Where Strands Converge

[RaistlinMC]

With a draining swig from her mug and a lopsided grin flashed at Vox, the dwarven warrior - Brüna Fordham to her friends, Brüna Battlehammer to her foes - hollers out, "Ahhh...now tha's th' stuff! Hear, hear!"

[Bravve]

Vox grins, the lute begins with a bright, bouncing rhythm, simple and catchy, made for clapping hands and stomping feet. “Ah… a tale of fur and foolish hearts.”
“Now this one wants weight.” Vox slightly adjusting his grip on the lute as the rhythm shifts heavier. The strings ring out deeper, rougher and a driving rhythm meant for voices to join in!

“A bear there was, a bear, a bear
Black as soot and thick with hair
From mountain pass to valley fair
He roamed alone, that iron bear!”

He leans into the next line with voice fuller, roughened:

“The drums did roll, the ale did pour
The hearth-fire roared on oaken floor
The folk all called from hall and door
‘Come drink wi’ us, we’ll pour ye more!’”

A heavier strum, like hammer on anvil:

“A maiden fair wi’ braids of gold
With eyes like fire and spirit bold
She laughed too loud, or so we’re told
And grabbed his paw with grip like hold!”

The tempo rises:

“‘Come dance!’ she cried, ‘ye shaggy brute!’
He huffed and growled, ‘I’m no such lute!’
She kicked his shin wi’ iron boot
‘Then move yer feet, or I’ll refute!’”

Laughter in his tone, rhythm thick and rowdy:

“They stomped the boards, they shook the stone
Tankards rang and voices roared
‘A fine knight you are!’ the crowd all groaned
‘Nay!’ he roared back, ‘I stand alone!’”

He slams a chord, louder:

“‘I’m fur and fang! I’m claw and snare!’
She laughed and pulled him through the air
‘Then be all that and still take care
To dance wi’ me, ye mountain bear!’”

The music dips, slower, deeper:

“The night grew long, the fire burned low
The embers dimmed in crimson glow
What passed between, no dwarf can know
But songs remember what they show…”

Then back, strong and proud:

“So raise yer mugs and fill the air
Sing loud o’ beast and maiden fair
For in the hall or anywhere
There’s room enough for one more bear!”

He ends with a heavy final chord, letting it echo like a struck bell through stone halls.
Vox gives a small bow “A simple song” he says amused. “But the classics endure for a reason.”

[RaistlinMC]

Brüna's eyes brighten at the sight of the young human who'd entered not so long ago.

"Beautiful," the dwarf murmurs reverently. She stands and moves toward the newcomer as if drawn by a magnetic force.

"Jus'...jus' beautiful," she repeats, though as she nears Seth, it becomes clear that she isn't speaking to the long-haired human at all.

"Tha's a helluva hammer ya got yerself there, stranger," the warrior says, pointing unnecessarily at Mr. Wyndham's weapon. "Not many folken like ta wade inta battle w' a hammer, I've found, but you'n'me? Kindred spirits an' all that."

With that, Brüna raises her own hammer - a magically-imbued weapon if there ever was one - and adds, "Mine's named Vorbyx. How 'bout yours? Got a name?"

---

A moment later, when the bard asks for requests, the dwarf turns and pipes up, "Aye! Ya don't happen ta know 'The Bear an' th' Maiden Faire, do ya?"

[Bravve]

Once more, the door opens, and a figure steps inside, clad in a patchwork of rich, vibrant fabrics that shimmer with movement and purpose.
A white mask conceals his face, etched with crimson markings that curve like laughter frozen in porcelain. Bells softly chime as he moves.
Across his back rests an ornate lute of gold and jewels, its black strings gleaming unnaturally, catching the light more vividly than the gems set into its frame.
He steps forward into the glow, spreading his arms wide in a grand, welcoming gesture, and calls out his voice bright, musical, and impossible to ignore.
“Hello, my friends! Your friendly bard and jester has come to embrace your hearts! You may, for the time being, call me Seraphine Vox.”
He pauses for a few seconds, waiting for applause, then continues:
Would you like to hear a story beyond your wildest dreams, listen to music from a fallen kingdom of old or perhaps witness a few magic tricks?”
A silver ball appears in his hand. Then another. And another. With each new one, he tosses them into the air, beginning to juggle, until seven silver balls dance above him.
Then, from nowhere, he produces a pitch-black dagger, a sickly aura radiating from its blade, and sends it spinning to join the circle.
After a few rounds, he plucks one ball away… then another… until only three silver balls remain, alongside the dagger, still spinning in the air.

With a snap of his fingers, everything vanishes but the dagger. He laughs, light and musical.
Seraphine Vox turns it slowly, the sickly glow reflecting in the red lines of his mask.
“For every song remembered, a kingdom is forgotten,” he murmurs.
He slides the dagger away and finally meets your gaze. “Ah! Forgive me,” he says, tapping the mask. “I do get carried away when the audience looks so promising.”

He walks to the most open space and once more open his arms "Any requests?"

Seraphine.png

[Lycanthus]

The door opens once more revealing a young human man, long brown unkempt hair, a beard barely kept in some form of controlled order.
He wears Full plate armor which is exquisitely made and seems to move with a fair amount of ease compared to usual heavy armor, also a large green gem necklace - inscribed with Runes dangles around his neck.
Over his back is both a well worn leather bag, the sounds of metallic clinking as he moves can be heard faintly and an obsidian shield, ornately designed, yet practical at the same time. Its Centre circle piece is engraved with mithril in what looks to be an anvil and hammer motif.

Seth Wyndham - Cleric of the Forge and Wandering Blacksmith of the Fields physically seems to relax slightly and says:
"Thank the Gods, Marrowyn, I find myself at your door once again." he sighs with a battle weariness that many inside would recognise as he walks with an obvious limp over to a table that seems unoccupied.

As he loudly plonks his bulk onto one of the benches he continues:
"The usual I guess... and maybe this time a bath might be in order. Hells breath that hag was in one of the foulest, muddiest, crappiest gunk holes this side of the Great Forge. Its going to take many an ale to get the taste of that smell out of my mouth."

He unclips his shield from his back setting it down to lean against the wall nearby, the leather bag is moved to sit on the bench beside him (he takes great care to ensure its safety placed and secured) and his warhammer, he lies on the table top within reach. the head of the obsidian hammer is ornately crafted, runic magic clearly woven into its folds and inscribed in pure silver mithril... the other end of the extended staff handle to the hammer, has an equally crafted short blade, clearly used for those moments when you need a blade more than blunt persuasion.

He finally looks up and takes in the others in the room. Seeing the halfling who never talks but watches still there from one of his former visits he nods slightly. Then he glances at the others, eyebrows rise slightly and his right hand slowly drifts back towards the hammers-shaft as he waits to see if he will need to break up yet another bar-room brawl this week.

The green gem begins to pulse slightly with radiant energy as he waits .... as if in time with his heartbeat.

https://imgur.com/nRAr1yE
Best I could do was link it.... for some reason it refused to import - sorry

[RaistlinMC]

"If this place c'n keep you two fellas from comin' ta blows, maybe it really is somethin' special," Brüna quipped in between swallows, eyes alighting on Mikas and Gorrak. "Peace always seemed like th' calm b'fore th' storm ta me in th' Way Back When, but maybe - jus' maybe - Th' Loom is diff'rent."

The dwarf turns her gaze to the silent halfling Johnny.

"Ain't you...don't I know...huh," she stumbles, somewhat sheepishly, before flashing an apologetic grin his way. "Nah, my mistake. Sorry stranger. Thought ya were someone I knew in a 'nother life."

With that, the warrior woman returns to her meal.

[WerdUp]

Gorrak's tusked grin lingers a heartbeat too long as Mikas finishes speaking, the half-orc clearly turning the words over in his head like stones that don't quite fit together.

"A scab-bard," he repeats slowly, brow furrowing. He snorts, a low, gravelly sound. "Hah. I usually just keep my axe out." One thick finger taps his temple as if trying to chase the thought into place. "But... I think I get it. Maybe."

His eyes never leave Mikas. The confusion melts into something sharper as Gorrak straightens, rolling his shoulders once, the motion deliberate. The barstool beneath him creaks in complaint. He leans just a little closer, looming into Mikas' space - not enough to strike, but enough to test the air between them.

"Still," Gorrak rumbles, voice edged with challenge, "places like this'll make warriors soft. Free food. Free drink. No blood on the floor." His lips curl, showing tusk. "Makes me wonder if the fangs are just for show."

Then... something changes. Gorrak's gaze drifts, briefly but unmistakably, over Mikas' frame: the corded muscle, the controlled stillness, the way power is held back rather than flaunted. The half-orc exhales through his nose, slow and thoughtful, and gives a single, firm nod.

"But muscles like those don't come from stew and comfort," he admits. There’s no mockery in it now. Only recognition. "Takes pain. Discipline. Days where quittin' sounds sweeter than victory."

He thumps his own chest once with a closed fist, not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to mean something.

"If you wanted a fight, you'd already have it. So I'll drink instead." A pause, then a crooked grin. "For now."

He lifts his tankard in a rough echo of Mikas' earlier salute, eyes still bright, still dangerous, but no longer searching for an excuse.

[Doc-Holiday]

Amber eyes regarded the refused payment for a long silent moment before thick shoulders relaxed fractionally. His intense gaze fixed on the bartender; and then he bowed-brief, measured, and respectful. Mikas honored his host with a quiet intensity as thick, clawed fingers wrapped around the steaming bowl, palming the hearty meal. The scent of savory broth, rendered fats and hearty meats filled his nostrils, pupils dilating into saucers, a slight rumbling in his chest of something akin to appreciation.

Gorrak's hand thudded the bar's wooden surface with just enough sound to break the soft din of the tavern's soundscape. Mikas' response was instant: amber eyes flicked to Gorrak and fixed tight, pupils contracting to predatory points.

Predatory, assessing, the gaze held as Gorrak introduced himself. A muscle in the Mikas' thick neck twitched once, twice and then he breathed out slow and controlled. His posture relaxed, intentionally, purposeful; it was neither retreat, nor threat, simply an act of being.

"Mikas..." He stated, his voice the growl of a grindstone, "Silverfang." He added, matching the manner of Gorrak's introduction with deliberate effort. "Politeness... Is a scabbard. Honorable is a warrior who knows when it is needed."

The palmed bowl steamed lightly as Mikas gently raised it in silent, respectful salute to the half-orc, acknowledging the barbarian and extending an implied truce. Returning the unbroken gaze, Mikas' black-clawed fingers dipped into the hearty stew, withdrawing a chunk of meat as he began his meal with the grace and speed of a satisfied predator.

[WerdUp]

The half-orc had been quiet until now.

He was big even by half-orc standards - broad in the shoulders, corded with old scars that looked less like battle trophies and more like records. A heavy axe rested against the side of his chair, close enough to hand that it might as well have been part of him. When the monk with the claws and careful manners approached the bar, the half-orc's yellow eyes followed him the entire way.

Mikas Silverfang tried to pay and learned that everything here is free.

That was when the half-orc finally moved. A thick, scarred hand came down on the bar with a solid thud, not hard enough to break anything - just hard enough to be heard. The barkeep didn't flinch. In fact, he set a mug full of ale on the bar next to the huge, green hand.

The half-orc's eyes narrowed as he sized the monk up properly - claws, fangs, discipline, restraint. Dangerous, but controlled. The half-orc's lips twitched, not quite a smile.

"Name's Gorrak One-Tusk," he continued, tapping a finger once against his own lower jaw, where a broken tusk had healed jagged years ago. His voice dropped a notch. "Ya know, people who look like they could kill a room full of folk tend to draw attention. Especially when they sit so politely."

He finally reached for the mug, lifting it without breaking eye contact, and took a slow drink, the tension hanging thick in the air between them - the kind that comes right before a spark, or a laugh, or a fight.

[Drew]

When the bowl is set before Mikas - steaming, rich, generous - he reaches for his coin.

The barkeep holds up a hand, stopping him. A murmur of understanding seems to ripple through the room, subtle but certain. The Loom does not bargain. It does not charge. Hunger is answered. Thirst is met. Shelter is given.

Here, at least, all are welcome, and all are fed. Whether that generosity lasts beyond these walls is another matter entirely.

[Doc-Holiday]

Warrior Monk - Dire Werewolf.jpegThe atmosphere of The Loom still crackled from the Half-Orc's dramatic and commanding entrance as the door creaked in protest on abused hinges. A figure, just as large and powerful, filled the frame of the heavy door and moved into the space with the silent, controlled grace and presence of a disciplined predator. Long raven black hair, streaked with natural silver highlights, tightly braided in a half-up style featured several silver rings and the feather of an unknown bird. Amber eyes reflected the light unnaturally as he moved absorbing, assessing and cataloging the room in a single deliberate sweep. A rugged looking man, he was larger than he ought to be with ears slightly too pointed, canines slightly too large and most unnerving of all were the large black claws on his hands and feet that gleamed in the firelight.

His simple, functional dress suggested a monastic life; the adornments, natural and earthy, spoke of a nearness to nature. Yet, the leather chest plates belied a warrior's training, not the aesthetic practice of a contemplative. His presence spoke of something wild and only half-tamed, a primal figure restrained by choice alone. He carried no visible weapon, not even a dagger.

Mikas Silverfang, warrior-monk, maintained economy of motion as he approached the tavern's well used bar. His large hand splayed on the polished surface while waiting the half-moment for the bartender's attention, claws tippling the surface of the bar briefly before his fingers folded into a loose fist. A conscious effort concealing his claws and reducing his threatening appearance. "Ale. Dark if you have it." His voice, growl deep, was surprisingly enunciated and his words, while simple, suggested a trained mind. "Stew... Extra meat." He added, fetching a few pieces of coinage from a linen satchel attached to a leather belt designed to adjust size effortlessly.

Mikas occupied a seat in the corner near the fireplace while he waited for his meal. His broad back pressed lightly against the cool stones of the tavern's walls with a quiet predatory posture that simply owned the space, a stark contrast to the Half-Orc who dominated his own area like a storm ready to break. Mikas' nostrils flared subtly as he took in the variety of scents, each one telling a tale as verbose as a love-sick bard. His body, coiled with the stillness of a predator, slowly relaxed after several minutes into something approximating 'normal'. Amber eyes, intense and predatory, met with the Dwarven warrior across the room and, after a moment of assessing the woman, offered a respectful nod. The quiet parity of one disciplined warrior recognizing another. His gaze drift to the Half-Orc sitting only a few feet away, assessing.

[Drew]

The Loom is never quiet. At any given moment, something in the tavern always stirs - a shifting chair, a low laugh, the soft clatter of tankards meeting in the dim old light. Tonight is no exception. In truth, the place feels alive in a way few taverns ever manage… as though threads of unseen purpose tug quietly at every soul who finds their way inside.

Brüna sits with her back straight and her tankard raised. There's a spark in her eyes, the kind one carries only after outrunning death for a time.

A few seats down lounges Marrowyn - ever-smiling, ever-watching - nursing a modest glass of amber.

By the hearth, where the warmth licks lazily at cracked stone, the hulking half-orc has settled, still dusted with the grit of a road too long to recount in one sitting, his massive great-axe leaning within reach, his boots steaming faintly as they thaw.

In a shadowed corner, the halfling Johnny silently observes, watching like a hawk and noting every little detail.

Other patrons already fill the space in scattered clusters:

A trio of cloaked figures murmur over a map that shifts even when no hand touches it.
A pair of fey-touched wanderers dance slow circles to music that apparently only they can hear.
A silent warforged stands sentinel near the door, polishing an emblem whose meaning has been forgotten by all but him.
Laughter rolls from a table of gamblers - one mortal, one ghost, and one who keeps changing shape every time the lanterns flicker.

And behind it all, unseen strings thrum softly, as though the tavern itself takes slow, measured breaths. The Loom does not judge where its guests come from or how long they would stay. It only welcomes them, always hungry for new stories, always ready to weave another thread into its sprawling, unfinished, tangled web.

Tonight, the web grows.

[Luopo]

A puff of smoke rose from Johnny's pursed lips. He observed it as it gently floated up to the rafters before taking another puff from his clay pipe. Sitting in a dark corner, the halfling had been there for some time, saying nothing and making no sound other than the slow rhythm of him smoking Jasrelian pipe-weed. He watched the others with curiosity but stayed silent.

[WerdUp]

The heavy door of the Loom doesn't so much open as accept defeat.
It slams inward under the weight of a broad, scarred shoulder, followed by the towering half-orc attached to it.

He fills the threshold like a stormcloud.

For a moment he just stands there, chest heaving like he's been running - or fighting - for far longer than any sane creature should. His armor is more a suggestion than a guarantee: mismatched plates strapped over furs, all of it battered, rent, or stained with something that had dried brown long ago. A two-handed greataxe rides his back, its edge nicked and blackened from overuse and undercare.

The barbarian's eyes - yellow, feral, startlingly alert - sweep the tavern without fear or hesitation, as if daring anyone within to make his arrival their problem.

They do not.

Satisfied, he grunts once, steps fully inside, and lets the door thud shut behind him. A single drop of blood - fresh - falls from his gauntlet to the floorboards.

He doesn't seem to notice.

"...Right," he mutters to himself, voice low and gravelly, thick with an unfamiliar accent. "Not dead. Again." He says it with the tone of a man who has needed to confirm that more than once in his life.

His attention drifts toward the hearth, where warmth beckons like a memory he isn't sure he trusts. He moves toward it with surprising quietness for someone built like a siege engine, dragging a chair around and sitting backward on it, forearms folded across the tall backrest.

Only then does he look up at the others - at the many patrons getting back to their drinks and conversations, at Brüna with her feast, at Marrowyn with that strange half-knowing composure - and he gives a snort that might be amusement… or exhaustion.

"Wherever this is…" He gestures vaguely, as if speaking to the rafters. "It's better than where I was a few breaths ago."

He doesn't introduce himself. Not yet. But his presence looms, tangible and heavy, like a storm that has chosen - for now - to sit still.

[Cloverfield Writer]

Marrowyn leans forward slightly, elbows resting against the polished wood of the table, and his smile softens into something knowing.
"How do I know so much about it?" he echoes. "Ah, well… that's the trouble and the charm of the Loom, Mistress Fordham. You don't ever really know it. You just get comfortable with its ways."

He lifts his own mug, swirling whatever amber liquid sits inside, as though studying the slow eddies for answers.
"I suppose the simplest truth is this: I like it here. Always have. No one rushes you along, and no one turns you away. Time doesn't behave the same here as it might've done in your world - or mine, for that matter. Folk come stumbling in fresh from battles or breathin' their last, or wanderin' in with nothing more dramatic than too much road dust on their boots. And the Loom… well, it takes them all in the same."

A slow shrug rolls off his shoulders. "I've been here a long while. Long enough that the walls feel familiar, long enough to see patterns in the comings and goings. You watch any place long enough - be it a tavern, a town, or a battlefield - and it starts to tell you its secrets. Not in words, mind, but in rhythms."

He tips his mug in a quiet salute.
"So all I know, Lady Battlehammer - or Lady Fordham, if you prefer - is only what patience and a warm seat by the hearth have taught me: the Loom gives what it gives, takes what it takes, and asks nothing more of us than that we sit awhile and let ourselves breathe."

A gentle spark of humor touches his eyes.
"And I'll say this much: if you've found yourself here, then whether you came by death or miracle or sheer stubborn dwarven will… you were meant to find a chair waiting. Cheers. Enjoy your time here."

And with that, he rises to go and mingle with someone else.