Description
Posted: Tue Jun 13, 2023 4:40 pm
If the name doesn't give a cutter a clue about this kip's ambiance, the Tiefling guarding the door will. Nobody gets inside without knowing the password, which tends to change from day to day. ('Course the one password that never changes is "jink," as in garnish the bouncer's palm, berk.) Once inside, a body knows for sure this's a fiendish watering hole. The common room's dark — not just romantically dim, but outright dark. The glimmer of a single candle illuminates the taps. Voices whisper to each other in the blackness. Cold, dry, snake-like skin brushes a cutter's side. Eyes flash with their own light.
The tavern's run by Zegonz Vlaric, an emaciated and scarred Githzerai Bleaker with one arm frozen into a claw. He was permanently maimed - beyond even the means of magical repair — during a run-in with a band of good-aligned adventurers. This tavern is his revenge on all those he blames for his sorrows. Zegonz openly courts tanar'ri clientele, giving them a place to discreetly meet and do their business. The fiends know it, too, and they protect him from the wrath of the Harmonium or any band of self-styled do-gooders who might try to close the place down.
The Oarsman's a bolt-hole for many a cross-trader giving the Law the laugh who's willing to trade some of his swag (and maybe a bit of blood) for a place safe from the Harmonium and less dangerous than the Hive. After all, sometimes even the peeriest sharper will pluck a pigeon that turns out to be a hawk. Once his bob's fallen apart, he needs to hide but he can't risk the Outlands or, like some Cagers, he just fears life outside the city. So, he comes to the Oarsman.
Zegonz Vlaric