He looked like he had just spent six years on a desert island. He scoffed when the serving wench curled her nose at his stench, also a product of a near eternity without enough fresh water for a decent bath. He didn’t much care at this point. The weeks at sea had taken its toll, and he simply wanted a drink.
Pushing his way past the waitress, he staggered straight to the owner of the tavern. He ordered his customary bottle of rum and found a table. It was early, but his table in the corner should be far enough away from the regulars that nobody would notice him. After his time alone, he wasn’t ready for company.
He didn’t even bother pouring his rum into the clay vessel that the owner kindly gave him. He just drank straight from the bottle until his exhaustion caught up with him.
…
He didn’t quite understand what the group was so excited about, but he understood that someone important had died.
“Good riddance,” he spoke softly into his bottle of rum. Taking a gulp, he drifted back to his island for a time.
…
“Huh?” He woke up, but nobody was addressing him. The group had grown in manpower and intensity, and they were taking about breeding horses or something. The door burst open and a familiar voice boomed out, “There’s something wrong at the docks!” Aneirin tried to focus on the source of the voice, but he couldn’t quite make out who it was through the rum fueled haze. He just saw purple. (Later, he couldn’t be sure what he saw or heard, but it seemed that it should have been purple)
Knowing that purple was something to be stabbed, preferably repeatedly, he reached to his belt find nothing. He stared at the empty place where he used to carry his knife.
“Blast it all to the locker!” he swore as he remembered the pile of old armor and weapons he left in his previous home. “How the stinkin’ llama breath is SHE still breathin’?” He held his head down, hoping she wouldn’t recognize him under the matted hair and grime until he could sneak out of town. Fortunately, she left quickly, not even glancing his way.
Pushing his way past the waitress, he staggered straight to the owner of the tavern. He ordered his customary bottle of rum and found a table. It was early, but his table in the corner should be far enough away from the regulars that nobody would notice him. After his time alone, he wasn’t ready for company.
He didn’t even bother pouring his rum into the clay vessel that the owner kindly gave him. He just drank straight from the bottle until his exhaustion caught up with him.
…
He didn’t quite understand what the group was so excited about, but he understood that someone important had died.
“Good riddance,” he spoke softly into his bottle of rum. Taking a gulp, he drifted back to his island for a time.
…
“Huh?” He woke up, but nobody was addressing him. The group had grown in manpower and intensity, and they were taking about breeding horses or something. The door burst open and a familiar voice boomed out, “There’s something wrong at the docks!” Aneirin tried to focus on the source of the voice, but he couldn’t quite make out who it was through the rum fueled haze. He just saw purple. (Later, he couldn’t be sure what he saw or heard, but it seemed that it should have been purple)
Knowing that purple was something to be stabbed, preferably repeatedly, he reached to his belt find nothing. He stared at the empty place where he used to carry his knife.
“Blast it all to the locker!” he swore as he remembered the pile of old armor and weapons he left in his previous home. “How the stinkin’ llama breath is SHE still breathin’?” He held his head down, hoping she wouldn’t recognize him under the matted hair and grime until he could sneak out of town. Fortunately, she left quickly, not even glancing his way.