Post by Ursula on Dec 12, 2019 0:40:41 GMT
There was an infamous inn that existed in Macarath, run by a beautiful woman of great charisma and magnetic enthusiasm. Mercenaries of flying different colors and loyalties flocked to this inn, seeking fame and fortune in the time of war, not wishing to participate in the eternal, yet garish conflict of the two kingdoms. For goods and coin did they accomplish many things for those who had been given the blind eye from royal parties, praised and lavished as heroes during the storm of warfare.
Alas, that inn is gone, reduced to rubble in one night, with no survivors to speak of. Mercenaries seeking rest only found heartache at the sight, and turned themselves away to places deemed lesser by their heightened standards.
Even so, the land was repurchased by a mysterious party, for a near-exorbitant amount of gold. Rumors spread within Macarath of the revival of the once-treasured “Wyvern’s Rest,” and that the charming individual who had run it survived and decided to rebuild the fallen inn.
Finally, the construct’s final touches were put in place, yet the colors had not been revealed, not until the day the new proprietor arrived in a carriage clad in dark wood. Highly expectant onlookers awaited the carriage door to open, expecting the shining face of the blonde woman who had brought a spark to the commerce to Macarath.
The door opened a crack and gently swung to the side, and the faces of the witnesses became disheartened as their hopes were dashed to pieces. Pale, bluish skin, cold, dark, violet eyes, and straight dark hair that disobeyed the push of the breeze, the woman who arrived had an austere and collected beauty that chilled the buzzing air.
Many did not recognize her, but those who did let out short, discomforted sighs.
Ursula von Brandt, an architect of murder and mayhem, loyal agent of the Nohrian cause. She and her troupe had quelled a number of rebellions toward the southern end of Nohr, inspiring fear in the hearts of the rebels and pushing them further and further back to the sea.
The bystanders waited for another person to leave the carriage, but the door was shut as Ursula alighted. Two pieces of boxes and a heavy, covered sign were removed from the back of the carriage and promptly opened, revealing lavender-colored flags. Four workers quickly brought the linen and the veiled sign to the hangers as Ursula proceeded to stand in front of the inn.
She turned around and scanned the crowd with an icy gaze, seeing many faces of surprise and disgust among them.
Bah, that didn’t matter. It was more entertaining for her to see the disappointment riddled on their faces, yes, just enough for her to let out a chuckle.
At this time, the metal sign was securely hung on its hinges, and its veil was removed.
“Raven’s Rest, A Mercenary Company” it said, with an icon above it that detailed a raven sitting comfortably in a bed of sticks.
Ursula glanced to it, nodded to herself, and proceeded inside of the inn.
“We’re open,” she announced in passing.
In spite of the awkward opening day, an inn catered toward mercenaries was better than an inn catered toward everyone. Rooms and accommodations were excellent, the serving girls were attractive, charming, and focused, and the food and drink was well worth the wait. Furthermore, it was a short walk to the smithy and barracks, allowing Nohrian soldiers some respite after a hard day of patrol.
That’s not to say that they were terribly busy or densely populated. The goings were slow, and mercenaries that visited were either regulars of the old inn (which was fairly few in number considering many of them died that night) or didn’t know of the inn’s existence.
Ursula sat at the bar, swirling a wine glass of sweet, velvety beverage in hand. Two milliliter sips were made every thirty seconds, with eyes locked on the still bar doors, discontent with the lack of customers.
How on earth did she do it?
Alas, that inn is gone, reduced to rubble in one night, with no survivors to speak of. Mercenaries seeking rest only found heartache at the sight, and turned themselves away to places deemed lesser by their heightened standards.
Even so, the land was repurchased by a mysterious party, for a near-exorbitant amount of gold. Rumors spread within Macarath of the revival of the once-treasured “Wyvern’s Rest,” and that the charming individual who had run it survived and decided to rebuild the fallen inn.
Finally, the construct’s final touches were put in place, yet the colors had not been revealed, not until the day the new proprietor arrived in a carriage clad in dark wood. Highly expectant onlookers awaited the carriage door to open, expecting the shining face of the blonde woman who had brought a spark to the commerce to Macarath.
The door opened a crack and gently swung to the side, and the faces of the witnesses became disheartened as their hopes were dashed to pieces. Pale, bluish skin, cold, dark, violet eyes, and straight dark hair that disobeyed the push of the breeze, the woman who arrived had an austere and collected beauty that chilled the buzzing air.
Many did not recognize her, but those who did let out short, discomforted sighs.
Ursula von Brandt, an architect of murder and mayhem, loyal agent of the Nohrian cause. She and her troupe had quelled a number of rebellions toward the southern end of Nohr, inspiring fear in the hearts of the rebels and pushing them further and further back to the sea.
The bystanders waited for another person to leave the carriage, but the door was shut as Ursula alighted. Two pieces of boxes and a heavy, covered sign were removed from the back of the carriage and promptly opened, revealing lavender-colored flags. Four workers quickly brought the linen and the veiled sign to the hangers as Ursula proceeded to stand in front of the inn.
She turned around and scanned the crowd with an icy gaze, seeing many faces of surprise and disgust among them.
Bah, that didn’t matter. It was more entertaining for her to see the disappointment riddled on their faces, yes, just enough for her to let out a chuckle.
At this time, the metal sign was securely hung on its hinges, and its veil was removed.
“Raven’s Rest, A Mercenary Company” it said, with an icon above it that detailed a raven sitting comfortably in a bed of sticks.
Ursula glanced to it, nodded to herself, and proceeded inside of the inn.
“We’re open,” she announced in passing.
A Mercenary Company
Ursula von Brandt
Macarath, Nohr
Evening
Evening
In spite of the awkward opening day, an inn catered toward mercenaries was better than an inn catered toward everyone. Rooms and accommodations were excellent, the serving girls were attractive, charming, and focused, and the food and drink was well worth the wait. Furthermore, it was a short walk to the smithy and barracks, allowing Nohrian soldiers some respite after a hard day of patrol.
That’s not to say that they were terribly busy or densely populated. The goings were slow, and mercenaries that visited were either regulars of the old inn (which was fairly few in number considering many of them died that night) or didn’t know of the inn’s existence.
Ursula sat at the bar, swirling a wine glass of sweet, velvety beverage in hand. Two milliliter sips were made every thirty seconds, with eyes locked on the still bar doors, discontent with the lack of customers.
How on earth did she do it?