Post by Rickard on Apr 6, 2013 22:32:46 GMT -5
In a dark back alley of Noxus, hidden from plain sight by a collection of garbage, was a single staircase, leading down to a single door. At first glance, nothing seemed abnormal about it, a single black door leading into what was probably a cellar of the building attached to it. The only way to distinguish it from any one random door was a sign, hung just above the door frame. It portrayed an image of a single blade, stained red with what could assume was blood. It seemed as though it barely saw any use, cobwebs hanging along the sign and the side of the door, most likely because of the difficulty of finding it, however this was not the case.
Once inside the room behind the door, you would be greeted with the burnt smell of smoke. It seemed to cling to the room, it's haze making it difficult to make out all of the patrons at first glance. It was lit with a dark red glow, a few candles scattered around the room seeming to be the only source of light. The walls were lined with series of booths, and tables filled the rest of the area in between them. The wall opposite the door was a long bar, the wall behind it covered in more alcohol than a man thought possible, ranging from Bilgewater rums to Ionian wines. A few doors could be spotted at the ends of the bar, two on the right end labeled as washrooms for the respective genders, one on the other side with seemingly no real significance.
Upon first impressions, the Noxian way of life seemed to emanate into the bar, weapons of various kinds being brandished by both the patrons and the staff. The place seemed no stranger to some fights, stains of dried blood being found littered across the wooden floor. Without any signs of obvious security, one would easily be able to guess that their safety depended on their own ability to defend themselves. The staff all seemed to blend in with the rest of the patrons, the only notable way of telling them apart being whether or not they carried a tray with them. The staff almost all seemed to carry their own, most having a fairly strong build, a few scars, and all a pistol at their side, men and women alike.
The patrons all seemed oblivious to anyone they weren't talking to, ranging from quiet whispers of some to the boisterous laughter of others. They all carried a weapon of some sort, ranging from a sword at their hip to a gun they were waving in the air while laughing with their companions. One could spot people from all across Valoran, though all seeming from the same social circle. If you listened closely enough, you'd be able to hear stories of missing persons and what really happened to them, information about deals and how much money was being given for some ones head, who exactly was next on someone's list and what officials were more then willing to look the other way when they knew who you were friends with exactly. It seemed that there was no angle of the underbelly of the world unfit for this place.
Then there was the bartender. The bar was worked by a single man. An older gentleman. He carried himself with extreme confidence and surety, though not in any demeaning way. He was definitely later in his years, his greased, slicked back gray hair and short mustache alongside a few wrinkles on his face betrayed him. What did not, however, was his body, a highly defined, tanned and hardened one with large muscles. He was clearly a man who could carry his own, scars on his knuckles and arm to prove himself no stranger to a fight. He seemed to know everyone, talking with the entirety of the bar with a knowledge about almost everything they could bring up. He was definitely familiar with almost all of the workings of his patrons, and the way they spoke of him showed that they were fine with it. He would exchange a friendly smile with all and treated seemingly everyone with proper respect, one that most seemed to reciprocate. You could easily catch him giving out information on almost anyone he was asked about, in exchange for a fair rate, whether it be cash, information, or a favor. His name is Rickard, no last name seemed to exist for him.
Welcome to the Dried Blade.
Once inside the room behind the door, you would be greeted with the burnt smell of smoke. It seemed to cling to the room, it's haze making it difficult to make out all of the patrons at first glance. It was lit with a dark red glow, a few candles scattered around the room seeming to be the only source of light. The walls were lined with series of booths, and tables filled the rest of the area in between them. The wall opposite the door was a long bar, the wall behind it covered in more alcohol than a man thought possible, ranging from Bilgewater rums to Ionian wines. A few doors could be spotted at the ends of the bar, two on the right end labeled as washrooms for the respective genders, one on the other side with seemingly no real significance.
Upon first impressions, the Noxian way of life seemed to emanate into the bar, weapons of various kinds being brandished by both the patrons and the staff. The place seemed no stranger to some fights, stains of dried blood being found littered across the wooden floor. Without any signs of obvious security, one would easily be able to guess that their safety depended on their own ability to defend themselves. The staff all seemed to blend in with the rest of the patrons, the only notable way of telling them apart being whether or not they carried a tray with them. The staff almost all seemed to carry their own, most having a fairly strong build, a few scars, and all a pistol at their side, men and women alike.
The patrons all seemed oblivious to anyone they weren't talking to, ranging from quiet whispers of some to the boisterous laughter of others. They all carried a weapon of some sort, ranging from a sword at their hip to a gun they were waving in the air while laughing with their companions. One could spot people from all across Valoran, though all seeming from the same social circle. If you listened closely enough, you'd be able to hear stories of missing persons and what really happened to them, information about deals and how much money was being given for some ones head, who exactly was next on someone's list and what officials were more then willing to look the other way when they knew who you were friends with exactly. It seemed that there was no angle of the underbelly of the world unfit for this place.
Then there was the bartender. The bar was worked by a single man. An older gentleman. He carried himself with extreme confidence and surety, though not in any demeaning way. He was definitely later in his years, his greased, slicked back gray hair and short mustache alongside a few wrinkles on his face betrayed him. What did not, however, was his body, a highly defined, tanned and hardened one with large muscles. He was clearly a man who could carry his own, scars on his knuckles and arm to prove himself no stranger to a fight. He seemed to know everyone, talking with the entirety of the bar with a knowledge about almost everything they could bring up. He was definitely familiar with almost all of the workings of his patrons, and the way they spoke of him showed that they were fine with it. He would exchange a friendly smile with all and treated seemingly everyone with proper respect, one that most seemed to reciprocate. You could easily catch him giving out information on almost anyone he was asked about, in exchange for a fair rate, whether it be cash, information, or a favor. His name is Rickard, no last name seemed to exist for him.
Welcome to the Dried Blade.