cloak.
[Dorn(#13467)]
Doing a few stomp-worthy dancing steps along with the freshly composed poetry, Dorn peers toward Bardur and laughs. "I sure seem to inspire you a lot, Skald! And you're welcome!" Turning back to the woman, he shrugs. "Oh, quit your yelling, big lady. Alright then, keep the change," he says and turns to step away from the turnip woman. Not worried for the consequences but then held back by the obvious insult - though the human might not get it -, he glances at the dwarvish bard. "Yeah and he's got the bill," he replies with a slight sneer and turns away, to begin following his fellow Warder who's been watching with a mix of amusement and annoyance on his richly bearded face.
"No." That single curt word is all that Bardur has for the woman before he turns back to his fellows, scowling angrily. /He/ knows he cuts a fine figure of a Dwarf, unlike .. well, let's not go there. "Anything out of the ordinary inspires me," he tells Dorn quite sincerely once he has mastery of his anger. "Clearly an extraordinary future awaits you, cousin." He bows, and almost overbalances as the sack on his shoulders slides foroward over his head. A moment of struggling and grunting follows before he's righted himself - by this point Dorn is making good his escape.
And that woman's still haranguing him! Perhaps, like Dorn, the Skald is mindful of the injunction not to cause trouble, perhaps he's simply a kindly soul in any case he mutters, "Very well," and slides the sack down to the ground so that he can extract a small leather purse from somewhere on his person. "One moment, cousin!" he calls after Dorn and the other Warder. "You forgot your fee! As reward for your inspiration ... one basket of turnips."
[Dorn(#13467)]
Another thing flying over his head that isn't a turnip is Bardur's angry mutter since Dorn doesn't seem to pick it up at all when it happens. Maybe he thinks extraordinary is a good thing? Well, maybe not for a hobbit but still! Waving a hand toward the woman and the Skald, he calls:"Naw, let them humans keep these. I hear they eat it." And with that along with a nudge by a fellow Warder at his side, the young dwarf disappears into the sea of market goers and their cloaks.
You have arrived in the two-hundred eighty feet by two-hundred eighty feet open-air market known as the Market Square. Four buildings, brighter in colour than most of the buildings in town, border the market and are filled with shops of every kind, along with the taverns and other places people like to meet. Hawkers walk about with carts peddling goods, and entertainers draw a few crowds when the weather is decent. People from the outlying areas, and the occasional groups of Dwarves or Elves, may be seen amongst the locals.
The very center of the Market itself is a fenced-off hole spanning ninety feet in circumference. A few steps descending through the hole leads to the Market Pool, an area directly beneath the town. A few pulley contraptions bordering the area might suggest that it is used as a means of transporting goods directly from rafts into the market square.
Obvious exits:
West leads to Center of Bowman Street.
East leads to Center of Avenue of Tales.
North leads to Center of Firespark Lane.
South leads to Center of Merchant's Way.
Market Pool leads to The Market Pool.
The Town Hall, Tavern, Gamer's Den, Armour Shoppe, and Weapon Shoppe
----
Dale-Lands Time and Weather Service
Real Time: Tue Jan 29 05:04:26 2013 MST
Dale-Lands Time:
Sterday, twilight on a clear winter's night, January 21 of 3058
----
Dusk is drawing in, and Laketown's marketplace has become a melee of bustling people moving this way and that: some to their homes, some to their final business appointment of the day and some simply hoping to pick up a final bargain - after all, if they don't buy it then who will?
Today, however, not all the shoppers are of the Mannish race. A squat, broad form shoulders his way through the crowd, jostling folk as he passes. The reason for that becomes apparent as soon as one's close enough to see him: Bardur son of Mardur has a hefty sack balanced across his shoulders, so that his head is bowed and his wagging beard is near to brushing the boards below. He looks up, breathing heavily, to get his bearings and then sets off again, knocking over someone's basket of turnips as he turns.
[Dorn(#13467)]
Undaunted by the fact that he's never been to a human city so big, Dorn, son of Lufur(yes--- laugh it up, boys. He has a beard!) has wandered along the other dwarves, into town from their camp and onto the market. He's bought nothing since he has nothing and really, needs nothing either so his hands are in his pockets. It did almost come to a skirmish by the gates as the humans told him he couldn't bring his sword along but aside from wielding weapons, dwarves are weapons! Deadly and sometimes chubby ones but weapons nonetheless.
Dorn is not chubby though hope remains that some day he'll grow into it. Wearing a leather armor and a cloak with a hood pulled up on it, the young Warder doesn't seem particularly in awe. But, as he is standing near the over-burdened Skald, Dorn takes a step back from the scattering of turnips coming his way thanks to his less than nimble fellow dwarf. "Ach! First they take our weapons and now they thorw their vegetable at us," he mutters grumpily. Someone hasn't had his morning ale, it seems!
The stout farmwife lets out a tirade about clumsy fools who trip on their beards and something about faces and ducks and that'll be thirty coppers for the lot, thank you very much! Bardur lifts his head to stare at her blankly, the stony features quite forbidding. The sack is slipping on his shoulders and he grunts and hoists it higher. "Go on, pick them up," he suggests to Dorn gruffly. "That way you'll look like you've achieved something useful. What did they send you out for, anyway?" A vegetable rolls up against his foot and he turns that same forbidding look on it. Edging a little closer to his fellow Dwarf, he mutters out of one side of his mouth (the beard barely trembles), "The Men-folk eat these? No wonder they lack in strength."
[Dorn(#13467)]
Giving an almost matching blank stare toward the farmer's wife as she says things that are words but make little sense - what the duck, hu? -, Dorn simply shrugs his shoulders at the human female. A dubious stare is given to the closest turnip and he steps a bit closer to push it toward the woman with the tip of his boot as if taking it in his hands would poison him with some unknown human vegetable disease. "Not sure. Maybe it goes well with... duck?" he admits freely, ignoring the 'useless' comment as he usually brushes off such accusations. He is there, see, he even rolled that thing back to the wailing woman. Admittedly, bird meat is not what Dorn gets to eat very often. It's got wings thus the dwarf has an inbred suspicion toward it.
Even though it's unclear whether the Warder took his fellow's advice or he's just bored, he balances another turnip on his boot, then bouncing it upward, catching it in his hands and tossing onto the crate. Then another and another, in different manners but avoiding leaning down and actually picking it up like a normal person. Hey, if you're picking something off the ground, it means you're doing farmer's work and that's not right for a dwarf! Unless it's gold. They like gold.
The farmwife, needless to say, looks quite outraged at Dorn's antics. Never mind ducks: she's gobbling like a turkey as she watches those precious vegetables getting bounced and battered like balls. "Thirty coppers," she repeats more slowly and loudly (maybe Dwarves are deaf?), sticking out her hand expectantly.
Bardur, on the other hand, is gazing at his fellow Erebor citizen in awe. "You know," he states consideringly after an admiring pause, "You're really quite handy at that. Perhaps we should set you up as an entertainer. I could charge the crowd a few coppers apiece ..."
[Dorn(#13467)]
"A few coppers? Oh no, I'm worth much more!" Dorn exclaims cheerfully as he points at the farmwife. "She says thirty so I'd say thirty it is. But I want half of the profit and free ale while I'm standing," he continues all business-like, his hood nicely in place seeing as his feet are what are making all the work. No reason to have yet another "ITZAH DWARF!" moments there. Another Warder approaches and calls out:"Come on, Itzy, you're making the humans mad. You don't want to get in trouble again, do ya?"
Oh no, that Dorn doesn't indeed. With a huff, the young warrior picks up the last turnip and hands it to the farmwife, peering at the human and flashing a smile. "There you go, you can now go back to trying to sell these to your unfortunate kin. That'll be thirty one coppers for my assistance, ma'am." And in return, a hand is held out to the trader.
When Bardur gets that distant, thoughtful look in his eyes, it's always a bad sign. Sure enough, as his cloaked companion continues his vegetable-juggling antics the Dwarven skald begins to chant, stamping his feet in time as his hands are busy keeping that sack hefted on his shoulder:
Toss the turnips, toss them high!
Catch them, kick them, watch them fly!
One now, two now, three and four
Come on, lad, there's plenty more!
Off his head into the basket,
Dorn will dunt them if you ask it!
Not exactly highbrow, but there you go. The Mannish race never appreciate /real/ poetry anyway.
At the other Warder's shout he turns to face the newcomer and states huffily, "Excuse me, I was in the middle of composing something."
The farmwife, meanwhile, is getting more irate by the moment. "Oh no you don't!" she proclaims stoutly, withdrawing her own hand and placing it on her hip. "My goods were spoilt, and I want compensation." Her glower takes in both the dreaming Bardur and the slighter-built Dorn. "Father and son, are you?" She bends down, clearly trying to see under the hood of Dorn's cloak.
[Dorn(#13467)]
Doing a few stomp-worthy dancing steps along with the freshly composed poetry, Dorn peers toward Bardur and laughs. "I sure seem to inspire you a lot, Skald! And you're welcome!" Turning back to the woman, he shrugs. "Oh, quit your yelling, big lady. Alright then, keep the change," he says and turns to step away from the turnip woman. Not worried for the consequences but then held back by the obvious insult - though the human might not get it -, he glances at the dwarvish bard. "Yeah and he's got the bill," he replies with a slight sneer and turns away, to begin following his fellow Warder who's been watching with a mix of amusement and annoyance on his richly bearded face.
"No." That single curt word is all that Bardur has for the woman before he turns back to his fellows, scowling angrily. /He/ knows he cuts a fine figure of a Dwarf, unlike .. well, let's not go there. "Anything out of the ordinary inspires me," he tells Dorn quite sincerely once he has mastery of his anger. "Clearly an extraordinary future awaits you, cousin." He bows, and almost overbalances as the sack on his shoulders slides foroward over his head. A moment of struggling and grunting follows before he's righted himself - by this point Dorn is making good his escape.
And that woman's still haranguing him! Perhaps, like Dorn, the Skald is mindful of the injunction not to cause trouble, perhaps he's simply a kindly soul in any case he mutters, "Very well," and slides the sack down to the ground so that he can extract a small leather purse from somewhere on his person. "One moment, cousin!" he calls after Dorn and the other Warder. "You forgot your fee! As reward for your inspiration ... one basket of turnips."
[Dorn(#13467)]
Another thing flying over his head that isn't a turnip is Bardur's angry mutter since Dorn doesn't seem to pick it up at all when it happens. Maybe he thinks extraordinary is a good thing? Well, maybe not for a hobbit but still! Waving a hand toward the woman and the Skald, he calls:"Naw, let them humans keep these. I hear they eat it." And with that along with a nudge by a fellow Warder at his side, the young dwarf disappears into the sea of market goers and their cloaks.
Players: Bardur, Dorn
Located in: Erebor
