Fangs and Fraternity for the Fallen

[The Unreliable Narrator]

A tavern lies in Fellsgard, just inside the southern trade district. It rests as the last building in a row facing the wall that separates the industrious southern and destitute eastern districts. The wooden boards that line the building front are whitewashed but worn, marred with the dust and grit of the years. Two large windows look out towards the gatehouse, but the dense glass allows only blurred glimpses inside the establishment. Above the door, aging painted letters proclaims the tavern's name in flowing script arched over a rendition of a grey goose.

A pair of stout oak doors with iron banding keep out the cold, rain, and beggars from the east. Patrons passing beyond the threshold, are greeted with the heady scent of mulled wine and roasting meats. Great spits rest over roaring fires along the center of the room and the raised stage occupies the final third of the central aisle. There is no bar, only an endless number of wenches and swains taking orders and delivering food to patrons. The patrons themselves sit spread among long wood tables and benches that fill the remaining floor space.

The upstairs of the tavern is an open balcony with semi-secluded booths set against the walls and clears views of the food and performances below. To use these booths, patrons must pay a deposit, to cover any skipped tabs or damaged tables.

As opposed to the ever-popular Mac's, regular visitors to the Velvet Goose tend towards the rougher sorts of people. The available food is filling, though never particularly inspired. Prices are low enough that poorer merchants and scheming ruffians can afford a decent meal and drink, but not so low that the street urchins frequent the place. This makes it a prime location for the seedier sort of deals without attracting the attention of the local watch commander. Long-time patrons, or those willing to pay, are rumored to know of many additional back alley entrances and exits to the Velvet Goose. Though, any folks who break the peace will often be left beaten and stripped in those same alleys.

Stage performances at the Velvet Goose are typically undiscovered bards or other unknowns. There's no guarantee of quality and instruments have been broken by riled patrons tossing mugs. Folks looking for a rough time, or those who want a place to disappear with a drink, look no further than the Velvet Goose.

Deborah was having a slow evening, the sort where trouble wasn't coming but the floor was bristling with customers. So much so, that they'd even started seating random people upstairs, with the strong suggestion they leave a good tip for the better service and quieter booths. None of the waitstaff were having trouble keeping the crowd contained, and the performer was working his charms with a particularly rambunctious rendition of Cecilia's rise to prominence. Everything was settled right in the perfect blend of rowdy and controlled that ensured gold poured from purses and ale didn't drench the floor. It was dreadfully boring, and so she lingered on the railing looking out over the cook fires with a pout on her plump lips.

[Thamnis Guisarrel]

Fellsgard is a city that Thamnis never really visited often; it was understandable of course, due to the local perspectives on magic which were less than positive. Quite frankly, if he were to conjure even a simple wisp, he'd probably be carted off and never seen again. As such, the Korcai was in a rush; the skies were on the verge of disgorging their contents upon the land...and quite frankly, he was less than eager to get wet, even with his undead constitution. In the end, as his eyes glanced over the many signs for the establishments of the city, one particular sign caught his attention: The Velvet Goose, came the thought. Thamnis knew of this place, having visited it before...just over 60 years ago; he wondered if the original proprietors were still in charge, since six decades was a long time even for the long-lived and the eternal. The Korcai remembered it to be a place where few to no questions were asked...and that was what he often preferred thankfully. Eventually, he would lay a hand upon the wooden door and pushed it open, sliding into the gap with his inherent predatory grace. The heat of the fires and the volume of the patrons struck Thamnis' senses in equal measure; glad to see the place's spirit hasn't changed that much.

Once he got his bearings, the former Half-Elf scanned the area for any empty booth to sit in; his golden eyes glanced around with potent acuity, eager to avoid accidentally trespassing upon the The Velvet Goose's lively patrons. Eventually, he would find such a place and immediately darted over so as to take a seat. Of course, he kept his hood up, trying to blend in with the assorted individuals who also kept their hoods up; it was a seedy place of course, and as such, obfuscating one's features was simply par for the course here. Of course, the lights of the flames still danced in his eyes, which were a clear indicator of his true nature.