Martes patted the various pockets lining the chest of his tattered wool vest before the muffled peal of his key ring greeted his ears. He fumbled with the various keys that ran along its circuit until at last the Melting Pot’s front door cleared its throat.

"Ahem. It’s the fourth one past your left thumb."

Martes removed the spectacles from his right vest pocket and placed them on his nose. Squinting, he shuffled the keys with one hand, running the other through the silver streaks in his ash-gray hair. Then, finding the key, he tested the lock on the front door. The gears protested for a moment, before the bolt rolled into place with an audible clunk.

"Thank you," Martes told the door before turning the knob. It didn’t budge. "What now?" he asked the door impatiently.

"The sign," the door told him.

Martes reached above his head and pulled the pin from the sign over the door. The wooden flap on top swung down, and the sign’s messaged changed to announce the tavern as open for business.

The door clicked and swung open of its own accord, and Martes stepped inside.

His white overcoat swayed in the wind as he approached the door of the Melting Pot tavern, revealing his comfortable black shirt, baggy black pants, and black adventuring boots. His extremely long, snow white hair flowed like a river of quicksilver, and his different colored eyes (left one yellow, right one turquoise) lay on the door. He reached out to grasp the doorknob...

"Hello, traveler. Welcome to the Melting Pot tavern," the door suddenly spoke.

Angel flinched and looked left to right. "Who said that?"

"Um, I did, sir," the door said.

Angel then looked at the door, his eyes wide. "How strange. A talking door."

"Ahem. Your hair is down to your ankles and your eyes are different colors, and you call me strange?" the door said.

"Point taken," Angel said sheepishly.

"Anyway, please come inside," the door spoke as it swung open. Angel hesitated for a minute, then stepped inside.

She brushed a long strand of her mud brown hair from her one good eye as she nearly passed up the Melting Pot tavern. Seeing the sign that said it was open, she paused, staring.

"Well, are you coming in or not?" said the door.

Lana jumped in astonishment.

"Did you just...?" she asked the door.

"Yes. I'm a talking door. Welcome to the Melting Pot. Come on in."

The door swung open and Lana slowly walked through it, patting all of the pockets of her patched up vest and breeches.

"Aren't those swords a bit too big for you, sonny?"

He stopped, and turned around slowly on the spot, he squinted at his surroundings.

"Who's there?" His hand drifted to the larger of the two swords, Nightwoods. Its 6-span (as the king spread's his palm) blade shimmering in the moonlight.

"Only a harmless wooden door. You aren't going to hack me open are you, dear boy?"

"You can talk?" The grip on the sword tightened.

"I expect you are feeling a bit mad; talking to a door. A fairly common reaction, most travellers are fascinated by me. It's good for business"

In his nineteen years, Roger had never heard a door speak.

"Come in boy, the cider's good"

"I don't drink" he replied shortly.

"A good dinner, then. You look famished".

Roger had spent the past two days in Pyranor Forest, narrowly escaping a group of gnomes he had met on the road. Dinner was a godsend.

"Alright" he said, relaxing his grip on his sword.

The door was already open.

“Demon!” exclaimed a tall brown skinned man as he stepped back from the door that had greeted him, his hands shaking quite feverously and his un-bandaged eye widening.

With an exuberated tone, the door said, “Sir, I am not a demon.”

“Demons are known well for their lies,” mused the man, “I do not believe you.”

“If I were a demon, do you honestly believe I would wait this long to attack?”

“That is a good point, yet I can not be sure how you could talk otherwise,” the once-warrior said as he shook his head, letting his tied back black hair move from between his shoulder blades.

“Have you heard of a thing called ‘magic’?”

“Indeed, I have heard of magics that do not depend on dancing with demonic deities,” came the response of Laoyu, while he scratched the scars and the stubs of a beard on his chin. “I shall believe you for now, only if you do not touch me.”

With out waiting for any sort of response, he edged his way toward the open door, practically bolting through as soon he was sure it wasn’t going to steal his soul.

Dr. Emrys walked up to the Melting Pot Tavern. It had been a long day pretending to be a human as he subtetuted a class of kids. The day was over, and the old wizard was thirsty. The door spoke to him. "Who the Hell are you?"

The wizard looked up, shocked to be adressed in this mannor. He would normally give quite a good sacre to somebody who talked to him this way. However, he was tired and only said, "I am known by many names. The one that I go by when I don't want to be surronded by fanaticks is "Dr. Emrys." Without another word, he walked into the tavern.

She walked down the dusty street wondering who would hire her next. Her lose fitting black shirt and pants that were tucked into knee high black leather boots hid her many knives and other tools of her trade. A long charcole gray cloack hung down her back with the hood pushed back to reveil her dark red hair, tan skin, and silver eyes. The inside was covered in pockets that could hold anything and never gain any weight. She stood around 5'8" with a full hourglass figure.

She would have kept on walking but she stopped dead in her tracks when a voice called out, "Someone inside could help you mercenary."

"What the...?" she asked looking around for someone.

"That would be me." said the door leading into the tavern.

"Oh...well I guess I should go in then." she said with a curious glint in her unusal eyes.

"You are the first one not to be completly shocked by this. May i ask why?" it said

"I have seen too much in these worlds not to be shocked by something like you." she said and walked on in.

Rem regarded the sign in front of him critically. A wooden likeness of an overflowing kettle swung uneasily in the wind, with a thick board creaking beneath it in the shape of an arrow pointing towards the door. The image struck him as easy to misinterpret as a witch's brew. From the outside it was not the most well kept of buildings, but he hadn't been hoping for much else.

"I assure you there are more interesting features to the tavern, though the conversation on the inside can't match what you get out here."

Rem's right hand moved towards the long sword at his hip, a simple blade with a hilt for two hands and a blade light enough for one. On his right was sheathed a medium steel dagger, short of blade but with a strong hooked cross guard. The armor he wore was even less ornate than his blades, consisting only of a simple leather tunic and leggings, padding against the battered mail shirt that completed it. His boots were worn but durable, with the dust of many different roads and many different colors spotting their various surfaces. Likewise were the thin leather gloves on his hands. No helm or hood completed the attire, though on his back was slung a large round shield bearing a blue-painted Great Bear, insignia of the northern outland colonies.

Without drawing the sword or turning his head, Rem listened. "Show yourself," he spoke after a moment.

"Not this again. Look, if I wasn't bolted to a doorframe, I'd find someone more interesting to talk to. You all come in confused, then leave drunk. If I get another dent from you, I'm breaking your nose next time you come inside."

Slowly Rem turned his head towards the door. With a quick glance down either sides of the street, he leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. "This is some sort of a joke, right?"

"Yes of course," the door said. "My very existence is a joke. Don't worry, once you've had a few drinks you can ponder the meaning of life, and realize your existence is a joke as well."

The door swung open and Rem went inside, glancing over his shoulder as the door shut behind him. Only after it latched into place did he let his hand off the pommel of his sword.

"Haven't seen you in a while," said the door.

Mezzik smiled and said "I've been sleeping." He pointed at the sign over the door "The Melting Pot now, is it? What happened to the Drowsing Drake?"

"You really have been sleeping. The owner snuffed it twenty years ago."

"Does the new owner know how to serve up a frosty yeti?"

"Of course," said the door, swinging open to admit him, "but only creeps like you order it."

Mezzik just laughed and stepped lightly into the tavern.

Human drinks tended to turn his blood to poison. A Dragonkin of the other flights might have shied away from said drinks for that reason, but Eldarath LIKED poison. Especially when it was in him.

"Go away," the door muttered. "I don't like the sight of you, black Dragonkin. Everyone knows your ilk are evil."

Eldarath had come across talking flowers, pots, suns, things that went bump in the dark and primordial oozes. A talking door wasn't very strange by comparison. "Then it appears we have an understanding. I don't like you, and you don't like me, but I'll be buying something from the person who owns you. You might get some oil in the bargain, if you're a good door and open now. I won't cause any UNECESSARY trouble, I promise."

"And what good is a promise from the mouth of one from the Black Flight?"

"Or I could rip you to shreds with my claws, if you like. You see, I'm really thristy, and there's something to drink inside. The fact that you are obstructing my way is beneficial to neither of us."

"You won't fit through me. You're nearly one-and a half-times as tall as the average human."

"I can and I WILL. No more oil for your hinges, now that you've been a bad door."

"You don't mind the fact that you're stepping into a tavern full of generic fantasy races who are possibly all on the supposed side of Good and are extremely xenophobic in the process?"

"I'll get my drink, if it means I have to garrotte them all. I don't like generic fantasy races, but I don't like being thirsty even more."

For a moment the door hesistated before swinging open, letting Eldarath step inside.

"I see we have come to an agreement. Thank you very much," Eldarath said as he entered. "I might consider the oil when I leave..."

"I advise you to go somewhere else dragon." said the door to the tavern he had been heading to.

"Why? I can sence my kind in there.Even a door such as you must have noticed how rare females are in these worlds of late." he calmly replied

"I must admit you have been the nicest one i have met. I thought there was something unnusal about that mercenary woman who came in here. Well if you must you must. Just none of that fire breathing if you will."

Bylan smiled and entered.

He slowly dragged his mud caked shoes down the street, clomping towards a rather inviting looking door, he decided, while gazing onward in hope that beyond it would lead to warmth.

For days he had been traveling in the wilderness, regrettably straying from marked paths just to do a little sight seeing. He figured it quite a miracle that he had not died. Although the heaviness in his joints told him that he was dead tired, nonetheless.

Fahim pushed his thick lensed glasses up his nose, and stared expectantly at the door through dead eyes. His senses tingled as he placed his gloved arms behind his back, standing as tall as his short frame could manage.

“Well?” The Necromancer cocked his head to one side, his hair shifted to reveal many strands of grey in the otherwise dark brown population. Not a sign of aging, he could reassure himself with that.

“Well what?” The door answered. Fahim’s mouth widened into a pleased smile.

“Thank heavens! I knew I could sense something, and it was you, door!” He let out a sigh of relief. “Now, could you let me in, if that is what you do, I mean, you are not here to scare away customers are you?” He raised a questionable eyebrow.

“Of course that is what I do! If I was just a decoration don’t you think I would look better?” The door snapped back.

“I suppose so.” He laughed pushing up his glasses once again. “So, how about it?”

“What makes you so sure I’ll let a walking pile of death just come waltzing in?” He frowned at the door’s remark.

“I’m terribly hurt. What makes you think I’m dead? I have a pulse.” He placed a gloved hand on his neck. “I would show you it, but unfortunately you do not have arms.” He smirked.

“You think you’re so clever.”

“Quite.” Fahim bowed quickly in gratefulness to the door, as it swung itself open, before darting inside of the Tavern.

Metis wears plain brown leather breeches and a padded leather jacket under a shirt of chain male. A callused hand strays to his sword hilt as he suspiciously eyes the sign and door before him.

"This place reeks of evil," he mutters to himself with a sigh.

"Well then, aren't you being a little judgmental, Knight?" the door retorts.

Metis jumps back and draws his sword. "What witchery is this?"

"Knight of Mithesius indeed," the door chuckles, "you aren't suppose to judge peoples you haven't met, you know better than that."

Metis narrows his eyes and shieths his sword, "You know quite a bit for a door."

"If only I could meet a creature deserving of a good conversation with me," the door sighed, "then I could put my knowledge to good use."

"Well at the very least you could be of some use and open. I've been hunting a band of slavers for three months threw the Dim-wood. I'm in no mood to put up with the likes of you, I'd like a tankard of beer and a place to rest my care warn feet if you don't mind."

"All right, all right," the door opened, "no respect, none at all."

"Aren't you a fascinating peace of work?" she said conversationally. "Who made you?"

"He wasn't so kind as to give me his name."

Rajael smiled. "I made a door like you once. Spiderweb and mata blood, clover and a finger bone." Her smile grew even wider. "And a tree, of course. I think it was oak, but it might have been maple. It wasn't so kind as to tell me, or to let me know that the Awnasee were coming for my head."

"No Awnasee in here," the door informed her. "Are you going to come in?"

"Are you going to open?"

The door swung open, and she laughed at it's mutter as she walked into the tavern.

Zaeri's hand went automatically to her necklace when as stranger brushed past her exiting the tavern. She eyed it curiously, the scars that were imprinted deeply onto the side of her face whone a little bit brighter than her skin in the dim light. She looked around the street for someone she knew, then gathered that she would be inside waiting for her. Brushing her long black hair out of her face as she often did when annoyed, she set out towards the tavern, her long grey skirt soaked up dampness from the puddles she walked over.

"Who are you?"

Zaeri yelped, her hand was tight around the hilt of her sword as she looked for the source of the voice.

"Who's there?" she called out.

"I am. Over here."

She looked to the door, shaking her head.

"No way! It isn't possible..." she walked closer to the door, bending slightly looking for the mouth.

"You, who are you?" the door asked again, this time she answered.

"I am Zaeri," she replied, "And who are you?" She had to admit that it was rather strange talking to a door and it wasn't something that she was keen on doing again. Yet again she was nervously holding her necklace.

"I am a door," the door replied obviously and Zaeri felt angry to have been insulted by a door for the first time in her life, but it wasn't really insulting her at all.

Before she unleashed her anger out on the door, it opened and a gush of warm air swept through her and led her inside without any more time spent on talking to the door.

he was an elderly dark elf who had just come back from helping an army through an enchanted forest as he walked toward the door of the tavern he heard what sounded like some talking to him from behind the door the voice asked

"who are you"

Rion returned " I am Rion the mage looking for food and board who wants to know"

the voice said "me the door who would it be"

rion looked up at the door with a delighted look on his face " i haven't seen an enchantment like this in years, would you kindly open up so that i may enter"

the door swung silently open

"What's someone like YOU doing here, Sister?" asked the door, rudely.

Anya widened her eyes slightly in surprise but otherwise gave no more outwardly visible signs of her astonishment.

"Even a sister of the Kelateen Order needs to rest her feet, door. I am weary. Travelling for miles on foot can be tiring," she replied softly.

"You might want to try somewhere else. There are a lot of rough customers in there. Not good company for a good sister such as yourself. I've already had a guy lead another guy out into the alley at knife point."

Anya raised her eyes to glare at the door and there was steel in them. "LET ME THROUGH."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," the door replied peevishly, swinging open to let her pass.

She lowered her gaze once more and entered.

While the city was comprised of more races than most, Ugg felt comfort in the small token that marked him as a student and thus not some marauder-not that he looked very much like one, with neat-cropped hair and a university uniform.

Of course, said university was a training ground for COMPETENT evil people, but that was always hush-hush. No one could argue with increased education. Training to be a competent shaman was taking its toll on Ugg, and the examinations on the subject of spirit-speaking were coming up soon.

"The melting pot tavern," he mused. "A drink perhaps?"

"Yes."

"A talking door," Ugg muttered, absentmindedly scratching a tusk. "I wonder. What made you? high magic? Shamanistic magic? Rituals? Hm..."

"Do you want in?" the door grumbled. "I've already admitted too many sad characters through me today-you don't top the list. Keep it short and simple, I'm tired."

"I suppose," Ugg replied. "I need to stay awake these days."

Without another word, the door swung open and Ugg the orc walked inside, unsure of how he'd be received.

A girl dressed in black walked up through the quiet town. It was dark out, and she was dressed so heavily in black, that she seemed to disappear into the darkness around her. She looked here and there before she finally stopped at a certain tavern.

"Oooh," she breathed aloud. "The Melting Pot Tavern. A tavern for melting pots! Oh, I want to join! I want to drink beer and melt a pot!"

She ran up to the door and knocked on it furiously.

"Let me melt a pot!" she cried.

"Uh... okay," a voice replied sheepishly. "Melt a pot. Sure. Whatever you say. Just... stop... hitting... me!"

The girl smiled, believing there to be someone on the other side of the door, before skipping in. The door swung shut behind her and sighed.

"Well, in all my years... i certaintly haven't heard that one before."

((this isn't because she's polish and blonde. that's just the way her character is. just want to make sure i don't offend anyone... i'm polish and blonde, too!))

“Who’s there?”

After a few seconds he figured it out that it was the door that had spoke.

“Hunter would you please allow me to enter?” hunter replied

The door then said “why should I”

Then becoming a annoyed by the door said, in a matter of fact tone, “if you don’t I’ll rip you to shreds and burn you”

“Well with that type of attitude I staying closed” said the door.

“Your funeral” Hunter said as he unsheathed Fang from his shoulder and planted it solidly in to the wood of the door, which caused it to scream “Ok, ok I’ll open up just get that thing out of me!” after removing Fang and sheathing it the door swung open without another comment

She stopped and looked left. There was a door, and it seemed a recent chunk had been taken out of it. People brushed past her in annoyed rush, though all saw fit to avoid touching her. That suited her just fine. She abhorred touch. Her silence continued as she stared at the door, a pause filled with curiosity. She knew something was watching her back.

"Flesh?" She asked, tilting her head slightly to the side.

"Certainly not." The door responded, sounding only mildly affronted.

Deilakrion continued to stare at the door, rubbing grimy hands on her thighs.

"Beast?" The door suddenly asked, sarcasm laced through its tone.

"Creature. This creature is a creature," Deilakrion said off-handedly, turning more fully to study the door, "What. . .?"

"I am a door." The door said impatiently. Its tone was becoming grievous, though it was lost upon Deilakrion's mind.

"This creature shall enter." She said, pausing momentarily to let a mother with a string of children pass before she moved to stand before the door. She grasped the knob, but it did not budge. She scowled.

"You're naked." The door said.

"This creature has no need of fleshy clothes." She bared her teeth at it, bristling. Fleshes were bad enough, but now an object was chastising her for her mannerisms? She shook her head to herself, heaving a sigh.

"Do you even have money?" It was clearly exasperated at the odd elf--certainly this wasn't a typical encounter! But Deilakrion only frowned at the door, offended at the question. What use had she for such fleshy trappings? She turned as if to walk away, when the door spoke up, albeit grudgingly.

"You may enter."

And so she did.

"Are you alright, Paige?" a soft voice asked. She turned around to find a rather large black wolf looking at her worridly.

"Yep, I'm dreaming." she said more to herself than to answer. "Who are you? And did you just talk?"

"I am Cota, I have always talked and when you were a pup you talked to me and understood, but as you grew you lost the ability." the wold said this as if it was fact and she had no reason to disbelieve him. Besides to her this was all a dream.

"Well Cota we can't stay here all night lets go over to those buildings. Surely one is an inn." so they walked over to the first one and thankfully it was a tavern that would most likly have a spare room. A sign out front showed some kind of pot and the words beneath said 'Melting Pot Tavern'. She looked over at Cota and he nodded. She was about to reach for the knob when she heard a voice.

"Arn't you a little young?"

"Who said that?" she asked while Cota let out a low growl.

"I did, the door. Well you might as well come in. I have already let in enough oddities and you and your over grown dog are but one more." it said and swung open. Since things stranger than this had happened in her dreams she thought it was fine, but she layed one hand on Cota just in case.

"Well aren't you going-what in the hell happened to your hair."

Aly subconciously ran her hand through her cut up auburn hair. Her blue eyes peeked up at the massive door.

"What's it to you, I thought this was a bar! Let me in!"

"Password." Aly looked dumbfounded at the door, and scratched her head.

"Damn it, you let all these other people with out a password!" She grabbed hold of the knob, but as much as she tried to twist and turn the knob, the door would not open. She was surprised when she was pushed aside by her friend Andrew, who simply turned the knob the other way and entered the tavern. She gaped at her brunette friend and looked up at the door.

"I'm going to make you into fire wood one day," she anounced before entering the bar.

Big yellow eyes looked up at him from under the white hood, the bigger than average mouth undser it showing no signs of expression, or the desire to speak. Though the rest of the white cloak that covered past her feet shook slightly in excitement.

Thrusting a hand through his gray hair, the hald demon took off toward the inn, not bothering to conceal his horns in the geasture. The demon tried to walk through the door, though found it woudn’t budge. With an annoyed glare from his red cat-like eyes, he growled down at it. “Hey, what gives?”

“Sorry, no admition to demons.”

“What!? You let in naked elves!”

“Though that’s a good point, it’s still polocy not to let in things that start with “D” that don’t conceal their nature.”

“Ok, wait up…” With in a moment, the half breed was covered in fire, though it hardly seamed to effect his clothing or anything on him. As quickly as it came, the fire was gone, along with the half-breed’s horns and wings. He flipped his bandana so that it covered the holes where his wings used to be and asked, “Now can I enter?”

“I guess… I should retire after today.”

With that, the half demon entered, almost literally dragging along the cloaked girl.

((I'll edit this later, when I'm not so sleepy...))

"LET ME IN LET ME IN! I ASK SANCTUARY OF THY HOUSEHOLD! LET ME IN!" There is a huge thumping noise, as a boy of fifteen pounds the door in desparation, getting down on his knees in the thick blanket of snow outside.

"Ok, ok, just don't kill me in the process!" the door weeps, swinging open sadly.

"Thank..you.." the boy whimpers, almost collapsing onto the floor in relief and exhaustion. The door gets a better view of the latest entree. He is rather small, a result of a stunted growth, but has large hands, that are rough, dry and worn by the elements. His skin is slightly tanned, his face thin, forlorn and hollow. His hair resembles that of seaweed; long and wavy, fair in colour with occasional blonde streaks. But his eyes are covered with a silken black blindfold, contrasting greatly with his torn and patched measly rags.

"Just who ARE you?" asked the door, slightly confused at the difference between this one and the rest.

"I am Paul Whikestren. Nothing more than a saw mill worker, just down on his luck and pursued by foes he cannot see." he replies, a sense of mystery hanging about. The door got the hint that there was more. More that it was not allowed to ask of. If doors have an equivalent of nodding, then that is what it did.

"Thou art the barkeep, no? I'll need a drink from thy cellars, if thou would be pleased so to fetch it for me, I will pay for its worth."

"What?" the door asks, completely baffled at the boy's language, and at the fact he was not looking at the door, but forward, as if there was a person in front. Then it realised. The boy was blind; its own voice was no different from a human's, it did not matter where it came from. Paul did not know that it was the door who was the talker.

"I am not the bartender! That guy at the BAR is. I'm just the door."

Paul jumped, letting out a small shriek, and promptly wacked his head on the hat-stand.

"A talking door? Impossible! Surely thou jest?"

"Ever considered magic before?" the door tries, wondering how on earth this boy could go through this world and live in it for fifteen years without ever knowing about magic. Paul begins to chuckle.

"Thou art a jester, perhaps? All citizens of sound mind in this realm know that magic perished along with the dragons! Aeons ago!"

"Well, that's where your wrong." the door replies, matter-of-fact.

Paul's face sinks like a ship, like he has just been disproved of his entire reality.

"Just where hast my wonderings led me to?...." he mumbles, before walking into a chair as he slouches his way towards the bar.

Emily weirs clothes that are as non discript as herself: what was once a white long-sleeved shirt, now gray and brown with the stains of constant travel, brown leather pants, and a thick warm hooded cloak of homespun gray wool (the hood of her cloak is currently not on her head, but hung back over her shoulders). If anyone notices Emily at all it is because she is so strikingly ordinary looking. She is of avrage height and avrage build and has brown eyes and brown hair that is pulled back in a smiple braid that hangs to her shoulders.

Emily walked up to the door of "The Melting Pot" and leaning her walking stick against the wall she looked at the door for a moment. The door apeared simple in construction, and yet seemed beautifual to her eyes. She ran both hands over the smooth wood and smiled.

"Someone put a lot of care and effort into your creation..." she said, her voice thick with a rich cultured accent, "and what is this I feel? Intelagence... impashientce, cunning, and perhaps anoyance and irritation as well."

Her smile turned from contemplative to amused as she concidered the door a moment longer, still letting her hands rove over the time warm smoothness of the wood.

"Intellagent, yes," the door answered, indeed impashient and irritated, "Are you coming in or do you intend to pet me all night?"

Emily let out a bit of soft laughter, "If you would kindly open for me I would very much like to enter."

"Very well then," the door swung open and Emily took her walking stick in hand again and stepped threw the threshold.

With a short grin on her face, she looked at the door.

"I've seen worse in my life," she muttered, and walked up to it.

"Tsk tsk, that's no way to speak of the Melting Pot," somebody said, and Elodie raised her eyebrows at the door.

"Wouldn't happen to be you who just said that, would it?" she asked calmly.

"Yup. Come on in, Quickblade." The door swung open slowly. At that, Elodie paused, surprised for a moment, and then her chin lifted.

"Right, oakwood," she said, and walked in the open door.

Dressed in a long pale draping sleeved shirt and tan common skirt, Theodora glances nervously around to ensure that no body is followin her. Dodging the stares of the townsfolk she approaches the Melting Pot Door. SHe stares at it then decides that she should go in. Theodora pulls on the door handle but can't manage to open the door.

"There's a secret password to open this door, isn't there?" She said quietly to herself. Woe is me she thought.

"There's no password to come to the Melting Pot," Says a voice. Theodora turns in circles but has no clue who is speaking. She looks hard at the door and jumped when it said something:

"It's very rude to stare," The door said.

"Then How do I get in, if your so smart!?" Theodora snapped.

"Push the door and walk inside," The door replied.

"I knew that..." Theodora muttered to the door as she walked inside.

"Sure, you did..."The door mumbled back.

The door was baffled at the newcomer; his cheerful, bright face was resident to two big, blue eyes, that seemingly shone with bits of silver and gold, his hair was a wavy mass of brown curls, and a long flowing green cloak billowed down from his shoulders to the tavern floor, kept in its place by a gleaming gold brooch of a lark. A black tailcoat graced his thin frame, cream white trousers covered his legs and went over two fine black boots, and a small short sword dangled calmly in a sheath by his side. Its hilt was shaped like a crescent moon, its point deadly sharp. A simple wooden staff was attached to a buckle behind his cloak. Simon smiled amiably, nodding at the door as if he knew it were magic for eternity.

"It's been a very long time since I encountered such a fine specimen of a Veneficus Ianua."

If doors can have an equilvelent of looking confused, then that is what it did.

"Veneficus Ianua? What on Earth are you TALKING about?"

"Oh, so you're not one of those? Then you are a Pseudothyrum. Gosh, I've only ever read about those! You have no idea how much you mean to my research."

"Research?" The door replied futily.

"Oh yes!" Simon said, beaming. He took out a small, notebook made of parchment, the cover embroidered with Angelic Gold. He flicked contentedly through the many pages, most of which were plastered in notes, diagrams and strange doodles, until he came to an empty page.

"Aha!" He dug into a pocket on his tailcoat, and fished out a strange writing instrument. Simon hummed as he scribbled away on the virgin white paper, his hands dashing about in a flurry of movement, and he occasionally flicked a short glance upwards at the door. A figuritive question mark appeared in its thoughts.

Finally Simon lifted his hand away from the page, that was bombarded by a sprawl of messy handwriting. He grinned, nodded quickly at the door, and said in a cheery voice, "Why thank you, Mr. Pseudothyrum, for your co-operation. I can't wait to finish my volume about Vocalae Utensilia, and you have just contributed to chapter 30! Please, you MUST tell me more about yourself when I leave."

"Just who ARE you?"

"Simon Boscal, a mage from someplace very far away, I imagine." Simon smiled, and ambled lazily over to the bar.

Night was dark he noted, it was even worse without his glasses. The blurred image of the melting pot tavern filled his vision. He flapped his small wings rapidly in the air propelling his bat body towards the door. But unfortunately, the distraught he felt before about was about to be doubled. He shrilled horribly as he came in contact with the hard wooden sign of the tavern.

Falling to the ground with a light thud, the bat remained stunned only until the sound of the jeering door reached his ears. With a twist of his head, he looked up, big eyes glowing faintly in the dark. He squeaked. ‘What?’

“Do that again. I’m itching for another laugh, bat.” The door demanded. The bat flipped himself onto his stomach, staring wildly in front of him, echoing his pervious squeak. He was fully aware of how much that first hit had hurt, why in the world would he want to do that again…Intentionally?

“Do you intend to make me wait all night? Or are you going to stop looking like a fool and get up?” The door asked, and the bat stayed silent cocking his head to one side.

‘What kind of door is this?’ He thought. ‘Not your average one- It’s like Perry!’

“Well?” The door said once more, annoyance was ripe in its voice. “I know what you are bat, I hate the stench of your rotting kind.”

The bat fluffed out his fur, as if offended by the comment, however, he obliged to the door’s wishes.

A soft white glow emitted from the animal’s small body, spreading along each limp until completely engulfing the bat so all that could be seen was a oddly shaped lump of light on the ground. It began to meld and shift, looking similar to that of a liquid as it moved to form its new figure. The process was done quickly and when the light dispersed, what was left sitting was not a bat, but a rather tall red-headed man with glasses perched on his long nose.

Murray stood up, wincing that the sound of his own knees cracking. He dusted off his clothing, making sure that his purple collared shirt was dirt free. He looked to the door and spoke. “Happy?”

“It’s an improvement.” The door replied. “Though I was expecting something fancier.”

The red-headed man rolled his eyes and reached for the door’s knob.

“Hold it!” The door screeched, and Murray stopped in mid-motion, his eyes went wide with puzzlement.

“What?”

“I didn’t say you could enter.”

He frowned at the door’s words, deciding that this piece of wood was rather mean, and assumed it probably had a bitter taste. All he wanted was a drink inside the Tavern, and a place to sleep, he was truly exhausted from flying during the day’s light hours, he thought, musing sadly. He desperately needed rest, even if it was just for a little while.

“Why can’t I?” He asked, stepping backwards, smiling innocently. “All I want is a drink.”

The door fell silent.

“Ah!” Murray exclaimed. “That sounded better in my head! A drink of alcohol was what I meant!” He waved his hands in front of him frantically. “Nothing else! I swear!”

Silence ran through the air. The vampire couldn’t tell whether or not the door was thinking, or just ignoring him.

“So…?” He asked cocking his head to one side, waiting.

“No.” The door replied.

“Awww! Please?”

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

“No.”

“With a cherry on top?”

The door sighed heavily. “Don’t you understand the word no? If you were a dog and I had arms I would slap you on the nose with a newspaper! Now get!”

Now it was his turn to say no, and he did so with a shake of a head. “If you won’t let me in willingly…I have other ways to get you to open for me.”

“And what would that be? I heard that vampires can’t enter any building with out being invited. You’re swift out of luck for that one, smarty pants.” The door snorted in triumph.

“Oh, I know.” He said slyly moving towards the door, and leaning his face close to its surface. He stuck out his tongue, and licked. It did taste bitter.

“Argh! Disgusting!” The door cried flinging itself open, causing Murray to fall face first into the Tavern.

She seemed loath to enter the tavern: wary not so much of the door as of the people she knew were on the other side. A hand, mottled with stains from the mugwort she had picked earlier that morning, reached cautiously for the handle. She seemed ready to push when the door stopped her.

"That's an odd collection of poisons around your waist, friend." It was spoken deferentially, but Verahl snatched her hand back immediately anyway, eying the door with a look of unprecedented distrust. In a moment her face softened, and she acknowledged the door with a jerking nod. Her fingers itched to check the thick leather belt, to make sure it was still cinched carefully round her midsection; she kept them curled tightly into her stiff palm. Finally she spoke.

"It's belladonna," she uttered carefully, the syllables awkward and lurching. "The symptoms are obvious. I'd be a fool."

Clearly she did not desire to speak to the door, but it recognized truth when it heard it. Still, the door held back, as if considering the numerous other tinctures and powders it knew were contained on her person, hooked in vials and satchels all around that curious thing encircling her abdomen. "You would be," it warned in a low, dark tone, and creaked open to let her slip through.

The roan mare was obviously tired, and whinnied gratefully when her rider dismounted near a Tavern, tying her near-by. The rather tall young man, who looked to be about four and twenty years was clad simply in earthen tones, and though worn, his apparel seemed clean. It was the same of his young companion, an elvish boy of fifteen, in human years, though he was wearing no tunic at the moment, only a cloak draped across his shoulders. The taller man dragged the boy from the horse almost roughly, waking him from light sleep and throwing a tunic at him. 'We're going inside now.' It would have become apparent then, to any observer, that a large pair of wings, similar to those of the peregrine falcon, sprouted from between the boy's shoulder blades and the one tunic that the boy owned was split in the back to allow for these. These wings, however, provide him no advantage, for they are malformed and weak and permit no flight, except, maybe, in short, crippled hops.

The older one led the boy to the door. He reached for the handle, finding with frustration that it would not move. 'What are you? Both of you, either of you, what race are you? Be you eleven?' The door spoke, startling the boy, whose large, gold eyes, reminiscent of those of a bird of prey, grew large and who jumped from his companion's grasp and fell backward.

'A talking door. How droll.' The man spoke in a less-than-amused tone, smirking all the while, dark eyes glinting strangely. 'The boy's breed is Dorai, the bastard of an avian elf, of the Kannar clan; falcon, obviously. His father was human, though.' He looked down at the boy with an odd mix of affection and disgust. The boy stood, attempting to regain some dignity, smoothing his hands nervously over short, auburn hair with a deep red sheen that floated unkempt upon his head, never acquiescing to the numerous attempts to tame it. 'I am human,' he said simply of himself, though his appearance tended to belie that assertion; his face was pale and drawn, that while weary, is delicate and strangely beautiful somehow. Earlobe-length, somewhat wavy hair, so deep a brown it seemed black in the night, framed his face.

'And your names?' The door asked, sounding bored now.

'I am Sihirith, and this is Eryx.' The man gestured to himself and to his companion respectively. The door did not budge. 'Do you mind?' Sihirith asked impatiently.

'Not at all,' the door replied. 'You may stand there as long as you like, but you must not get in the way of the patrons.' It finished the sentence smugly.

'Let us in, will you?' Eryx complained. 'You think you're such a smart door, well I ought to just hack through you, that's what I ought to do. No stupid magic door is..' The boy had finally unsheathed the short sword that hung at his hip and began to wave it erratically, until Sihirith silenced him with a glare.

The door apparently grew tired of the game. 'I only you knew how many times I have heard that just today...' it sighed, and swung open.

Dorian approached the door to the Inn cautiously, able to feel the magic aura seething off of it.

He was dressed in a hooded gray cloak that all but hid his simple green tunic and brown pants. He also woar comfortable and well warn leather boots.

After riffling threw the pockets of his cloak a moment, he found what he was looking for. He threw a hand full of small bones and pebbles with strange markings carved into them at the ground by the door.

He smiled when he saw the pattern that formed and then picked up his trinkets.

“Just exactly what are you doing?” the door asked.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to ask,” Dorian answered with a smirk.

“That’s not an answer to my question,” the door responded sounding more that a bit snippy.

“I was seeing if I was meant to enter this portal, and my signs tell me yes,” Dorian answered softly, “would you kindly open for me?”

“Well I don’t see why I should, but I’ve let stranger things than you in tonight,” the door answered.

Dorian smiled, “I know.”

The door swung open and Dorian entered.

"Little girls shouldn't be coming here alone at this time of night," said the door.

Cleo glared at it, annoyed at another joke about her height. "I need a hot meal, door, so let me through."

"We don't like your kind, here," the door sneered. (Yes, doors can sneer!) "The last mountain elves we had-"

"I am not one of my kin! I was raised by the forest elves. If you would kindly-" She held up her palm in which a ball of fire quickly formed.

"All right!" screamed the door, swinging open.

"Thank you," she said simply, letting the ball of fire dissipate as she wlked through the open doorway.

"No respect..." muttered the door, unhappily.

Satan walks up to the door, cool calm and collected.

"Just open and we'll skip the chitt chat." e says his eyes already scanning the crowd. He straightens his black suit and check his guns ((yes guns)) before stepping foreward. His head hurts a little from the warp in reality but he'll deal with it. Vampires and traitors have made his day already.

She has been on the road now for some time and is in need of a meal and drink. So without hesitation she walks into the bar and looks around. It is quite full of patrons so she sits down up at the bar and orders a drink and a meal.

Two humans approach the tavern door. They each are covered from head to toe in dark brown robes, the cowls pulled low, hands folded in front of them, hidden in the oversized sleeves of their robes. None of them is revealed but their faces and their well polished brown boots. One appears to be a woman in her mind thirties with grayish-blue eyes and light brown hair that is graying slightly, but barely visible, because it is pulled back. She walks in the front, and two steps behind her and one step to her let follows a human male. He is much younger in appearance, only a teenager. He has soft brown eyes, and dirty blond hair croped short, the one thing that stands out on him is a long thin braid that hangs down over his right shoulder. It has several different colored strings woven into it and at various lengths is tied off with different colored strings as well.

They both walk with swift, sure, silent strides.

Mayli pauses as she nears the door. “Do you feel that?” she asks the other.

He comes to stand beside her, on the left, “Yes, Master, I feel it also.”

“What in the multi verse are you?” the door asks indignantly. “More trouble makers?”

“We come in peace,” the woman says, “we mean you no harm.”

“Where have I heard that before?” the door snapped, “I’ve had knights and paladins in here and plenty of trouble none the less.”

The woman gave the door an appraising look, then removed one of her hands from her sleeve, with the slightest wave of the fingers of her right hand she said, “You will let us pass, we will bring no trouble here.”

The door scoffed, “I don’t know where you’re from but around here, compulsions do not work on doors.”

“Would you kindly open for us?” the younger of the two spoke up softly.

“I suppose it’s just as well,” the door opened.

The elder woman smiled at the boy, “Leave it to a Padawan to find the most obvious answer.”

The boy gave a slight bow and then followed his Master in staying two steps behind and one step to the left of her.

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