[It's just an empty room. Filled with crates and barrels, bags and boxes, so on and so forth. Absolutely nothing in here of interest. Or is there?
With a faint rattle and creak, the lid of one box lifts for a brief moment, the glint of bright ruby red eyes visible behind the darkness. Whether or not he has company though, he's not staying in this fucking box. Chances are great if he does have company well, they're probably in just the same kind of deep shit he is. Unarmed and on the back foot, and he's the one wielding a crate lid now.
One that stays firmly in hand even as he pops up and out of the crate with a sigh, disdainfully tossing an orange onto the floor.]
I'm sick of citrus, if I never see another lemon, lime or orange again for the rest of my life, it'll still be too soon.
[These boxes have a whole lot of fuck all in them and not a great deal of his shit.]
[Tavern]
[You'd think he was a regular here with all the social butterfly shit he's up to. At a table chatting away cheerfully with everyone at it, boozing it up at the bar (at the very least it does look like that, though no one as small as him should be able to stomach the amount of liquor he's been apparently downing), just cozying up to everyone here in general and clearly hungry for attention. It just might be you he saunters up to next, smile bright and hands full with another drink.]
This seat taken?
[Brawl]
[Don't ask him how this started. He might know, but don't ask him, he's busy. After all, what's a man to do when he's all alone in a dangerous locale, filled with cutthroats, criminals and brigands? He can't be unarmed.
Thank god some big stupid fight kicked off about some silly bullshit or another. Who knows what even triggered it, everyone's so sloppy drunk. Pay no attention to the little drow elf slinking around behind the gathering audience of rubberneckers and back-seat brawlers. He's helping, all these pointy knives and loaded firearms could be really dangerous. They're clearly better off in his completely trustworthy hands.]
[Down By the Bay]
[There's no watermelons here but there is one very unconscious sailor reeking of gin and covered in sweat and sand, sawing logs not too far away from a deep hole dug in the beach. Mercifully for Jarlaxle and everyone else, his clothes are not heavy with salt water and wet sand, he only had to shake everything out a little bit before tugging it all on. Shirt, pants, boots, leather armor, bracers, eye patch, hat- look it'd take a long time to list it all, he got dressed and it took forever to do but at least he's comfortable again.
Looking a fair bit like a pirate captain himself really, albeit one that looked like he might have hopped out of a Lisa Frank three-ring binder. Never you mind all the weapons he's inspecting right now, it's none of your business if you manage to find him out here.]
Jarlaxle Baenre | Forgotten Realms | Corsair
[It's just an empty room. Filled with crates and barrels, bags and boxes, so on and so forth. Absolutely nothing in here of interest. Or is there?
With a faint rattle and creak, the lid of one box lifts for a brief moment, the glint of bright ruby red eyes visible behind the darkness. Whether or not he has company though, he's not staying in this fucking box. Chances are great if he does have company well, they're probably in just the same kind of deep shit he is. Unarmed and on the back foot, and he's the one wielding a crate lid now.
One that stays firmly in hand even as he pops up and out of the crate with a sigh, disdainfully tossing an orange onto the floor.]
I'm sick of citrus, if I never see another lemon, lime or orange again for the rest of my life, it'll still be too soon.
[These boxes have a whole lot of fuck all in them and not a great deal of his shit.]
[Tavern]
[You'd think he was a regular here with all the social butterfly shit he's up to. At a table chatting away cheerfully with everyone at it, boozing it up at the bar (at the very least it does look like that, though no one as small as him should be able to stomach the amount of liquor he's been apparently downing), just cozying up to everyone here in general and clearly hungry for attention. It just might be you he saunters up to next, smile bright and hands full with another drink.]
This seat taken?
[Brawl]
[Don't ask him how this started. He might know, but don't ask him, he's busy. After all, what's a man to do when he's all alone in a dangerous locale, filled with cutthroats, criminals and brigands? He can't be unarmed.
Thank god some big stupid fight kicked off about some silly bullshit or another. Who knows what even triggered it, everyone's so sloppy drunk. Pay no attention to the little drow elf slinking around behind the gathering audience of rubberneckers and back-seat brawlers. He's helping, all these pointy knives and loaded firearms could be really dangerous. They're clearly better off in his completely trustworthy hands.]
[Down By the Bay]
[There's no watermelons here but there is one very unconscious sailor reeking of gin and covered in sweat and sand, sawing logs not too far away from a deep hole dug in the beach. Mercifully for Jarlaxle and everyone else, his clothes are not heavy with salt water and wet sand, he only had to shake everything out a little bit before tugging it all on. Shirt, pants, boots, leather armor, bracers, eye patch, hat- look it'd take a long time to list it all, he got dressed and it took forever to do but at least he's comfortable again.
Looking a fair bit like a pirate captain himself really, albeit one that looked like he might have hopped out of a Lisa Frank three-ring binder. Never you mind all the weapons he's inspecting right now, it's none of your business if you manage to find him out here.]