RE: The Grand OC! [CONTEST THIRTEEN: BREW! SUBMISSIONS WELCOME!]
04-14-2014, 02:02 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-14-2014, 02:26 PM by Robust Laser.)
Username: caber none fave
Name: Everyone calls him Barkeep
Species: Human, maybe.
Gender: Male
Color: Almost, but not quite black.
Description: Standing at just a little over six feet, with jet black fairly short, but still carefully combed hair, and a face that isn't unpleasant to look at, he wears whatever the location calls for. If you find him working a dive bar, he'll maybe be wearing some sort of flannel shirt. At a classier establishment, he could be doing the whole white shirt, black vest thing. It just depends on the environment. And he's really fast to change if the situation calls for it.
He's friendly and always has an open ear. You got a problem? He'll listen to you the whole time, and will try to give you advice if you need it. He'll laugh at your jokes, even if they're really bad. And of course, he'll get you drunk. He isn't an incredible multitasker, though. There have been complaints that he's spent too much time listening to somebody's sob story and not enough time serving people drinks. It's not like he stops working while listening to somebody, he just works a bit slower is all. Hey, would you rather have a drink that's terrible because he worked at normal speed while not paying attention, or a good drink that takes a bit longer to get there because he wants to get it right while otherwise distracted?
Some people assume this is why you never see him work at the same bar for very long.
Biography: "Hey Barkeep, I heard you know something about a deal goin' on by the docks."
The bartender looked up from the glass he was cleaning, which really, would accomplish nothing other than making it look out of place here. The lone clean beacon in one of the diviest of all dive bars he's ever had the 'pleasure' of working.
"I might. Are you look- hurgh!"
Before he had a chance to finish his sentence, he was throttled by his thuggish looking visitor and pinned to the ground.
"Oh that's good, because I heard that you had a little 'conversation' with a cop about it earlier. And I've got some 'friends' who don't appreciate that kind of talk."
Ugh, this again. It would be nice to once again work somewhere that talking with customers didn't end with being attacked. Alright, what are the options here? Break a bottle? Hm, no. No he looks like he could take it. There's a shotgun under the counter, but that's only in reach with his feet, and the bartender was pretty sure the thug would notice what he was doing before he could get it to his hands. And his trachea was being currently grappled, which would impair his ability to clearly read those scrolls. Which means it's time to fall back on good old fashioned diplomacy.
"L...let's talk it out. Just... urk-- just take a seat and, urgh, I'll tell you what you want to know."
The thug lessened his grip slightly.
"What's keepin' you from spillin' right here?"
"Altitude Sickness. It's the name of a curse and if I spend much longer with my head this close to the ground I'm likely to hurl then lose vocal control, thus becoming useless to you. So please, sit."
The thug considered this for a moment, and seemed to determine that the bartender wasn't lying to him. He determined wrong, of course (the actual curse known as Altitude Sickness was created by Dwarven Mages and doesn't come into effect unless actually underground), but he still wouldn't have gotten very far where he was. He picked up a knocked down seat and placed himself upon it, while the bartender (slowly and carefully, as to not provoke the brute) moved behind the counter, and picked up the cup he had just cleaned from the counter, miraculously unbroken during the scuffle.
"Well then, sir. What's your poison, and what would you like to ask?"
"What do the cops know?"
"To drink, sir."
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"Then... gimme a Giant's Tear."
The bartender nodded and grabbed some bottles of alochol from below the counter (that were not previously there). While he mixed the drink, he explained in detail what the cops knew about this 'deal'. Courtesy of the bartender himself, of course, but before he could get murdered, he elaborated. How they planned on taking the deal down, how many of them would go there, the sorts of magic they had prepared. Everything. The thug didn't touch his drink, astounded at just the breadth of the knowledge.
"...you a mole?"
"I just have my sources."
"Well, you've been a real help, then. Y'know, I was gonna knock you out before burning the bar down, but now I think I'll refrain from the first part."
"It will make the owner happy, I'm sure. Now his plans can't be classified as fraud."
With a snap of the thug's fingers, the bartender discovered he could no longer move. Ah, right. No redemption in the crime world, of course. The thug casually tossed a fireball behind him as he walked out the door, a spring in his step. Eager to spread the information to his buddies of course. The bartender missed the good old days. When people expected him to have all the information, and nobody wanted to kill him for giving out. When parties of adventurers would go to the tavern FOR information from him.
Still, this... this was a problem. If he could get to the emergency scrolls, one might have a general counterspell for this binding, but that would require him to be unbound. Maybe he could end it faster, but that would also be a problem if the quickly spreading flames destroyed the bar before he could get back up.
While he was still thinking about how to get out of his predicament, he disappeared from the universe.
Weapons/Abilities: Get Barkeep a counter. Doesn't technically have to be a counter, but there needs to be space to grab things from, a surface to place those things on, and somebody behind it asking questions.
From this counter, he can do several things:
- He can produce any manner of ingredient required for mixed drinks, or just a regular bottled drink if requested.
- He can produce any type of glass that one would generally expected said mixed drink to be served in
- He can answer any question about anything within the area (about a ten mile radius), regardless of if he previously knew the information, and as long as he is serving or has served a drink that day to the questioner.
The last part is the beef of his powers, really. He can take advantage of it himself by asking somebody else to ask him a specific question, if he needs to get information for himself. The information he can give has a wide range, from knowledge of relationships to gain and give advice, to which cave the bandits that stole the King's gold are hiding out, to all the juicy political affiliations of the local crime syndicate.
Also he doesn't have to be behind a counter for it, but he knows every mixed drink. Not necessarily off the top of his head but if you ask him about a mixed drink, he will immediately know how it's made, as well as the history of it.
There's also something special about bars and pubs and taverns and the like in general, that keeps him in those instead of just literally any place with a counter. Specifically, he can't die in them. Well, he can, but he'll come right back to life a short while later behind the counter, looking to be about thirty years old, and completely unscarred. This is probably related to his apparent immortality, having lived for a few thousand years. The catch is if the facility is destroyed somehow, he can't resurrect.
He knows these things from experience, for the record. Always used to make it a policy to know a few clerics well versed in resurrection. Harder to come across those these days though.
Name: Everyone calls him Barkeep
Species: Human, maybe.
Gender: Male
Color: Almost, but not quite black.
Description: Standing at just a little over six feet, with jet black fairly short, but still carefully combed hair, and a face that isn't unpleasant to look at, he wears whatever the location calls for. If you find him working a dive bar, he'll maybe be wearing some sort of flannel shirt. At a classier establishment, he could be doing the whole white shirt, black vest thing. It just depends on the environment. And he's really fast to change if the situation calls for it.
He's friendly and always has an open ear. You got a problem? He'll listen to you the whole time, and will try to give you advice if you need it. He'll laugh at your jokes, even if they're really bad. And of course, he'll get you drunk. He isn't an incredible multitasker, though. There have been complaints that he's spent too much time listening to somebody's sob story and not enough time serving people drinks. It's not like he stops working while listening to somebody, he just works a bit slower is all. Hey, would you rather have a drink that's terrible because he worked at normal speed while not paying attention, or a good drink that takes a bit longer to get there because he wants to get it right while otherwise distracted?
Some people assume this is why you never see him work at the same bar for very long.
Biography: "Hey Barkeep, I heard you know something about a deal goin' on by the docks."
The bartender looked up from the glass he was cleaning, which really, would accomplish nothing other than making it look out of place here. The lone clean beacon in one of the diviest of all dive bars he's ever had the 'pleasure' of working.
"I might. Are you look- hurgh!"
Before he had a chance to finish his sentence, he was throttled by his thuggish looking visitor and pinned to the ground.
"Oh that's good, because I heard that you had a little 'conversation' with a cop about it earlier. And I've got some 'friends' who don't appreciate that kind of talk."
Ugh, this again. It would be nice to once again work somewhere that talking with customers didn't end with being attacked. Alright, what are the options here? Break a bottle? Hm, no. No he looks like he could take it. There's a shotgun under the counter, but that's only in reach with his feet, and the bartender was pretty sure the thug would notice what he was doing before he could get it to his hands. And his trachea was being currently grappled, which would impair his ability to clearly read those scrolls. Which means it's time to fall back on good old fashioned diplomacy.
"L...let's talk it out. Just... urk-- just take a seat and, urgh, I'll tell you what you want to know."
The thug lessened his grip slightly.
"What's keepin' you from spillin' right here?"
"Altitude Sickness. It's the name of a curse and if I spend much longer with my head this close to the ground I'm likely to hurl then lose vocal control, thus becoming useless to you. So please, sit."
The thug considered this for a moment, and seemed to determine that the bartender wasn't lying to him. He determined wrong, of course (the actual curse known as Altitude Sickness was created by Dwarven Mages and doesn't come into effect unless actually underground), but he still wouldn't have gotten very far where he was. He picked up a knocked down seat and placed himself upon it, while the bartender (slowly and carefully, as to not provoke the brute) moved behind the counter, and picked up the cup he had just cleaned from the counter, miraculously unbroken during the scuffle.
"Well then, sir. What's your poison, and what would you like to ask?"
"What do the cops know?"
"To drink, sir."
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"Then... gimme a Giant's Tear."
The bartender nodded and grabbed some bottles of alochol from below the counter (that were not previously there). While he mixed the drink, he explained in detail what the cops knew about this 'deal'. Courtesy of the bartender himself, of course, but before he could get murdered, he elaborated. How they planned on taking the deal down, how many of them would go there, the sorts of magic they had prepared. Everything. The thug didn't touch his drink, astounded at just the breadth of the knowledge.
"...you a mole?"
"I just have my sources."
"Well, you've been a real help, then. Y'know, I was gonna knock you out before burning the bar down, but now I think I'll refrain from the first part."
"It will make the owner happy, I'm sure. Now his plans can't be classified as fraud."
With a snap of the thug's fingers, the bartender discovered he could no longer move. Ah, right. No redemption in the crime world, of course. The thug casually tossed a fireball behind him as he walked out the door, a spring in his step. Eager to spread the information to his buddies of course. The bartender missed the good old days. When people expected him to have all the information, and nobody wanted to kill him for giving out. When parties of adventurers would go to the tavern FOR information from him.
Still, this... this was a problem. If he could get to the emergency scrolls, one might have a general counterspell for this binding, but that would require him to be unbound. Maybe he could end it faster, but that would also be a problem if the quickly spreading flames destroyed the bar before he could get back up.
While he was still thinking about how to get out of his predicament, he disappeared from the universe.
Weapons/Abilities: Get Barkeep a counter. Doesn't technically have to be a counter, but there needs to be space to grab things from, a surface to place those things on, and somebody behind it asking questions.
From this counter, he can do several things:
- He can produce any manner of ingredient required for mixed drinks, or just a regular bottled drink if requested.
- He can produce any type of glass that one would generally expected said mixed drink to be served in
- He can answer any question about anything within the area (about a ten mile radius), regardless of if he previously knew the information, and as long as he is serving or has served a drink that day to the questioner.
The last part is the beef of his powers, really. He can take advantage of it himself by asking somebody else to ask him a specific question, if he needs to get information for himself. The information he can give has a wide range, from knowledge of relationships to gain and give advice, to which cave the bandits that stole the King's gold are hiding out, to all the juicy political affiliations of the local crime syndicate.
Also he doesn't have to be behind a counter for it, but he knows every mixed drink. Not necessarily off the top of his head but if you ask him about a mixed drink, he will immediately know how it's made, as well as the history of it.
There's also something special about bars and pubs and taverns and the like in general, that keeps him in those instead of just literally any place with a counter. Specifically, he can't die in them. Well, he can, but he'll come right back to life a short while later behind the counter, looking to be about thirty years old, and completely unscarred. This is probably related to his apparent immortality, having lived for a few thousand years. The catch is if the facility is destroyed somehow, he can't resurrect.
He knows these things from experience, for the record. Always used to make it a policy to know a few clerics well versed in resurrection. Harder to come across those these days though.