04-18-2017, 12:43 AM
The contents of the message were simple, and the details were sparse. Apparently someone named Doctor Regal had put out the word through certain channels - including contacts within Coruscant's corporate sphere - that a situation the doctor had been monitoring involving an organization he was familiar with had reached a tipping point. Violent incidents perpetrated by denizens of the Omniverse who had fallen under the influence of this mysterious group were on the rise, and Regal was attempting to organize a response. He requested that interested Primes contact him personally, and ideally come and visit his lab in Coruscant, where he would share further information regarding the nature of the threat.
The wording was vague and the language ominous - clearly written by someone deeply paranoid, which made Kelly disinclined to trust them. However, it was forwarded to him by PepsiCo, who weren't inclined to waste Alan Mayhew's time; If it was in his inbox, he could safely assume they were taking it seriously. Besides, some of the language the doctor used was pulling levers behind the wall of fog in the murky reaches of the psychic's brain: 'Corruption'. 'Infiltration'.'Degenerative madness' 'A spreading darkness'...
It made the mysterious compass-rose scar on his arm itch. When he got back to Coruscant, the Doctor's lab was going to be his first stop.
The traveler took ten minutes to re-summon his clothing and weapon, the brilliant prismatic glow of omnilium over-riding the little room's dull illumination and subdued earthen tones with an ever-changing technicolor aurora. When Kelly was properly attired once more in jeans and sleeveless tee, he strode towards the exit, quarterstaff in hand. He'd tied his hair back, but neglected to provide himself with new boots or a belt - he expected his old ones were still intact enough to use, and it was possible they were being kept somewhere nearby.
The door swung open without his having to touch it - a simple-but-satisfying telekinetic trick, with the benefit of keeping his hands free for other things. Beyond lay a wide mezzanine, looking down onto the sturdy wooden furnishings and sawdust-covered floor of a tap-room. The scent of cedar-shavings and stale beer was practically overpowering.
An inn... I suppose that makes sense. They would have needed all the hospital beds they could get after the battle, and an injured Prime would be one patient they could be absolutely certain was going to recover without help. They must have settled for cleaning me up and sticking me somewhere comfortable.
There didn't seem to be anybody around, which the psychic guessed was to be expected; Mid-morning in a place that rented rooms and (presumably) served meals was bound to be slow. He located the staircase - a wooden affair tucked away in the back corner beside the hearth - and descended to the ground floor, proceeding directly to the bar. The sawdust crunched beneath his bare feet, splinters failing to penetrate a thick layer of callous.
Like the rest of the establishment, the bar was fairly basic. There were glasses behind the counter, kegs on tap, and a variety of cloudy glass bottles on a shelf. The front door was a scant few meters to the right - a heavy brass-bound oaken slab in a timber frame. Beside it was a small picture-window secured with iron bars, looking out upon the mildewed cobbles of a damp Darkshire avenue. On the left end of the bar was another, similar door, propped open by a rock the size of a man's head. Beyond it was a corridor, its terminus hidden by a sharp right turn.
The faint sound of footsteps, the clatter of pans, and the murmur of voices drifted from the open door. Kelly thought for a moment, then called out:
“Hello? Pardon the interruption, but if there's anybody back there who could spare me a moment of their time it would be appreciated.”
The traveler waited. There was a lull in the back-room bustle, and after a few seconds a man appeared from around the corner...
...And kept on appearing.
It was like watching a very large dog emerge from a very small dog-house. First came the face, a severe, olive-colored countenance boasting an angular black beard that looked like it was varnished onto his chin. A neck like a tree-trunk led down to a pair of shoulders that barely fit through the corridor. His body, hunched over as he made his way through the hall, was build like a refrigerator - a huge, square chest over a pair of huge, square legs. The mans clothes were simple – a stained apron over a shirt and pants that were themselves mostly just gathering spots for yet more stains.
The giant unfolded into the tap-room and straightened up, nine feet tall if he was an inch. He stood behind the bar and looked down at Kelly.
“Ah,” he said, with the calm, reasonable tones of a man one-third his size, “I see you woke up, then. That's good – we were beginning to think there was something wrong with you. Did you find the room to your liking?”
Kelly was nonplussed, but didn't let it show.
“It was quite satisfactory, yes – and thank you for the shave, as well. How much do I owe you?”
The enormous man waved one shovel-sized hand dismissively. “Consider it complimentary. You stood with the city – it's the least we can do. I'm Bran, by the way. Short for Brannigan. I'm the landlord, hereabouts.”
The psychic held out a hand. Bran took it, engulfing Kelly's arm nearly to the elbow, and they shook. “Kelly. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Bran. I don't suppose you have my boots and my belt back there?”
The giant reached under the bar, deftly plucked the traveler's possessions from their hiding place, placing on top of the bar with thumb and fore-finger. Both belt and boots had clearly been thoroughly cleaned, though the leather was a little bit more textured than it had been previously – an inevitable result of hard wear and harder maintenance.
“There you go,” said Bran. “My daughter spent an entire afternoon on 'em, getting them wearable.”
Is she as big as he is?
Kelly put aside his staff and pushed down the thought. He smiled his appreciation and slid his belt into place, buckling it with practiced ease, before settling into a stool to lace up his boots. “Tell her she did an excellent job,” he said, pulling the strings tight and double-knotting them around his ankles.
“I'll do that,” said Bran, and placed his serving-plate palms on the countertop, leaning against the bar. It groaned beneath his weight. “But, uh... Now that you're up - I'm guessing you're not going to be sticking around? There were some people who were hoping to speak with you.”
The traveler stood, and shook his head, retrieving his weapon. “I've got places to be, and urgent business that needs seeing too. I'll probably be back though. Darkshire is growing on me.”
The wording was vague and the language ominous - clearly written by someone deeply paranoid, which made Kelly disinclined to trust them. However, it was forwarded to him by PepsiCo, who weren't inclined to waste Alan Mayhew's time; If it was in his inbox, he could safely assume they were taking it seriously. Besides, some of the language the doctor used was pulling levers behind the wall of fog in the murky reaches of the psychic's brain: 'Corruption'. 'Infiltration'.'Degenerative madness' 'A spreading darkness'...
It made the mysterious compass-rose scar on his arm itch. When he got back to Coruscant, the Doctor's lab was going to be his first stop.
The traveler took ten minutes to re-summon his clothing and weapon, the brilliant prismatic glow of omnilium over-riding the little room's dull illumination and subdued earthen tones with an ever-changing technicolor aurora. When Kelly was properly attired once more in jeans and sleeveless tee, he strode towards the exit, quarterstaff in hand. He'd tied his hair back, but neglected to provide himself with new boots or a belt - he expected his old ones were still intact enough to use, and it was possible they were being kept somewhere nearby.
The door swung open without his having to touch it - a simple-but-satisfying telekinetic trick, with the benefit of keeping his hands free for other things. Beyond lay a wide mezzanine, looking down onto the sturdy wooden furnishings and sawdust-covered floor of a tap-room. The scent of cedar-shavings and stale beer was practically overpowering.
An inn... I suppose that makes sense. They would have needed all the hospital beds they could get after the battle, and an injured Prime would be one patient they could be absolutely certain was going to recover without help. They must have settled for cleaning me up and sticking me somewhere comfortable.
There didn't seem to be anybody around, which the psychic guessed was to be expected; Mid-morning in a place that rented rooms and (presumably) served meals was bound to be slow. He located the staircase - a wooden affair tucked away in the back corner beside the hearth - and descended to the ground floor, proceeding directly to the bar. The sawdust crunched beneath his bare feet, splinters failing to penetrate a thick layer of callous.
Like the rest of the establishment, the bar was fairly basic. There were glasses behind the counter, kegs on tap, and a variety of cloudy glass bottles on a shelf. The front door was a scant few meters to the right - a heavy brass-bound oaken slab in a timber frame. Beside it was a small picture-window secured with iron bars, looking out upon the mildewed cobbles of a damp Darkshire avenue. On the left end of the bar was another, similar door, propped open by a rock the size of a man's head. Beyond it was a corridor, its terminus hidden by a sharp right turn.
The faint sound of footsteps, the clatter of pans, and the murmur of voices drifted from the open door. Kelly thought for a moment, then called out:
“Hello? Pardon the interruption, but if there's anybody back there who could spare me a moment of their time it would be appreciated.”
The traveler waited. There was a lull in the back-room bustle, and after a few seconds a man appeared from around the corner...
...And kept on appearing.
It was like watching a very large dog emerge from a very small dog-house. First came the face, a severe, olive-colored countenance boasting an angular black beard that looked like it was varnished onto his chin. A neck like a tree-trunk led down to a pair of shoulders that barely fit through the corridor. His body, hunched over as he made his way through the hall, was build like a refrigerator - a huge, square chest over a pair of huge, square legs. The mans clothes were simple – a stained apron over a shirt and pants that were themselves mostly just gathering spots for yet more stains.
The giant unfolded into the tap-room and straightened up, nine feet tall if he was an inch. He stood behind the bar and looked down at Kelly.
“Ah,” he said, with the calm, reasonable tones of a man one-third his size, “I see you woke up, then. That's good – we were beginning to think there was something wrong with you. Did you find the room to your liking?”
Kelly was nonplussed, but didn't let it show.
“It was quite satisfactory, yes – and thank you for the shave, as well. How much do I owe you?”
The enormous man waved one shovel-sized hand dismissively. “Consider it complimentary. You stood with the city – it's the least we can do. I'm Bran, by the way. Short for Brannigan. I'm the landlord, hereabouts.”
The psychic held out a hand. Bran took it, engulfing Kelly's arm nearly to the elbow, and they shook. “Kelly. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Bran. I don't suppose you have my boots and my belt back there?”
The giant reached under the bar, deftly plucked the traveler's possessions from their hiding place, placing on top of the bar with thumb and fore-finger. Both belt and boots had clearly been thoroughly cleaned, though the leather was a little bit more textured than it had been previously – an inevitable result of hard wear and harder maintenance.
“There you go,” said Bran. “My daughter spent an entire afternoon on 'em, getting them wearable.”
Is she as big as he is?
Kelly put aside his staff and pushed down the thought. He smiled his appreciation and slid his belt into place, buckling it with practiced ease, before settling into a stool to lace up his boots. “Tell her she did an excellent job,” he said, pulling the strings tight and double-knotting them around his ankles.
“I'll do that,” said Bran, and placed his serving-plate palms on the countertop, leaning against the bar. It groaned beneath his weight. “But, uh... Now that you're up - I'm guessing you're not going to be sticking around? There were some people who were hoping to speak with you.”
The traveler stood, and shook his head, retrieving his weapon. “I've got places to be, and urgent business that needs seeing too. I'll probably be back though. Darkshire is growing on me.”