05-15-2015, 12:22 PM
THE Pub held a plushness similar to the Plush Inn—run down. Wall lamps with thick white candles lined the tavern, bathing it in a yellow-orange light. The bar was position to the left, only a few feet away from the main entrance.
The mercenary surveyed the variety of patrons before proceeding towards the bar. ‘The Best Waterin’ Hole in the Moors’ seemed to attract whatever lively spirits still inhabited Darkshire; segregated groups—knights, peasants, and tourists—clashed foggy mugs and shared laughs while sitting around assortments of square and round tables.
Between an unconscious slender male patron and another male that was fat and balding, a pair of stools was still available. Deadpool took a seat to the right—next to the balding—while Gingy dismounted and sat next to the mercenary.
“So, why are we here?” Gingy pulled closer to Deadpool to make his voice clearer over the loud ramblings of drunks. “You got a drinking problem or something?”
”Questions, questions, questions; is that all you ever do—ask questions?” the mercenary replied.
He overheard a group of knights discussing Darkshire matters behind him. They sat and stood around a small square table sharing stories of events—an assembly of Primes defeating the Tarrasque; a Sorcerer Chinkand Spartan accompanying a paladin named Argento to venture into Silent Hills; and some other stories that were about the Good ole’ Days.
Changed that one word for you above, because I thought mines was more fitting.
“Would you like a drank?” a bartender walked passed and asked with a southern twang. She held a foggy mug in her left hand, cleaning it with a dirty rag in the other.
”Cheyenne . . .” Deadpool muttered, his jaw dropping as his eyes went upward from the woman’s scantly denim shorts (so short the bottom of her front pockets were exposed) to her bold blue eyes and wavy blond hair. Her cleavage swelled out from under her red and black flannel top, which she kept tied in a knot above her pierced belly button.
“Who’s that?” Gingy elbowed Deadpool’s arm and asked.
Cheyenne furrowed a finely shaped brow at the sight of Gingy, but composed herself instantly. “Can I help you boys with sum ale, maybe? If you haven’t hurd, it’s the best in all the Moors.” Her eyes shifted between the two as a soft smile formed across her visage.
God I missed southern accents. “Gimme two of ya best beers,” Deadpool rested his forearms against the counter and leaned forward, winking.
Gingy looked at the woman, grinned, and said, “I’ll take a tall glass of milk!”
”My homey wants some milk,” Deadpool reiterated as he reached into his pocket to retrieve a handful of coins. Like a slot machine, he raised his hand and slid a few of them between Cheyenne’s breasts. Her face soured and winced as the cold silvers dropped down through the flannel and dinked! off of the ground. “Make it snappy, toots, and I’ll make sure another bundle of coins comes your way.”
Cheyenne paused for a moment and cast the mercenary a vile look before placing the flagon down—rag still soaking in its brown sud water—to pull two additional mugs out from under the counter. She turned around to face a large wood barrel, yanked a cork out of its belly, and held the cups one after the other under the flowing brew. She turned back around and placed both mugs in front of the mercenary. The yellow beer tilted inside the glass. “Hare it is—our ‘house special’ Cheyenne’s blue eyes shifted to Gingy. ”Your fran’s milk is going to be fresh. I have to go fetch it from the back,” she said, picked the suddy ragged glass back up, and excused herself to the far end of the bar.
“I think this place is a waste of time,” Gingy leaned close again to say.
”Just relax. Your milk will be here soon.”
The mercenary curled his fingers around the handle of the glass closer to his left. As he raised it to his chin, he took his other hand and peeled back the bottom of his mask over his nose; the ale smelled like rotting eggs with a whiff of ammonia. It reminded Deadpool of scents that permeated through high school male bathrooms.
He brought the flagon to his lips and took a gulp. As some of the ale slithered down his throat, his upper lip flinched back. It was a salty yet bitter taste that jumped off the tongue and climbed into the sinuses. He tried to ingurgitate the reservoir of ‘house special’ remained in his mouth, but without the necessary conviction, it whished out in a yellowy mist.
Cheyenne returned from a doorway in the far portion of the bar, with a tall frosted glass of milk in hand. A few patrons leaning over the counter heckled as she past—one went to smack he ass, barely missing—but her demeanor almost enticed it. She grabbed loose coins Deadpool assumed were tips as she threw winks and blew kisses.
“Hare’s your milk, sweetie,” she said while placing the glass in front of Gingy.
”Hey, this beer tastes like piss that ran down a rancid buttcrack,” Deadpool tugged on the knot in Cheyenne’s top. ”I want you to push those coins back out from between your bosoms and into my hand. Now.”
Cheyenne scowled with slanted brows and narrowed eyes. “No touching the bartender,” she said bluntly. “Also, no refunds.”
The mercenary went for a futile rebuttal, but before he could conjure one up Cheyenne made her back to the far end of the bar, grabbing a few more loose coins as her hips swayed.
Gingy stared at his cup, hoping that it was better than his partner’s ale; with both hands he reached out and grabbed it, taking a sip. After smacking his lips a few times, he downed the whole thing. “Sucks to be you, Spandex, my milk is fucking awesome!”
”Yeah, I bet it came from a Taurus.”
“Taurus doesn’t produce milk, dummy,” Gingy replied as he put the glass back down.
”Oh, that’s my point!”
“Heyyy thur, pardon,” the balding fat man to the mercenary’s right pestered in a groggy voice, accompanied by a nudging forearm to the bicep. Deadpool looked over at the man; his eyes were as glossier than a touchscreen. “If ye don’t want yer ale I will take them off yer hands.” With what seemed to be a moment of clarity, his eyes jolted wide, and he reached inside of his jerkin to pull out a folded piece of off-white hemp paper.
”Gingy, this may be the story progression we’ve been waiting for,” he said, but Gingy paid no mind. The mercenary gently pulled the paper out from man’s grasp and then took the same hand and slid both drinks over to him in one motion. ”Take’m”
“Thank ye,” the man said, raising a flagon up in a toasting fashion towards the mercenary before chugging it down.
Deadpool opened the paper with curiosity akin to a child receiving a ‘Date Me: No/Date Me: Yes’ note; his eyes rounded as they examined the typed words.
Times New Roman font.
DANTE’S ABYSS
Presented by the fabulous Karl Jak
ULTIMATE SHOWCASE OF CUNNING, SURVIVAL, AND RUTHLESSNESS
ALL PRIMES ARE ENCOURAGED TO PARTICIPATE; OMNILIUM AWAITS!
Aw, font codes don't work.
”I know where we're gonna go, Gingy. . .” he murmured, refolding the paper and curling it in his hand. ”We’re going to Dante’s Abyss.”
The mercenary surveyed the variety of patrons before proceeding towards the bar. ‘The Best Waterin’ Hole in the Moors’ seemed to attract whatever lively spirits still inhabited Darkshire; segregated groups—knights, peasants, and tourists—clashed foggy mugs and shared laughs while sitting around assortments of square and round tables.
Between an unconscious slender male patron and another male that was fat and balding, a pair of stools was still available. Deadpool took a seat to the right—next to the balding—while Gingy dismounted and sat next to the mercenary.
“So, why are we here?” Gingy pulled closer to Deadpool to make his voice clearer over the loud ramblings of drunks. “You got a drinking problem or something?”
”Questions, questions, questions; is that all you ever do—ask questions?” the mercenary replied.
He overheard a group of knights discussing Darkshire matters behind him. They sat and stood around a small square table sharing stories of events—an assembly of Primes defeating the Tarrasque; a Sorcerer Chinkand Spartan accompanying a paladin named Argento to venture into Silent Hills; and some other stories that were about the Good ole’ Days.
Changed that one word for you above, because I thought mines was more fitting.
“Would you like a drank?” a bartender walked passed and asked with a southern twang. She held a foggy mug in her left hand, cleaning it with a dirty rag in the other.
”Cheyenne . . .” Deadpool muttered, his jaw dropping as his eyes went upward from the woman’s scantly denim shorts (so short the bottom of her front pockets were exposed) to her bold blue eyes and wavy blond hair. Her cleavage swelled out from under her red and black flannel top, which she kept tied in a knot above her pierced belly button.
“Who’s that?” Gingy elbowed Deadpool’s arm and asked.
Cheyenne furrowed a finely shaped brow at the sight of Gingy, but composed herself instantly. “Can I help you boys with sum ale, maybe? If you haven’t hurd, it’s the best in all the Moors.” Her eyes shifted between the two as a soft smile formed across her visage.
God I missed southern accents. “Gimme two of ya best beers,” Deadpool rested his forearms against the counter and leaned forward, winking.
Gingy looked at the woman, grinned, and said, “I’ll take a tall glass of milk!”
”My homey wants some milk,” Deadpool reiterated as he reached into his pocket to retrieve a handful of coins. Like a slot machine, he raised his hand and slid a few of them between Cheyenne’s breasts. Her face soured and winced as the cold silvers dropped down through the flannel and dinked! off of the ground. “Make it snappy, toots, and I’ll make sure another bundle of coins comes your way.”
Cheyenne paused for a moment and cast the mercenary a vile look before placing the flagon down—rag still soaking in its brown sud water—to pull two additional mugs out from under the counter. She turned around to face a large wood barrel, yanked a cork out of its belly, and held the cups one after the other under the flowing brew. She turned back around and placed both mugs in front of the mercenary. The yellow beer tilted inside the glass. “Hare it is—our ‘house special’ Cheyenne’s blue eyes shifted to Gingy. ”Your fran’s milk is going to be fresh. I have to go fetch it from the back,” she said, picked the suddy ragged glass back up, and excused herself to the far end of the bar.
“I think this place is a waste of time,” Gingy leaned close again to say.
”Just relax. Your milk will be here soon.”
The mercenary curled his fingers around the handle of the glass closer to his left. As he raised it to his chin, he took his other hand and peeled back the bottom of his mask over his nose; the ale smelled like rotting eggs with a whiff of ammonia. It reminded Deadpool of scents that permeated through high school male bathrooms.
He brought the flagon to his lips and took a gulp. As some of the ale slithered down his throat, his upper lip flinched back. It was a salty yet bitter taste that jumped off the tongue and climbed into the sinuses. He tried to ingurgitate the reservoir of ‘house special’ remained in his mouth, but without the necessary conviction, it whished out in a yellowy mist.
Cheyenne returned from a doorway in the far portion of the bar, with a tall frosted glass of milk in hand. A few patrons leaning over the counter heckled as she past—one went to smack he ass, barely missing—but her demeanor almost enticed it. She grabbed loose coins Deadpool assumed were tips as she threw winks and blew kisses.
“Hare’s your milk, sweetie,” she said while placing the glass in front of Gingy.
”Hey, this beer tastes like piss that ran down a rancid buttcrack,” Deadpool tugged on the knot in Cheyenne’s top. ”I want you to push those coins back out from between your bosoms and into my hand. Now.”
Cheyenne scowled with slanted brows and narrowed eyes. “No touching the bartender,” she said bluntly. “Also, no refunds.”
The mercenary went for a futile rebuttal, but before he could conjure one up Cheyenne made her back to the far end of the bar, grabbing a few more loose coins as her hips swayed.
Gingy stared at his cup, hoping that it was better than his partner’s ale; with both hands he reached out and grabbed it, taking a sip. After smacking his lips a few times, he downed the whole thing. “Sucks to be you, Spandex, my milk is fucking awesome!”
”Yeah, I bet it came from a Taurus.”
“Taurus doesn’t produce milk, dummy,” Gingy replied as he put the glass back down.
”Oh, that’s my point!”
“Heyyy thur, pardon,” the balding fat man to the mercenary’s right pestered in a groggy voice, accompanied by a nudging forearm to the bicep. Deadpool looked over at the man; his eyes were as glossier than a touchscreen. “If ye don’t want yer ale I will take them off yer hands.” With what seemed to be a moment of clarity, his eyes jolted wide, and he reached inside of his jerkin to pull out a folded piece of off-white hemp paper.
”Gingy, this may be the story progression we’ve been waiting for,” he said, but Gingy paid no mind. The mercenary gently pulled the paper out from man’s grasp and then took the same hand and slid both drinks over to him in one motion. ”Take’m”
“Thank ye,” the man said, raising a flagon up in a toasting fashion towards the mercenary before chugging it down.
Deadpool opened the paper with curiosity akin to a child receiving a ‘Date Me: No/Date Me: Yes’ note; his eyes rounded as they examined the typed words.
Times New Roman font.
DANTE’S ABYSS
Presented by the fabulous Karl Jak
ULTIMATE SHOWCASE OF CUNNING, SURVIVAL, AND RUTHLESSNESS
ALL PRIMES ARE ENCOURAGED TO PARTICIPATE; OMNILIUM AWAITS!
Aw, font codes don't work.
”I know where we're gonna go, Gingy. . .” he murmured, refolding the paper and curling it in his hand. ”We’re going to Dante’s Abyss.”
[float=right]
![[Image: Deadpool_Funny.png]](http://i137.photobucket.com/albums/q218/Aerogfx/sigs/Deadpool_Funny.png)
Dante's Abyss Placings
2015 - 4th
2015 - 4th
2016 - 2nd
2017 - 4th
PVP Combat Record
(One-on-One)
3W - 0L - 0D
3W - 0L - 0D
(TAG-TEAM)
1W - 1L - 0D
[/float]![[Image: Deadpool_Funny.png]](http://s137.photobucket.com/user/Aerogfx/media/sigs/Deadpool_Funny.png.html)