Post by stabbycat on Jun 6, 2016 14:38:02 GMT
The yacht rocked gently to and fro on the waves as the pluck of strings of old poured from it's entrance. Bright n' sunny out it was, the waves rolling a grand shade of blue and green as they licked at the docks. Up on the flybridge perched a rather hard-to-miss sign, swaying to and fro with the rest of the boat: The Siren's Song. A tavern. In a boat. The life. The dream. A wish finally come to fruition through years of hard work.
Inside the heart of the boat lay the tavern, gilded with wooden panels of cedar and cherry, and wooden chairs, benches and a couple of tables: made of mahogany. The chairs themselves were cushioned with real furs, benches draped with them, with a few more hanging up on the walls for the colder seasons. The soft flicker of fake torches and candlelight kept the place lit, same for the rooms downstairs. The hearth, made of red brick, remained unlit: not quite cold enough for that yet. Still, a fluffy fur rug rested by its gated entrance. The bar itself held many a manner of goblets and tankards, gleaming with a fine polish. Glass bottles of craft beer kept in the floorboards below, kegs filled with mead and other forms of ancient alcohol in the wall, both kept cold in their custom refrigeration systems. Aragon himself was polishing the bar counter, humming softly to the Celtic music strumming along quietly in the background.
He kept his soul-whites towards the entrance, waiting to greet the first of what he hoped to be many customers in the coming future. He'd broadcasted the grand opening of the tavern over the boat radio and the internet, even passed out fliers...someone had to drop by soon enough.
Inside the heart of the boat lay the tavern, gilded with wooden panels of cedar and cherry, and wooden chairs, benches and a couple of tables: made of mahogany. The chairs themselves were cushioned with real furs, benches draped with them, with a few more hanging up on the walls for the colder seasons. The soft flicker of fake torches and candlelight kept the place lit, same for the rooms downstairs. The hearth, made of red brick, remained unlit: not quite cold enough for that yet. Still, a fluffy fur rug rested by its gated entrance. The bar itself held many a manner of goblets and tankards, gleaming with a fine polish. Glass bottles of craft beer kept in the floorboards below, kegs filled with mead and other forms of ancient alcohol in the wall, both kept cold in their custom refrigeration systems. Aragon himself was polishing the bar counter, humming softly to the Celtic music strumming along quietly in the background.
He kept his soul-whites towards the entrance, waiting to greet the first of what he hoped to be many customers in the coming future. He'd broadcasted the grand opening of the tavern over the boat radio and the internet, even passed out fliers...someone had to drop by soon enough.