Post by Targon Ironsong on Apr 14, 2013 19:00:41 GMT -5
There are places in cities. The outskirts of civilizations where expectations are different. Men and women there live by their own rules, rules which if broken you don't get a second chance or a trip to a tropical resort prison. Places where justice is swift and final and in these places some people find it much more bearable to be a 'barbarian' then to run the rat race with everyone else. Within these free areas mankind still thrives... so do things that have less in common with mankind then others might think.
One of these places was known as Iron Horse a biker bar at the very edges of the city limits of New York City. A old place from the days when buildings were still made of brick. A place of a less then clean history that went back to the days of prohibition. Even then it attracted a rebellious crowd only instead of being a speakeasy that roundabout catered to those that cared less about societies rules it was more direct. The hidden passage had been broken down and the basement was a booming place of music and thugs in leather drinking, laughing, fighting and screaming. Women in leather and even less wondered about at home with people others might call Neanderthals and cavemen and the granite bar was nowdays acid etched with pictures that ranged from beautiful to obscene. The upstairs was where the food was cooked and quiet deals were made while the downstairs the fun happened, life happened... sometimes it was created in a few quiet back rooms.
In this swirl of life and once in a while death a figure held court, talking in tones as low as he could speak and still be heard. A deep voice that sounded like it was coming out of a throat made of gravel. This figure while shorter then all those gathered was listened to by man and woman alike with astounding reverence. His shaved head gleamed in the lights, tribal wave tattoos upon a oddly shaped head with what seemed like bone crests under the skin. His mostly gray beard hung with bits of metal and his outfit was a curious amalgamation of traditional biker gear and stuff straight out of a fantasy movie. A sleeve of spiked full plate on one arm, chainmail underneath a white t shirt, blue jeans with a chain belt threaded through with leather and a pair of traditional biker boots. All this around flesh that what can be seen seems coated mostly with scars.
This is the being those around him know as Targon to some, Grandpa to his face by all, and King behind his back. He held court occasionally gesturing with a seven inch razor sharp knife he was using to cut the steak he was eating as he sat at the bar and only turned from his audience to cut another large chunk off his steak and pop it into his mouth before continuing. Someone wandering near might be a bit surprised at what he was talking about.
"~but while da color rods for glass blowing does make it easier ah prefer ta make da rods myself. Dat way da colors will be exactly what ah want dem ta ba because if something is worth daing den~"
Targon blinked as those around him finished his sentence as a chorus, including the bartender refilling the pitcher he was using as a mug.
"Den it is worth daing right!!!"
They smile as they said it including the accent and Targon smiled a bit in response. True enough they did find what he was talking about interesting if for no other reason then it was coming from the mouth of a four foot tall.. well... Dwarf.... who had in recent history lifted a three hundred pound biker over his head with one hand and slammed him into the ceiling by jumping. But also standing or sitting around him was a good way to get a bit of peace since most by now realized involving Targon in the daily brawls tended to end them quickly and with pain those involved so they gave him a wide birth and even hard edged bikers like a bit of... quiet... esk.. So listening to talk about his odd glass blowing hobby was a small and actually kinda interesting price to pay.
Targon reached back and snagged the last of his steak and eat it in one bite before draining half the pitcher of beer in one gulp leaving foam crusting his mustache. One of the girls nearby pointed and mentioned something about 'double disguise' while Targon smiled a bit confused having missed out on a meme that had started going round the internet.
One of these places was known as Iron Horse a biker bar at the very edges of the city limits of New York City. A old place from the days when buildings were still made of brick. A place of a less then clean history that went back to the days of prohibition. Even then it attracted a rebellious crowd only instead of being a speakeasy that roundabout catered to those that cared less about societies rules it was more direct. The hidden passage had been broken down and the basement was a booming place of music and thugs in leather drinking, laughing, fighting and screaming. Women in leather and even less wondered about at home with people others might call Neanderthals and cavemen and the granite bar was nowdays acid etched with pictures that ranged from beautiful to obscene. The upstairs was where the food was cooked and quiet deals were made while the downstairs the fun happened, life happened... sometimes it was created in a few quiet back rooms.
In this swirl of life and once in a while death a figure held court, talking in tones as low as he could speak and still be heard. A deep voice that sounded like it was coming out of a throat made of gravel. This figure while shorter then all those gathered was listened to by man and woman alike with astounding reverence. His shaved head gleamed in the lights, tribal wave tattoos upon a oddly shaped head with what seemed like bone crests under the skin. His mostly gray beard hung with bits of metal and his outfit was a curious amalgamation of traditional biker gear and stuff straight out of a fantasy movie. A sleeve of spiked full plate on one arm, chainmail underneath a white t shirt, blue jeans with a chain belt threaded through with leather and a pair of traditional biker boots. All this around flesh that what can be seen seems coated mostly with scars.
This is the being those around him know as Targon to some, Grandpa to his face by all, and King behind his back. He held court occasionally gesturing with a seven inch razor sharp knife he was using to cut the steak he was eating as he sat at the bar and only turned from his audience to cut another large chunk off his steak and pop it into his mouth before continuing. Someone wandering near might be a bit surprised at what he was talking about.
"~but while da color rods for glass blowing does make it easier ah prefer ta make da rods myself. Dat way da colors will be exactly what ah want dem ta ba because if something is worth daing den~"
Targon blinked as those around him finished his sentence as a chorus, including the bartender refilling the pitcher he was using as a mug.
"Den it is worth daing right!!!"
They smile as they said it including the accent and Targon smiled a bit in response. True enough they did find what he was talking about interesting if for no other reason then it was coming from the mouth of a four foot tall.. well... Dwarf.... who had in recent history lifted a three hundred pound biker over his head with one hand and slammed him into the ceiling by jumping. But also standing or sitting around him was a good way to get a bit of peace since most by now realized involving Targon in the daily brawls tended to end them quickly and with pain those involved so they gave him a wide birth and even hard edged bikers like a bit of... quiet... esk.. So listening to talk about his odd glass blowing hobby was a small and actually kinda interesting price to pay.
Targon reached back and snagged the last of his steak and eat it in one bite before draining half the pitcher of beer in one gulp leaving foam crusting his mustache. One of the girls nearby pointed and mentioned something about 'double disguise' while Targon smiled a bit confused having missed out on a meme that had started going round the internet.
