================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Sat May 28 21:35:05 2005
Bree time: Midnight <2:45 AM> on Trewsday of Spring - April 4,1435
Moon Phase: Waxing Gibbous Moon
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Breelands Weather
The midnight spring air is cool but pleasant around you. The night sky is cloud-filled and gloomy.

It is a very early hour in the morning. That's not to say it's 5 or 6 am, no, the time is precicely 2.45 am, and within the Common-Room of the Prancing Pony, it appears that Happy Hour has just ended. There appear to be several groups of men about at this unusual hour- those slumped hopelessly over their tables, mug of beer still held protectively in one hand; those who mutter quietly in groups with long faces and bushy eyebrows, and those few who have only just finished their work and have only just begun to celebrate (not too loudly though, for no one has enough energy left for any of that.)
Flanked by one group of quiet-mutterers, and one man about to drown in a pool of beer, a woman sits. She is placed strategically amongst shadows, for that generally powerful lighting effect that's helped none by curls of smoke twisting about her head before escaping to the roof. Her boots are on the table, her hood is not drawn.. Scarlet Greythorn is simply sitting, smoking.. watching.

From the entrance wanders one familiar to the locals at least, or most of them. He is a hefty man, bearing at this time, and this weather, a thick cloak about his frame that fails, but tries, to contain a full belly. A badge of some sort--no doubt the emblem of the local constabulary--rests upon the cloak. It sorts of sags there; not fixed properly. The guard is heavily bearded, such that very little of his face exists. He looks like beard and cloak. And maybe a little bit of eyes. Oh. And the pipe, which protudes from the beard like a limb from a mossy tree.
He stomps into the inn, his fat boots sloshing on the wooden floor; wetness clearly permeating them. And he stops to investigate his usual place of stopping after a long shift of gate duty.

The door to the Common Room slowly opens and in steps the either all to familiar, or compeltely unknown (depending on perspective) figure of Glaurion. His beloved pipe hangs from his mouth, a trail of smoke rising steadily from it, disappearing as it comes in contact with the confining ceiling of the room. He glances around quickly, perhaps checking if there is anything that interests him, before heading to a table near the fire. He looks over his shoulder one last time, then lazily slides into a chair. He slouches in his seat, leaning back comfortably, and positioning himself so that he can see the door, and any who arrive and depart.

First she espies the entering Breeguard and regards him steadily for some moments. There is an amused smirk stretching over thin lips, though it's not long before someone more interesting becomes worthy of her attention. One eyebrow arches just slightly, as, without the slightest notion that she knows the meaning of 'subtle', she watches Glaurion.
Then, she swings her legs from the table and slides from her seat, stalking across to where he now sits and there, she relocates herself- dropping gracefully into another seat. "Why, hello again, Mr. Glaurion."
The fat constable shuffles his feet toward his usual place at the bar. Usual, of course, because of the way he approaches without even looking at it. The chair is pulled back routinely, and the large, fat bottom hoisted awkardly onto its worn wooden surface, after much clattering of wooden legs against wooden panels, and the screeching of leg bottoms against flooring. His elbows, if they can be called that, are slopped onto the bar counter, where he procedes to pay loving attention to his pipe, and nothing else, except, perhaps, the noises that meander about him.
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Ignoring Scarlet, a behavior that seems to be becoming typical, Glaurion simply continues to smoke away at his pipe, choosing to watch the Breeguard rather than strike up a conversation with his new table-mate. In a low tone, he speaks, "We should buy the fat one over there a drink... he needs not spend his hard earned coin. After all, I am sure he has been working extra hard as of late. Do you not agree, Ms. Greythorn?" Repositioning himself in his seat, he yawns and stretches, removing the pipe from his mouth and placing it on the table. He cups his hands behind his head and crosses one leg over the other, before offering, "Of course... I shall not spare my coin on him. However, I think it would be a wonderful idea if you did... send it with my regards as well, of course."
The woman frowns, her eyes narrowing just slightly, and almost does she go to say something, but Glaurion has already started talking. "Him?" Scarlet laughs, though there is no humour within the sound. "I don't know what makes you think I would buy him a drink, no, he is no friend of mine... though perhaps I have another little surprise brewing for him, but we shan't speak of that. Oh no, this fat man accuses me of terrble things that I would never dream of partaking in.. You won't have me spending my money on him." And all of this is said in very low, very quiet tones, watching the Breeguard with a new hatred within her gaze..

The low tones do not reach the constable's ear, in fact. Or at least, they do not manage to surpass the occasionally murming of the passed out drunk here, the snoring of another there, or the mutterings of the employees in the kitchen. The kitchen does have alot of noises coming from it. Clattering pots and pans. It takes some while to clean up after a night's revelry. Only sporadics puffs of smoke come from the constable, creating clouds that nip at his tufts of hair.
"Yes, I am sure he accuses you of terrible things... this is why you should buy him a drink. Consider it an offering of peace," Glaurion says with roll of his eyes. With a shrug, he adds, "He looks decent enough to me... just a hard working man of Bree. He is deserving of something, at least... here, let me help you..." He then motions to one of the barmaids who quickly comes over to his table. Motioning toward the guard, he says, "You see the fat one at the bar? Give him a mug of ale..." He nods his head to the woman across the table from him and notes, "Make sure he understands it is from her. Oh, and go ahead and get me one too... and one for dear Ms. Greythorn, here." Having said all that he wishes, he reaches into a small pouch and grasps a few coins, which he hands to the maid who does not hesiate and sets right about preparing the drinks. Turning to Scarlet, Glaurion smiles, "Consider it a favor from me... it does not happen often."

For a moment, Scarlet regards Glaurion. After all, this is a new plan- this isn't the plan she thought of, so it's taking a few moments for the pieces to fall into place. And then, the lips curve upward. "Ahhh. I see. Though I'll not agree he deserves anything..." And again she regards him, critically though any thoughts she's having are hidden- perhaps she's only trying to figure out who's side he's on. "Well, I thank-you, then. Perhaps I shall buy the next round for us, and have paid you back. I dislike owing favours."

As the ale is delivered to the countertop, and the words spoken with a point in the direction of Scarlet, the constable's head turns predictably in the designated direction. He finds Ms. Greythorne there, as indicated, but with different company than the constable had previously seen. He examines the ale again, then peers at Scarlet; not sure how to react to the courtesy, if that is what it is.
After a moment's indecision, he grabs the mug, and walks across the room to the table, where sets the mug down, while continuing to stand. He takes no drink. "I suppose there's some words ta go with this?" he asks, pointing a chubby finger at the ale and looking at Scarlet behind expressionless eyes. He does not acknowledge the stranger.

Watching the guard approach, Glaurion smiles wryly. He grabs his pipe and sticks it back into his mouth, smoking it slowly, apparently taking delight in the smoke that pours in and out of his body. Smirking, he nods, "Yes... are there not some words to go with it, Ms. Greythorn?" He then falls silent, turning his attention away from the guard and woman, choosing to watch the busily working barmaid instead.

Scarlet hardly hesitates, especially after Glaurion's question. Smiling a bright and friendly smile (and this is particularly difficult for Scarlet, and causes her face to crinkle and her eyes to squint just slightly, and her teeth to be grated together with the strain of the thing, somehow she manages to pull it off anyway) Scarlet nods her head. "Why yes, yes there are, of course. I felt terrible about that little tiff," and everyone knows 'tiff' is a word used between elderly Bree women during their gossip about marital arguments or scuffles between their husbands in the inn late at night, "The other day, so I was hoping this would make up for it and such." The eyelashes batt, just slightly, though she can pull of a good 'looking-hopeful' expression, at least.

A grunt is the initial answer. Ottewell Whitethorne III is not one easily swayed. But nor is he one to turn down apologies. "Alright. Then. Eh . . ." He reaches down, picking up the mug, and lifts it to his mouth, or his beard at least. It isn't clear if he has a mouth or not. And somewhere, the ale starts to drain into his fat body. Starts, and continues. And continues. And continues.
In fact, it does not stop until the entire contents of the beverage are emptied into some recess of the enormous belly; shortly after which the mug is returned with a clatter to the table top. And shortly after that, a nod of thanks. "I think ya then. Good ale!" He pats his belly.
But he does not then do what is expected; namely, make social contact of some form or another. Instead, he turns slowly, and walks back toward the precise seat from where he just came, bearing a mild grin on his face, and muttering, "Love a good ale. Quite tasty."

Turning his gaze fromthe barmaid to Scarlet, Glaurion keeps one eye on the guard as he leaves. Grasping his own ale and taking a drink, he smirks, "You are welcome, my dear. Enjoy your patched relationships, will you?" Placing the mug back on the table, he speaks once more, "Now... the other night I do not feel we came to know eachother properly... I do believe we should remedy that. So, tell me a little about yourself... nothing... personal... only... the obvious. I just might do the same if I favor the tone of our exchange."
Scarlet beams. "Good! I'm glad we're friends again." Friends? Again? Is something wrong with this picture..? "And of course it was good ale! This is Bree ale we're speaking about here!" And as soon as he turns, her face drops, the energy put into being excitement returns to being bitter and cruel, and she's back to her old self. She smokes for a few moments- perhaps to calm herself, or so she has time to think.
"Hmm. I hardly think that's fair, that you only 'might' do the same and I'm hardly guarenteed anything... What to tell, what to tell.. There's really nothing much, or nothing I'd like to consider obvious, at least. I do.. odd jobs.. I have a wide circle of friends, I make the most I can of living in this town. Perhaps we'd do better to ask me a question, and then I can be more specific in giving you an answer."
The constable returns to the bar, where he retrieves his pipe which he had left behind, but does not return to his seat. He stops for a moment, patting his chest and his belly for some obscure reason; then lifts a fat leg halfway into the air, as if making some sort of dancing move, which is, needless to say, comical in light of his stature.
While the leg is extending, the man scratches his head and lets out an extremely loud YAAAWN. The antics, whatever their purpose, finish, and the fat man waddles back toward the entrance from which he so recently came. But before he crosses the threshold, he turns about curiously, a glance being directed toward Scarlet and her companion, although a grin still rests on his face. The glance is followed by a vague nod, and then he has left.

"Fair enough," Glaurion replies, then puases as he watches the guard take his leave. Looking back to Scarlet, he rests his elbows on the table and leans forward, "Well, it seems obvious that you are different from most Breefolk... which is strange, considering Bree is such a care-free town." His eyes are cold, as they always are, yet his tone remains at least somewhat amiable, "What I want to know is why? Everything, really. Tell me... and I should tell you things of myself, which I am sure you would find equally interesting."
Scarlet ignores the guard, much more interested in the task at hand. "It is carefree, but there is always a bad apple, isn't there? That's what they say, anyway. Though I'm hardly calling myself a bad apple.. black sheep, perhaps? Perhaps I'm just offering multiple explanations for you." The woman leans back, hooks one leg over the other, and regards the man carefully. "Hmm. I suppose you could blame it on Childhood... and I shan't go into that, either... there's hardly anything about it that I'd consider interesting. Though "why" is certainly an odd question- there could be a thousand answers and not even I know them all. And I'm hesitant to tell you everything as it stands... people are good at acting. How do I know you are who I presume you to be?"
"Who do you think I am?" Glaurion asks smugly, "So far I have yet to see a reason that I might have lied to you. I am seated here... I am me. You are not the only one in town who knows that. Of course... before I can give you a real answer... you must tell me what you presume me to be... and I can then tell you if you are mistaken or correct." Looking back to the barmaid he was studying earlier, he continues, "A black sheep, you say? Interesting... I was unaware Bree produced any. Everyone could have had a better childhood... I fail to see how that impacts anything, really."
"Well, Mister Glaurion, I'm sure you will have some smug reply to this, but I suppose you and I are like two peas in a pod... the people here would not consider us traditionally 'good', though I'd hardly rely on their judgements for anything particularly important." Scarlet pauses, then shrugs lightly, "It's a term I've heard used, though the only sheep I've ever seen that could be considered black are the ones which have been sleeping in the mud, though isn't that an interesting way to look at the metaphor, hm? And I never said my childhood was bad, or that I'd wish to better it. Perhaps it was overly good and so I grew up as I am today- who knows?"
Smoke pours from Mt. Doom as the Dark One's evil sorcery lags the game.
The smoke clears as good triumphs and the database saves.
Finishing off his drink, Glaurion nods, "Well... just be careful... Bree is not the kindest when it comes to people of alternate behaviors." He then rises to his feet and turns toward the door, "I am Glaurion... I have seen many places... I have done many things. Obviously, I am not one of Bree. I do what I will, when I will do it... that is the beauty of my existence. There, you know me... I know you a little. I am sure we shall meet again... though, I hope you do not find yourself in trouble first." Straightening his clothing, he moves to the door and leaves, without saying so much as a goodbye.