[Liethell]

This is a private roleplay between Othanis and I, based somewhat off the Pathfinders series. It is rated M mostly for language, though there may be other mature themes later.

The sunlight avoids the villagers today, dodging between grey clouds pregnant with rain that just won't fall. Harbrough is a large city, complete with creatures of all races and sizes meandering the streets. Elves, Dwarves, Humans, Halflings, mixed races, even the occasional half Giant. It's no peculiarity that a Tiefling would be wandering among them, but yet, Maru still draws stares and baffled gazes.
Maru is only a few inches below four feet, though his tall and twisted horns provide a little bit of extra height he would not have had otherwise. He wanders the streets wearing an older, tattered wizard's robes and with at least five different books tucked under one arm. His skin is a shade of pale red, covered in scales, he has no visible nose aside from two nasal slits, and his eyes are similarly slitted, yellow, and cold. Today, though, they're filled with a fiery passion, an anger unmatched by anyone else in the city. It's the angry swish of his tail, the curses muttered under every breath, and his raw, unfiltered irritation that causes others to stare as he makes his way to a common tavern, nicknamed the Silver Sliver.
Maru ignores the bartender and all his customers and storms straight upstairs, to the room he and his travelers have collectively borrowed. They've been here for some time, rumor says they're waiting for something, or maybe someone is hurt. It's no rumor that the lizard-like creature can create potions and spells, and he's been selling them since they came into town. However much it irks him to pull himself away from the library and set up for an appointment with someone, he must do it. He sets the books down and out of sight, and he unrolls a mat. He's not sure what this new customer wants, potions or spells or just information, but if he gets money out of it, he will do it. With his mat set up, he waits only half-patiently for a knock on his door...

[Othtanis]

Nouri's eyes flicked to the door as it swung open and sunk a little deeper into his too-large robe as the tiefling barged in. The rat man kept his head down ‘til he heard the tell tale slam of a door somewhere overhead. With another sip off the overlarge tankard Nouri followed. Weaving through the crowd with practiced skill and spilling nary a drop of beer and taking the stairs two at a time. At the tiefling's door he paused, partly to catch his breath. He took a huge swig of his vile drink. This was it, the fate of hundreds of lives hung on this meeting.
And he was drunk. Just a bit. His nerves had been frayed to threads over the last few days and he needed something to take the edge off.
He swayed a bit as and tossed the tankard behind him. Here goes nothing. Nouri rapped on the door. Built as it was for larger folk, Nouri stood only an inch over four feet, he had to reach up to grab the door knob. He stumbled in and pulled back his hood with a white furred hand to reveal his black splotched face.

[Liethell]

The knock and open door hardly phases him. The creature in front of him is much taller and heavier than he. It would seem Nouri could slay the Tiefling right here and be able to finish his drink while it was still cold. Maru hardly even looks up, though, as if the threat of death means nothing to him. Or perhaps, Nouri means nothing to him. He opens his mouth to speak. His voice is a gravelly one, near poisonous with anger, but it's also prepubescent--he’s young.
"What level of hell did you crawl out of, and were you raised in a barn there? Sit your sorry seat down and close the door." He snarls and pulls his bag closer to him. It’s patched up, and there’s no real defining marks to it. There are none on his clothing either. He's digging through there. Inside the bag, the newcomer could see bottles of glowing and not always natural looking juices and potions and thick slops, and bags with twigs and leaves and awful and wonderful stenches wafting from them. A few scrolls poke out. None of these have marks either. It’s peculiar enough, as most great wizards have some form of signature they leave on at least their best products, though apprentice and average wizards have none.
"What do you want? Potion, spell, magic tricks, whatever the hell it is, make it fast. I have better things to do." He pulls a leather-bound book out and throws it at the ground nearby, and tosses a pen after it. He at least sets the well of ink down gently. Never once does his eyes meet the strangers, and his tail swishes in a manner that resembles an irritated dragon.

The room itself isn't particularly interesting. It's a basic room made with wood and spruced up with a basic and almost threadbare rug, with one bed with mostly clean bedding and bags piled in corners. The window is left cracked open and there's a tree just outside, which filters the sunlight a bit. The only remarkable thing about this room is the scent of cat urine...