[indent]He was tired. These days he always seemed to be tired. As he picked his way through the streets, past the last throngs of patrons and vendors of the city’s closing market, he pondered why he was always so drained. Was it his long journey? Was it the life he had led catching up with him? Was it simply age? His train of thought was broken by a man stumbling backwards into him. Heaving the man back upright he growled. There was no apology, but then, he didn't expect one. Not these days.

[color=steelblue]"Watch where you're going, you imbecile.”[/color] He called after the man as he once again disappeared into conversation about some trinket or other, the next in a long line of shiny placebos the man will buy in order to fill the void that's left in the absence of any real freedom or happiness. People fill their lives with useless material things, convinced that one day they will be content, but they never are. He hated those people. Whether he hated them for their avaricious nature, their poorly thought out, illogical delusions or simply the fact that they still had the will to chase some kind of contentment in their lives, he wasn't sure. All he knew was he hated them.

Turning a corner, he relaxed a little, the alley into which he had turned as far less crowded than the main street and he was finally able to relax his shoulders and fall into a decent walking rhythm. The noise of the market died down and he could hear the people in their homes, behind the walls that created the alleyway. There were arguments, crying, at one point, he was convinced he could hear someone praying. [i][color=steelblue]There's not much call for prayer in place where the gods have stopped looking.[/color][/i] He thought to himself as he reached the other end of the alley and walked out into a small plaza. As he crossed the square he looked down at the mosaic set as the centrepiece. It must once have been a sight to behold, a striking mural of prosperity, but now, the scuffs of his boots joined the decades of others marring its surface, making the original pattern all but impossible to discern.

As he reached the other side of the square he ducked between two buildings into another alley where he found his destination. The Stiltwalker's Fall was a tavern and adjoining stables that had been renovated into one larger inn. One of the best kept secrets in the city. It was no surprise though, a secret that nobody cares about is one easily kept. It was isolated and dark, but it was quiet. That was exactly the type of place he was looking for. He looked up at the weather beaten sign above the door, the jesters hat and broken stilts, with the silhouette of a downed man in the background. [color=steelblue][i]Apt.[/i][/color]

Stepping inside, the smell struck him immediately. It wasn’t damp but it was meant to smell like it. Frowthorn. Whilst it was a plant with magical properties, its healing abilities meant that it was not restricted by the imperial decree. It also had the added bonus of confusing The Ablated. The owners of the inn obviously kept it around in order to throw off any Ablated that were sent round. Too many false alarms meant that the town guard no longer bothered wasting their time with the Stiltwalker’s Fall. The smell of the Frowthorn often put people off but he didn’t actually mind the smell at all.

He found himself a stool at the bar and, pulling a simple pipe with stone around the edge of the bowl and a small leather pouch from the folds of his tunic, he got the attention of the barkeep.

[color=lightgreen]“What’ll it be, friend?”[/color] The man behind the bar smiled the practiced smile of someone whose living depends on being pleasant to people. The act was good. He was a stout man but by no means fat. He had the carriage of a man who had seen battle more than once in his youth. His greying hair and the lines gracing his cheeks and forehead held up a mirror to the Shaven Headed Man. Perhaps he had something in common with this man.

[color=steelblue]“What’s good?”[/color]He asked.

[color=lightgreen]“As a matter of fact, we have just had in a barrel of D’ol Dathri whiskey.”[/color] He began, his ruddy cheeks stretching his lips into a smile. [color=lightgreen]“It is triple distilled and glides over the tongue.”[/color]

[color=steelblue]“Why not…” He forced a smile, not wishing to be rude.[/color]

[color=lightgreen]“Glides over the tongue.”[/color] The barman repeated, turning away to one of the many large barrels behind him.

The Shaven Headed man untied the noose on the pouch he had produced and the earthy smell of herbs wafted up from it. He packed his pipe and put it to his lips. Retrieving from his pocket a small stone, he struck it against the stone on the rim of the pipe and sparks cascaded down into the mixture which began to smoulder. Drawing deeply from it, he closed his eyes, allowing the flavour to circulate around his mouth before inhaling.

[color=lightgreen]“Root Sage and…dried Needle-Cap?”[/color] The barman’s voice brought him around.

[color=steelblue]“You have a keen nose.”[/color] He replied.

[color=lightgreen]“But not keen enough…there’s something else in there isn't there?”[/color] The barman said, placing a small clay cup full of an amber liquid down on the bar.

[color=steelblue]“Some things are best kept a secret.” [/color] The Shaven Headed Man said.

[color=lightgreen]“You’re a wise man, my friend.”[/color] The barman replied.[color=lightgreen] “Enjoy your drink.”[/color] He smiled before disappearing to the other end of the bar.[/indent]