Where Strands Converge

[Drew]

The tavern is older than the story you're in, and perhaps older than the story you were in.
Its outer walls shift like memory, timber becoming stone, stone becoming something that resembles neither, but the sign above the door remains constant: a simple brass plaque etched with:

THE LOOM

Inside, all hours look the same: lanternlight pooled in warm amber circles, the scent of bread and hearthfire, a low hum of voices that never quite fades. Some patrons appear centuries out of place. Others look like they stepped in from the street outside. All of them, somehow, belong.

A long bar curves through the room like a lazy snake, tended by the ageless barkeep whose name few agree upon. Shelves behind him hold bottles labeled in a hundred alphabets. Most drinks taste familiar. A few taste like memories you don't yet have.

The Loom is never empty, and never full. New chairs appear when needed. Corner booths materialize for secrets. A hearth crackles whether or not anyone laid wood. And through it all, conversations rise and fall like the tide.

Tonight (if "tonight" is the right word) the tavern's doors whisper open, and you arrive.

A few nearby patrons glance up, curious but not surprised. Travelers of all kinds wander in and out of this place. Some stay for minutes. Some for months. A few never leave at all. The barkeep eyes you with a knowing nod.

"Welcome to The Loom," he says, polishing a glass that absolutely did not exist a heartbeat ago. "Find a seat, stranger. The threads cross for a reason."

A fire pops. Somewhere upstairs, a door slams as if rejecting its occupant. Dice clatter at a gaming table in the back.

And at the table nearest the hearth, a chair slowly pulls itself out, gently, as though inviting you to sit.

[RaistlinMC]

Brüna wasn't sure who or what had pulled that chair out for her, but she knew damned well that she wanted to sit in it.

It had been a very long day.

"Day", in fact, might not be the right measurement in this case. The last thing the dwarven warrior woman remembered was the cavern and the ambush and the bolts biting into her. She remembered holding her husband's hand as the chittering masses closed in on them and the rest of the party. She remembered saying a final prayer, even though she'd always been a woman more likely to swing a hammer first and ask the gods for forgiveness later.

And then...well, time had passed, surely. A lot of time. But also, in a blink, here she was. Life was tricky that way, she supposed, so perhaps death was too.

She didn't feel dead, though; in truth, she felt surprisingly and vitally alive all of a sudden. It was as if this place - this tavern - had revived her in more ways than one.

So she did the only thing that came naturally to her. The dwarven warrior - who also moonlighted as a city councilwoman once upon a time - sat down in the silently proffered seat and quietly thanked whatever kind, invisible soul had pulled it out for her. Once seated, she did the next thing that came naturally to her: she ordered whatever the meatiest foods and strongest drinks were to be found the Loom's menu.

"Better make it a double," she adds to the barkeep in a surprisingly high, ungruffish and undwarvish voice. "It's been a long day."

[Cloverfield Writer]

A chair at a table near Brüna shifts. Not pulled out this time, but scoots a bit forward as if nudged by the tavern's own gentle will. The man sitting in it raises his head, a soft smile already forming as though he had been waiting for her to notice.

A slender figure with curls the color of sun-bleached straw and eyes too green to be entirely mundane regards her over the rim of a clay mug. He wear a vest patched together from mismatched fabrics and timeworn story, the sort of garment that has clearly been mended more by affection than by thread. A quill is tucked behind one ear, though no inkpot sits nearby.

"First time waking up here?" the stranger asks, voice warm and sympathetic. He does not speak loudly, but somehow Brüna hears the words perfectly over the hum of conversations and the occasional clatter of tankards. "You've got the look. The 'I should be dead but somehow I'm hungry' look. The Loom does that. Likes pulling folk back together before they unravel."

He lifts his mug in a small, welcoming salute.

"Name's Marrowyn. I keep stories. And occasionally myself out of trouble." A wry grin. "Mostly the stories."

The barkeep arrives with a platter heaped to the edges: steaming meats glazed in something fragrant and spiced, root vegetables roasted until their skins blister, and a tankard large enough to daunt a lesser warrior. Marrowyn sits back, watching Brüna receive it all with the satisfaction of someone who has seen this moment a hundred times.

"Eat," Marrowyn encouraged. "Food here's honest. The rules... less so. But honest food does fine work on the living and the nearly-living alike."

He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice.

"And if anything feels out of place - memories, moments, the way time doesn't quite sit straight - don't worry. The Loom brings folk through when it's ready. You're not the first to arrive from the middle of a last stand."

Another soft smile, gentle and knowing.

"And you won't be alone here unless you want to be."

[RaistlinMC]

"Alone has never really been my thing," the dwarf responds with a flash of a grin. She raises her tankard.

"Brüna Battlehammer, they called me once upon a time, but if we're talkin' names we're given as babes, you'll know me as Brüna Fordham. At yer service, Mr. Marrowyn. Pleasure!"

She takes a long draught - more than half the tankard is emptied by the time she comes back up for air - and adds, "So tell me, how is it you know so much about a place that seems somewhat...I dunno...unknowable? I admit, ya got me over a barrel on this one, stranger, because damned if I know what's going on here but you seem to, somewhat anyways."

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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]

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.

[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.

[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]

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.

[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.

[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