[b]Name:[/b] No
[b]Level:[/b] 1
[b]Race:[/b] Dragon
[b]Class:[/b] Barbarian
[b]Date/Time:[/b] Day 1 / Morning
[b]Location:[/b] The Meeting Spot in the main lounge of the Greased Oak
[b]Tagging:[/b] Open [b]Mentioned:[/b] Open

The warrior approached the large, wooden round table where it was decided last night to be the place where the guild would meet. His hand rested on the back of the chair and he slid it back, its wooden feet grinding across the stone floor. The large man that dumped into the seat was sickly-pale. He looked about as white as his hair and his yellow eyes were bloodshot. A blood spot was at the right corner of his hairline with streams of dried blood running down the side of his face—a brawl-wound mayhaps?

The dragon leaned his greatsword against the table and eased back in his seat with a rumbling groan. He leaned until the chair creaked beneath him. His head and arms pathetically dangled. Gods, he felt like death. From the pits of his stomach, a hot magma-like wave of vomit surged up his throat into his mouth chamber, causing his cheeks to inflate. So that he didn’t dump his insides all over the floor (he had done enough of that already), he inhaled deeply through his nostrils, his chest expanding and belched a stream of fire into the air. The fiery pillar extended three feet above his face, incinerating the chum before it could spill anywhere. The firestream stopped once he felt all the spew had been burned and he leaned upwards in a coughing fit. Black clouds of smoke left his mouth on each cough before the weight of his skull thunked against the table.

No closed his eyes and just waited for the damn meeting to happen as he wished he had just stayed in bed.