#posthouse

[blackjackkent]

More parsed dialogue adventures. I was watching the video linked in this post about Astarion's dialogue if you try to throw the ball in camp if Scratch has been killed for whatever reason. Got me wondering what the other companions say in various ball-throwing scenarios...

If the ball is thrown and Scratch is trapped at the posthouse but could still be rescued:

ASTARION: - Even the power of a squeaky ball isn't enough to break the dog out of that kennel. - Well... there might have been another dog around? - What, I have to go and pick it up myself? Ridiculous. - I should probably free the dog - this ball won't fetch itself. LAE'ZEL: - The dog's still stuck at the post house. - Just - tossing the ball around. - I need to break Scratch out of that kennel. - Throwing the ball around is no fun when there's no Scratch to catch it. GALE: - I suppose teleportation is beyond Scratch. - I should probably fetch Scratch from the post house. - I'm just playing fetch with myself unless I go back for Scratch... - Might as well throw the damn thing at the post house... SHADOWHEART: - I suppose I should really free Scratch before I expect him to come running... - Scratch can't aid me just now - not while he's in the post house. - Worth a try. I really ought to free Scratch. - I don't know what I expected - Scratch can't reach me just now. WYLL: - Scratch is cooped up at the post house. Can't wait to have him back. - Scratch is a good friend. I need to get him back. - The pooch won't be fetching balls until I fetch him from that kennel. - *Sigh* KARLACH: - Scratch is still stuck at the post house. - Don't know what I expected. - We need to go get our boy back from that awful kennel. - This is no fun without Scratch here. JAHEIRA: - Blast. We left the dog to the kennels. - Too much to hope that Scratch would hear it and break free. - Perhaps if I threw Boo, Scratch would come running... do not think I missed that hungry look, hound. - Enough - I do believe the dog himself would be embarrassed for me. Let's go get him back. HALSIN: - Scratch cannot come - he still languishes at the post house. - Of course, my canine friend cannot help just now. He remains at the post house. - Thwarted again. I must see to freeing that poor dog. - Worth an attempt, but it would surely be quicker to just free Scratch. MINTHARA: - Scratch! Here, boy! Where is that damn dog? - Scratch is at the post house. We should organise a rescue mission. - Who do we need to kill to get Scratch back? - I hope he remembers us. (Devnote: Sadly.) MINSC: - Scratch is a captive of the post house still. Unless he breaks out to come and fetch...? No. - Would you like to fetch instead, Boo? - One more throw, and then we shall go and fetch Scratch from his prison. - You are right, Boo. If Scratch could see me now, he would be concerned. TAV: - Ah - Scratch is still at the post house. - It was worth a shot. Could have been other dogs in the area. - Time to fetch Scratch from the kennels, I suppose. - Well, it was worth one last shot.

If Scratch is permadead:

ASTARION: - Good riddance to the dog. Who'd miss that waggy little tail... (devnote: Pretending not to be sad and failing) - Does it have a sad squeak now? Is that even possible? - I suppose I'll just pick it up myself. - Can't believe the stupid dog isn't here to get the stupid ball. LAE'ZEL: - It's not much fun alone. - I really don't know what I thought would happen. - Solo fetch. A miserable pastime. - Can't believe I'm going to say this, but - I miss Scratch. GALE: - You were an excellent friend, Scratch - and that's coming from a cat-lover. - I hope there's balls and bones galore, wherever you are... - Poor Scratch. I'm lucky to have met you. - I hope Scratch doesn't miss his ball, wherever he is... SHADOWHEART: - I need to stop doing this to myself... - I didn't do this enough, when I had the chance. - I hope Scratch has a new ball to play with, wherever he is... - It's silly... part of me felt like Scratch might still show up for his ball. WYLL: - Fetch isn't much of a solo game. - Damn. I miss the furry fellow. - For old times' sake. - I miss you, Scratch. KARLACH: - I miss my dog. - Here, pup. (Devnote: Sadly - the dog is dead and she knows this.) - Why am I doing this to myself? - Scratch should be here. With his family. JAHEIRA: - Enough. This isn't helping anyone. - You deserved better, boy. - Gods, but you'd miss the fuss. The noise. Gods above, even the smell. - Pointless, without a pup to chase it. HALSIN: - I hope you are happy, wherever you are. - I am sorry, Scratch. - I torment myself - Scratch is not going to come. - Poor Scratch. I hope he is at peace. MINTHARA: - Everyone assumes I killed the dog. I liked the dog. - Scratch reminded me of my first displacer beast. A noble creature. - Withers! Be a good skeleton and fetch that ball. - Gah. I miss the damn dog. (Devnote: Surprised by her own feelings.) MINSC: - Scratch, come and... oh. How could I forget he was gone, Boo? - No game of fetch will bring Scratch back from death. - I know he is gone, Boo, but... perhaps this is a way of keeping him alive, no? - I miss him, Boo. TAV: - I suppose I'd better pick it up. No one else will. - Poor Scratch. I miss him. - It's not as fun when no one brings it back. - Scratch really gave that ball life. DARK URGE: - Why can't you fetch, puppy? Death is no excuse! - I think Scratch is up north. Playing in a goat-farm in Icewind Dale, of course! - Scratch was only ever meat of the lowest grade. - Aw, did someone pet you a bit too hard, pup? I thought you liked it!

If ball is thrown but Scratch unavailable/not currently summoned:

ASTARION: - Oh, the dog's had enough fun? Lazy mutt. - Dog? Dog! Fetch the ball. Fetch the - never mind, I'll get it. - First he wants to fetch, now he doesn't want to fetch. Make up your mind, dog. - The dog's tired after one little game of fetch? Weak. Pathetic. Barely a good boy at all. LAE'ZEL: - I don't think Scratch is up for it. - Scratch is resting. Not sure who or what I expected would fetch that. - It's Scratch's naptime. I'll need to get that. - I guess I'll have to get that. Scratch isn't about to. GALE: - Poor pooch is worn out. - Better let Scratch rest up. - The ballplay can wait, I suppose. - Hmm. I suppose Scratch has had enough fun and games for now. SHADOWHEART: - It's too soon - Scratch needs his rest. - Lazy mutt... no, I shouldn't say that. He's a good boy. - Poor thing. He must still be tired. - Still too soon. Scratch is dreaming of balls and buried bones, no doubt. WYLL: - Poor Scratch is tired. I should let him rest. - Scratch needs a snooze. The games can wait. - All tuckered out? Me too, Scratch. Me too. - No point in that. Good ol' Scratch is snoozing away. KARLACH: - Poor Scratch is all worn out. - I shouldn't tease our boy. - Fella must need a little shut-eye. - Better get it myself. JAHEIRA: - Well, Scratch? Do you scratch yourself somewhere? - Would you prefer I wild-shape, and fight you for it? - Take your rest then, Scratch. Eldath knows you've probably earned it more than us. - Lazy pup! Must I fetch it myself? HALSIN: - The poor dog is still weary. I must give him a chance to recover. - The valiant Scratch deserves his rest. Best leave him be for another while. - Even the most loyal of companions needs his rest. Sleep on, Scratch. - Scratch deserves his rest - I can handle this without him. MINTHARA: - Disobedient hound. Where is he? - Scratch. Obey my command! (Devnote: miffed but not actually angry; she likes Scratch too much to be angry.) - Blasted dog. You dare ignore me? - Do I have to fetch it myself? This is demeaning. MINSC: - Scratch is off somewhere scratching himself, I think. - Ah, I see. Scratch is playing fetch in his dreams instead. - Scratch sleeps still? Boo, you will have to share with him some of your stamina-building tricks. - If Scratch will not fetch, and Boo will not fetch, then Minsc must fetch. TAV: - Must be tired from all that running around. - Even good boys need a moment to catch their breath. - Must still be tired. Poor Scratch. - If Scratch won't pick it up, I guess I will.

Some other bonus animal-related items, starting with the owlbear cub talking about Scratch:

If Scratch and the cub are friends: No - Scratch friend! Takes care of me when scared at night. If Scratch was killed: Sad. No want food. No want play. (Player: What's the matter?) Scratch gone. Miss him. (Player pets cub.) Little better... You're nice.

And Scratch about the cub:

If Scratch and the cub are friends: No, nothing happened - just the young one having bad dreams. That's what you heard. (Player: I hear you're friends with the owlbear cub.) Yes! He's a handful, but I like having him around. I stay with him and keep him company when he's scared. He'll settle down, in time. If the cub was killed: It's not the same here. Feels emptier. (Player: What's wrong?) The young cub. He's gone... for good. (Player pets Scratch.) Thank you. I needed that.

[rmelster]

—𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐍 (The Raven Volumes’ short stories).

The afternoon sun still reigned in the horizon when the carriage stopped by the posthouse.

An olden building, with a facade painted with a fading white and chimneys of brick darkened by decades of soot and rain, it remained the last trace of civilisation that could be seen by the side of the forsaken road; only a thin column of smoke let the passenger harbour the impression that it still homed human life within its walls. Behind it, wilderness extended itself far from the gaze, untamed, unmarred by the hand of man.

The fatigued horses came to a halt and the dust-covered coachman went to open the door of the carriage, and the travellers jumped out of the cabin as the man knocked on the posthouse’s door. For the few travellers that stopped there, it was a brief half-time meant for the tired steeds to be replaced for others and for the men to stretch their weary bodies.

Lawrance Pemberton came out before his brother, landing on the floor with a groan of relief; long hours of travel had left his agile and lithe body stiff, and he yearned to flee from the smell of dry sweat and starched clothes that emanated from his escort. Once out, the man that accompanied his brother and him handed them their hat.

"Go stretch your legs, boys; they will change the horses, and I will purchase some goods for the travel before we return to the path” he told them, “And young mr. Lawrance" the man addressed him dourly, "Do not wander off too far. We will be back on the way in a quarter of an hour."

"Count on me, mr. Gant” he laughed, before running into the woods, much to his companions’ despair, “Don’t leave without me!”

The youth soon found himself deep into the forest. Trees as old as the soil they were rooted in extended their heavy arms to the heavens, leaving very little room for the sun to penetrate into the clear; the wind whispered between the branches. Lawrance came to a halt, panting happily; he breathed the fragrance of the moss and humid earth, and he sensed the layer of dead leaves and twigs creak beneath his boot, and he let himself be fooled by the emotion, be coddled by the feeling of being back home, back in Philadelphia, and back in the New Orleans of his infant years… Not abandoned by his father, not rejected by his kin, not banished in a foreign island and left to face a fate most uncertain. In the embrace of nature, he felt as if he had never left a home that had never existed.

Not too far from his place, a small fountain surrounded by a circle of stones -the last vestige of long gone path- was the only thing to be seen among the trees. He was stepping closer, smiling curiously at that small, welcoming place, when he heard it.

Breathing.

It was not the sound of an astray traveller, nor that of a tranquil sightseer. He would have been sorely mistaken if he had thought that sound was even human, even. It was the sound of a creature that had long been deprived of air, a ragged symphony that made his hairs stood on end. It was close. Soon, too much soon for Lawrance to recoil, the creak of fallen leaves under erratic steps announced that he would no longer be alone in the clear.

There was a man in the forest.

In long forgotten days of childhood, his mother had lulled him to sleep with old tales from the South, fables of magic and horror that had left their mark on his youthful memory; and she had warned him of evil spirits, shaped like men and heavily veiled and clad not to reveal that, behind their garbs, they hid rotten bones; ghostly appearances that roamed the solitary paths and the quiet forests, awaiting for ingenuous travellers to pass by and drag them to their death…

And what he had in front of him, the panting being, was clad from head to toe in black, like some weeping widow from the days of old; black were his clothes, and his gloves, and even the small buttons were wrapped in black velvet; the veil, so opaque he could barely imagine what horrors where hidden beneath, hung from the wing of the broad-brimmed hat like black mist.

Whatever that was, it seemed to look around, as if making sure there were no unwanted eyes there to look at him, before lifting his dark veil and bend over the calm waters of the fountain. From his position behind the trees, Lawrance could not see but the ridge of a gaunt cheekbone, the line of a bony jaw, the edges of lips that appeared cadaverously pale and dry; But it was enough for him to realise that his eyes had not failed him, and that that was there. Much ghostly. Much breathing. Much there.

His eyes followed him as the veiled man unfastened the small buttons of his collar, and he dampened his neck, a svelte and pale column that appeared to have been carved in bone, and took off his ebony-black gloves, and washing his dead white hands. Lawrance realised the creature was distracted, and that, if he did not want to loose what could be his only opportunity of leaving the forest with his life intact, he had to flee. Slowly, he took a step back, only to unfortunately step over a twig.

He would have swore his heart had stopped beating there.

The veiled man quickly turned his face towards him, but Lawrance fled before their eyes could met.

Never had a boy run as fast as he did that day; he dodged roots and rocks in his flight, and felt branches hitting his face and getting tangled in his hair, but in his fright, he payed little mind to it; he felt the thing following him, until he didn’t, but he did not stop running.

The sun sunk behind him, threatening to abandon him to darkness, when he saw from afar the lights of the porthouse. He breathed in relief as the smell of smoke, straw and horseshit and the sound of conversations between the workers brought back a sense of safety long forgotten.

"Where were you, young mr. Lawrance?" Gant recriminated him once he was by his side, but he could see lines of concern around his eyes "Had it not been for my intercession, we would have departed without you!"

But the man fell silent when Lawrance jumped back into the carriage, uttering blessings and curses alike.

“And where is your hat?” he reproached him, even more shaken. Lawrance had not realised until then that his hat must have gone missing during his flight, but at that moment, glancing at the forest that was now dark and woeful behind him, he realised he didn’t care.

"The hat be damned. Let’s leave now!” Lawrance croaked from the inside, slamming the door closed.

His brother turned to him, disconcerted by how shaken he looked.

“What happens?” he asked, unnerved.

“I’ll tell you another day” he refused. ‘Telling him what I have seen will only bring ill luck to our travels’ he thought.

They resumed to their travel in a question of minutes. Only after the lights of a little village peeked through the curtains of the carriage’s window, Lawrance let his body relax.

With luck, once he was in that damned boarding school -Onstyles, was it?- he would be free of ghostly encounters and cursed forests.

Yes, he was sure he would.

He had just meant to rest.

His steps had driven him to the fountain, and believing he was alone, he tried to clean himself; but having heard a twig break close to him, and seeing a young boy running away, he had realised he had scared him away, having him leave behind his hat. He had attempted to return it to him -“wait! Your hat…! Your hat…!”-, but painfully stiff, his legs could not follow the steps of the youth, and soon, he gave up, weakly grasping the brim of the hat. Defeated, he had returned to the fountain, to spent what little moments of freedom he had left in solitude.

The reflection that the clear waters returned to him was that of something that could have raised from the grave; he could not blame the boy for fleeing the scene, he must have been a terrible sight to behold. In the last days, during his trip, he had been subjected to a treatment more animal than human, undeserving of the toughest beasts of burden; he lived, he slept and he ate what stale and scarce meals were given to him in the darkness of that carriage, only leaving when it halted by a remote porthouse or inn, when he was allowed to walk around and do the necessities that he could not do in his seclusion. He reeked like old clothes and clammy skin, and his whole body itched with the yearning of warm water and soap; his hair was dull, his mouth was painfully chapped and he felt light-headed and disoriented any time he saw the light.

He only needed to rot to be a corpse.

Soon, the harsh voice a man -the coachman of his carriage- sounded in the forest, and he hastily put back that horrible veiled hat over his face and hiding the other under his coat.

“Come! Come now!” the coachman gestured towards him, like he was an animal, and he was very sure that was how he appeared to him.

His father had told him God had made him no less worthy than the rest of its children just because He had made him fair of skin, of hair, of eyes; just as He had not given more love to the beautiful peacock than the grim raven, or more respect to a noble than a humble shepherd. But despoiled of dignity, despoiled of worth, and despoiled of humanity as he was then, he no longer believed him.

Without a sigh, he followed the man back to the posthouse.

He was just a few days from arriving to the boarding school. There, he would take a proper bath, or two or three if needed, and would discard his clothes, and eat earthily; he would be with his friends, he would attend classes and read by the fireplace. He would be safe, and all those days, weeks and months would be forgotten, for a few blissful months, like a feverish nightmare.

They came back to the carriage, and the coachman opened the door for him. He raised his head one last time, taking in the sight of the dying sun, before the door was closed behind him with a blow, and again, darkness was the only thing by his side.

Soon… Soon… He would be treated like a human again. Like he was named Barnabas Allenbrought, and he was just another student in the Onstyles Boarding School.

But not then.

Not yet.

why not torment my poor mutual @marianadecarlos this Sunday.

[bithand]

THE POSTHOUSE.

This post gives an overview of the Crossroads Messengers' base. I'm also going to discuss some ideas on what precautions Solas took before bringing down the Veil. Obligatory disclaimer I won't hold any Solas rpers to this. Rook & co. will be able to visit this location throughout the game.

FEN'HAREL'S AGENTS ACROSS THEDAS WEREN'T solely preparing for his ritual to bring down the Veil — not directly. In fact, awareness of that ritual and what it would entail varied widely across the cells. Fen'Harel was always careful with what he shared. Regardless, a good chunk of their work in the years preceding DA:TV involved doomsday preparation, especially as the ritual drew near. They reinforced the Veil at various locations so it could be brought down more smoothly. They noted what areas would likely be hit the hardest. They identified usable eluvians and corresponding pathways in the Crossroads. They excavated ancient safehouses and established new ones across the continent. They amassed emergency stockpiles such as preserved foods and medical supplies. He had a better idea this time around as to how the world would be changed, and he planned accordingly.

The Crossroads navigators (of whom Vauquelin was an unofficial leader) were spread across the major safehouses. There's only a handful of them really, but that's all you need. Each of the major safehouses would have an eluvian. That eluvian would lead to another location. That location would have a hidden and locked eluvian leading to a central hub. That central hub would have — you guessed it — a locked eluvian, guarded by spirit sentinels, leading to the Crossroads. Each navigator and the leader of the cell they were coordinating with would be able to send messages via the eluvians as well. Ability to access the eluvians, however, would become more exclusive the deeper one went. The idea is to enable them to coordinate during the apocalypse without compromising the whole network.

Vauquelin was to stay in the central hub with a small group to maintain it. There he was during the failed ritual. As he establishes an alliance with Rook, reaches out to fellow navigators, builds up the Crossroads Messengers, they operate out of this hub. The group begins jokingly referring to it as the Posthouse and to him as the Postmaster. Alas, it sticks.

The Posthouse itself is a mix of ancient and modern. Located in the Sea of Ash, it was once the last hideaway of a former Evanuris who had tried to usurp Elgar'nan. He responded by scorching the land, raising volcanoes, and transforming the area into a volcanic wasteland. It hasn't recovered in thousands of years. All that remains after so long is the bones of that former Evanuris’ last refuge. Their power left the building intact, but they had nowhere to go and nothing else survived. There was only an eluvian whose twin Elgar’nan controlled. They elected to die there alone. Elgar’nan had a penchant of exiling people there (as is still done by the Seekers of Truth), so the eluvian pathway remained.

Fen’Harel’s agents were able to restore some of the defenses and build up the ruin over the years. It’s not a self-sufficient base. There are very few plants and animals and water sources, and what exists is unsuitable for consumption. A singular deep well was found preserved by the base’s enchantments; this is the only safe water source. Soil and seeds were moved into the building with the hopes of creating a magically-shielded greenhouse, but at least initially, they’re dependent on stockpiles and deliveries via eluvian. However, it’s remote and defensible, making the chances of siege or seizure infinitesimal.

The view is abysmal, but the building itself is quite nice. What started as a purely utilitarian project inevitably had artistic touches interwoven. It’s an eclectic blend of folk art (made by the agents) and fine rugs, paintings, etc. Much of the latter was stolen by Vauquelin over the years. He even smuggled out a prized set of stained glass windows plus the artisans to install it from Serault. (The Seraultine guilds are brutal, treating the members more like slaves in order to protect the craft.) The architecture overall prioritizes alleviating the heat and focusing the eye inward (rather than out on the wasteland); any windows are small, for airflow not the view — aside from that beautiful stained glass.

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Monday 2 December 1833

..

..

at one of the house-doors - at Middelfart at 12 50 at night - had been raining heavily for sometime for the last 2 hours Lord H- and Thomas much wet - the former wanted to go on and cross the belt immediately - Thomas who is not very hard begged to stay to dry his clothes - told Lord H- he would find it cold work across the Belt and persuaded him to stop - it blue hard and rained hard - 20 minutes putting the carriage up - we had had 2 postboys the 2 stages from Nyborg here - in paying them paid almost all my copper money and all my paper but a one dollar bill intended to be kept - Left Lord H- and Thomas to dry their clothes by the stove and Eugenie and I threw ourselves upon a couple of beds in 1 room from 1 35 to 5 25 when Lord H- called us and I jumped up immediately and went to him downstairs - I had dozed all the time but could not sleep soundly for the noise of the wind and rain and expecting to be called - Lord H- had called me between 3 and 4 but it still rained so hard I thought we had better wait - Eugenie and I had boiled milk - the rest coffee - off from the Inn at Middelfart at 6 ¼ - tho’ it was close to the water we had to go (along a nice road) 20 minutes before getting to the embarking place - 10 minutes

Lay down from 1 35 to 5 25am.  

Middelfart a little town with white church tower

SH:7/ML/E/16/0143

 embarking the carriage on board a large open flat-bottomed sailing boat - over at Snoghoi [Snoghøj] in 10 minutes at 6 - 20 minutes disembarking the carriage - no horses - bun on seeing Lord H-‘s courier’s passport the postmaster quite another man - took 4 horses for us from a waggon standing by (obliged to get us forward) and off from Snoghoi [Snoghøj] merely the posthouse and a good-looking Inn at 7 ¾ - the Belt here is merely like a fine bending river - the opposite coast of Fyen [Fyn] or Funen rather wooded and undulating and pretty - the little town of Middelfart with its white-washed church tower pretty enough from Snoghoi  [Snoghøj] - the coast of Jutland is here quite bare Grassland not a tree to be seen - heavy sandy road - fine sunny morning at 10 - about an English mile from Snoghoi [Snoghøj] we began to have a little wood - undulating country, chiefly grass - perpetually fine views of the winding Belt - close to our left - several tumuli hereabouts as in Seeland before and about Roskilde - could not see this time but observed this in my way to Madame de Rosenkrantz - Kolding a tolerable little town with large unfinished modern-looking château, and old ruined castle tower close to it - nice enough little Inn at the poste - honest people - charged only ten Hamburg schillings = 10d. England for the cheese and ham and bread (thin slices of cheese or meat laid on buttered bread) and a small glass of rum Lord H- had - E- and I and Thomas had my own wine - the water of the Belt not quite up to the town but communicates by a short length of river or canal - with a little more wood the Belt and environs of Kolding would be charming - this next stage pretty well wooded - chiefly beech with a little oak etc - largeish enclosures - wettish after all this rain - like enough to England - chiefly hazel hedges - Hadersleben  [Haderslev] a nicely situated good town - with large handsome-looked brick church - bought carriage wax-lights glad enough to be able to make up for Thomas want of memory in not providing himself at Copenhagen - ½ hour at the Inn - got bread and butter and cheese and meat - several people in the room just sitting down to tea - Lord H- had a cup but said it was too weak to be worth taking so nobody else of us tried it - he as usual took plain spirits   no it was punch here    they said at Copenhagen he drank road all along heavy sand, and very wet - now at 4 ¾ pm can just see to write - cannot count upon seeing more of the country till day light tomorrow - what a pity! Apenrade  [Aabenraa] at 7 40 seems a largeish good town judging by carriage lamp-light.

[musingsofagloomywitch]

posthouse

(I mean, messengers should rest somewhere, change mounts, etc while sending correspondence, right?)

a list of 100+ buildings to put in your fantasy town

academy

adventurer's guild

alchemist

apiary

apothecary

aquarium

armory

art gallery

bakery

bank

barber

barracks

bathhouse

blacksmith

boathouse

book store

bookbinder

botanical garden

brothel

butcher

carpenter

cartographer

casino

castle

cobbler

coffee shop

council chamber

court house

crypt for the noble family

dentist

distillery

docks

dovecot

dyer

embassy

farmer's market

fighting pit

fishmonger

fortune teller

gallows

gatehouse

general store

graveyard

greenhouses

guard post

guildhall

gymnasium

haberdashery

haunted house

hedge maze

herbalist

hospice

hospital

house for sale

inn

jail

jeweller

kindergarten

leatherworker

library

locksmith

mail courier

manor house

market

mayor's house

monastery

morgue

museum

music shop

observatory

orchard

orphanage

outhouse

paper maker

pawnshop

pet shop

potion shop

potter

printmaker

quest board

residence

restricted zone

sawmill

school

scribe

sewer entrance

sheriff's office

shrine

silversmith

spa

speakeasy

spice merchant

sports stadium

stables

street market

tailor

tannery

tavern

tax collector

tea house

temple

textile shop

theatre

thieves guild

thrift store

tinker's workshop

town crier post

town square

townhall

toy store

trinket shop

warehouse

watchtower

water mill

weaver

well

windmill

wishing well

wizard tower

[norteenlinea]

My Position “Gasoline” Ft Posthouse Tuomi Out 02-10-23 Pre-Save Now

http://dlvr.it/Sj94Zj

[0ut-records]

Ride on me🙃

[superanonymousthethird]

Besides if you keep Scratch and tell him your place is in camp, Minthara approves

And if you do give him away she keeps talking about missing the dog and saying stuff like "who do we have to murder to give him back", "Scratch is at the posthouse, we must organize a rescue operation".

For the most part, except the wierd dissaproval moment, she wants to keep Scratch.

Look Minty, I dun' care of you disapprove. The lady is not getting Scratch.

[citizen69]

The Post House Headquarters of the Ulster Volunteer Force at Belfast City Hall. Circa 1913.

[fallingawaywithmuse]

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[blackjackkent]

Across the street from the posthouse, there's an anxious crowd gathered around the door of the largest building in the area.

I think, once again, it's probably Wyll who stops to pay any attention to this, because Rakha's quite preoccupied and also fairly overstimulated by the large number of people in the area.

Hanging around for a bit, though, they're able to quickly discern that the issue is that someone inside the big building - a temple of Ilmater, Jaheira explains - has been murdered. This crowd of people is refugees, people who sought help from the temple and are being turned away because of suspicion that one of them was responsible for the murder.

----

"We should see if we can help," Wyll suggests. "If these people can't get inside the city, at least we can get them as much help as we can out here."

Minthara sighs. "Truly? Must we perform yet another good deed before we may progress with our own business? Does it ease the weight of your horns yet, boy?"

(Lae'zel makes an irritated noise - partially because she agrees, and partially because it irks her to agree with Minthara against Rakha.)

Wyll glares at her - as does Rakha. "We will go in and ask," Rakha says curtly. "If we can help, so be it."

Jaheira looks up at the ornate stone building, then snorts softly. "A welcome change," she says. "The last time I entered a temple of Ilmater, we were making delivery of a human heart."

This effectively ends the moment of bickering, as all four of them turn and look at her with bemusement. Rakha blinks and Wyll lets out a soft, perplexed laugh. Lae'zel cocks her head to one side and Minthara scowls. "Elaborate," the drow demands.

Jaheira smiles blithely and begins walking up the stairs. "Let us see what the priests have to say, shall we?"

[malcolmrei]

#JustRented 🤗💚🏡 504 Myrtle Ave, Unit 3H #ClintonHill NY 11205 - Welcome to The #Posthouse, Clinton Hills eye-catching new rental development, bringing to the borough the epitome of contemporary chic. Artfully designed homes by Cl-oth Interiors blend modern industrial design and amenities with the elegance of classic Brooklyn. Embrace the open, airy layouts and clean lines of your new home. Custom designer kitchens are outfitted with high-end appliances by Blomberg, Bosch, and Whirlpool, and Caesarstone countertops and recessed lighting complete the polished look. Sleek bathrooms enjoy a black and white color palette and stainless steel contemporary fixtures. #theadamswrightteam @gsellnyc @malcolmrealestate @thomasbrooklynbroker 🎥 @benqnyc @24kvisualsnyc : : : Malcolm from #Breuckelen @compass 😉🏠🤎 License Associate #RealEstate #Broker🗽#Buying #Selling #Leasing#Investing #USMCVet #PrattGrad #KappaMan Τελειωοις (at Clinton Hill) https://www.instagram.com/p/Ck632Ayv_3V/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[bithand]

Here I'll compile links to some of the most important metas and headcanons I've written. These are the big "cornerstone of my portrayal" ones so people can easily reference them. This list will likely be updated in the future.

overview of activities

alliance with Rook

The Posthouse

[dan-axe]

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A post shared by Dan Axe (@danaxemusic)

Part 3: The first draft of the 1st "drop" section - it's turned into a WAYY heavier beast since, stay tuned for further peeks and the eventual free download!

https://www.instagram.com/p/Bs_B5VDl_d_/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=yuegjzfjsjzm

[otoradio]

Yuliana Ahulijing - The Landscape Of Post-House Music #5

Новая серия передачи Yuliana Ahulijing, посвященной post-house музыке. Этот выпуск впервые выходит с комментариями автора. Tracklist: 1. Patrick Holland - Living 2. broosnica - through the scars (interlude) 3. Весна, Найки - Темновато 4. Интересные Ощущения - Двусторонний Скотч 5. HNNY - No 6. BRTS - Métropolitain 7. Петербургские Звуковые Системы - Безжалостный 8. Интересные Ощущения - Опомнись 9. Весна, Найки - Джангл 10. Тефида и Океан - Где ты 11. Laurence Guy - Knotweed 12. Dj Aakmael - Jazz Piece 2 13. Louf - Outside My House 14. Найки - Вишни 15. Baaz - Glim 16. Wallabee - 2K17 17. broosnica - russian ecstasy 18. broosnica - through the scars Ссылки на исполнителей: 2, 17, 18 - https://vk.com/broosnica 3, 9, 14 - https://vk.com/saturn_belarus 4, 8 - https://vk.com/goshamartynov 6 - https://vk.com/brtsoundhiphop 7 - https://vk.com/public145958771 10 - https://vk.com/tethysandocean Фото обложки: Андрей Барышников