stranger still

Art by Adriaen Brouwer

Partially because I was prompted to and partially because I probably would have anyway, I expanded my list of strangers in a bar to with another 10 entries (new entries are listed first on the table this time). Each new entry corresponds to an on old one, so if you use the table extensively, you ought to have a series of fun little related encounters.

d20 Strangers

1	A gunsmith, ugly and crude, rough formed brow low over his eyes. Carves a half finished gun stock while talking; the dryad trapped in the wood grain flinches and whimpers silently under the idle strokes of his blade. Says there’s a battle coming, that that’s where the real money is.
2	Three revolutionaries, identifiable by their broad brimmed hats and hard boots. Two of them carry the third between him: blood from a wound in his gun soaks through his mustard yellow jacket, staining it brown. The two standing ask after an old woman, paw at their pistols, remind you who holds the power now.
3	A hard eyed woman, dressed in hides and leather. Reeks of herbs and salt. Metal nails in her boots. Orders shot of fine liquor. Sniffs it, doesn’t drink it. When asked for payment she produces two severed fingers. Small, well preserved. Well maintained, sharp nails. Says she deserves a break for all she’s done for the town. She’s been hunting fae, she says. Nobody knows what she’s talking about.
4	A man on all fours. Dressed well, extravagantly even, though it's hard to tell. Holes worn through on the knees of velvet trousers. Smells like perfume and bile and sweat. Cannot speak in more than grunts, gestures urgently to his head, mimes a crown with his hands.
5	A homeless dryad. Wearing nothing, does not seem to be aware of it. Trying not to cry. Perpetually in between sobs. Horrible scarring on her back, rough and splintered like hacked wood. Sits at the bar, strokes the it fondly, running her hands along the smooth timber. When her fingers reach a knot, she bursts into tears.
6	A sea captain, her eyes smooth and pale as porcelain. Doesn’t walk so much as glide. Her coat is slick and wet. She’s just stopped in for a drink, she says. One of her men was on shore leave and recommended this bar. She’s left the door open. Through the frame you can glimpse a ship, some distance off, rocking in a sea that looks like fresh milk. A rowboat is tied to a horse hitch, barely above water. The road is gone.
7	A lion with a pelt the color of sand blasted stone, mane streaming behind it as though caught in a gale. Noses open the door, and then stands guarding it, facing out into the night. Its tail twitches endlessly, the tip of it tangled and scrubby. It does not stop any attempts to exist, but anyone approaching the door from the outside prompts it to open its jaws. It has no teeth, but its roar is hideous and lonely.
8	A full patrol of guards. They burst in, weapons drawn, eyes wild, heads swiveling this way and that. Their coats are not fully buttoned, their hats askew. WHERE IS HE? They roar as one. WHERE IS HE? They cannot say who they are looking for. Any questions about the nature of their investigation befuddle them. Their faces grow long and wanting, their eyes lost.
9	A swordswoman in uniform, hair unkempt, face distracted and concerned. Her sword is sheathed, but the scabbard is soaked, leaves a trail of blood behind her. At the bar, she draws the blade, asks for a cloth. Her sword is soaking, drenched in deep red blood oozing off the blade, running over the crossguard and dripping off the pommel. Her cloth is quickly soaked. She tosses it aside, asks for another, another, another.
10	A revolutionary inspector, broad hat far back on his head, a pair of glasses at the tip of his squashed nose. He is enthusiastic about the revolution and his work, buys a round for the bar before asking questions. He inquires about the source of the wood for the counter tops and the rafters, the age of the foundation. Makes notes constantly, is excited by all answers, but never satisfied.
11	A foreign soldier, mustache stiff from the dust of the road, with a belt and boots of shimmering, iridescent snakeskin. Chained to his belt is a pale looking child, who carries the soldier's bedroll and the ammunition for the heavy iron rifle on the soldier's back, muzzle carved to resemble a woman’s face and singing mouth.
12	An old woman, tall and slender, wearing the worn remains of once fine garments. Several of the silver buttons of her coat are missing, and her bracelets are lacking in jewels. She leans wearily on a heavy longsword that she is using as a walking cane: its tip scrapes the floor of the tavern with each step.
13	Two young men, a new couple, lost in conversation with each other, barely even pausing to register that they have entered the tavern. One of them wears two ostentatious wedding bands on the same finger,  one of gold and fire-bright ruby, the other of silver and midnight sapphire. His partner is missing both ring fingers.
14	A drunken washerwoman, all fumbling feet, wandering eyes, and wide smile, with a kings crown perched precariously atop her head. If it is mentioned, she grows defensive, declaring with a warbling voice and many hand gestures that “she earned it, fair and square.”
15	A lumberjack with a bundle of wood on his back and bright, crackling eyes. He attempts to sell logs to whoever will meet his gaze, claiming they are the last wood of the old forests. He is ready to demonstrate by burning a log or two in the fire if his claims are challenged.
16	A sailor, weather worn and grey despite his apparent youth. He heads to the fire, where he stands, clothes steaming. Once dry, he will begin to ask around, looking anyone who is the captain of a ship headed across the Alabasterine Sea, though the proper coast is a months journey from the tavern.
17	A lion with a pelt the color of a green forest pool, standing sedately in the doorway. It makes no move to enter, but will not budge for any trying to exit. Growl-purrs like wet leaves being torn. Its teeth are long and dark, the color of stones in a fast moving stream.
18	A merchant, fresh and bright, in new clothes with shining boots and buttons. A delicious smell wafts from his wicker pack, so tantalizing it makes all food and drink entirely unappetizing and nearly repulsive in comparison. He will avoid all questions about the pack and his wares, always bringing the conversation back the quickest ways to get out of town.
19	A swordswoman in uniform, bleeding profusely from her forearm. Her face is strong and cheerful, brown eyes dancing around the room, lips curled in a smug and self congratulatory confidence. Wrings her bloody sleeve into her beer until it is rosy, offers a swig to any who remark.
20	A royalist investigator, dressed in an outdated silk skirt and jacket, carrying an overstuffed folder and a well maintained pistol. Dark hair struggling to curl free of a over-tight bun.  She wants to see original deed to the tavern, is not above threatening violence.