He pushed with all the strength he could muster. His abdomen felt like a granite slab, and he barely could get air through his wheezing lungs. It was like trying to force a pebble through the eye of a needle. [i]Or an axe through a Torgureni shieldwall.[/i] The North was a world away, but there were some memories you couldn’t leave behind, no matter how far you ran. Haljon Gunnarsson bit down and grunted with the effort. His large, scarred hands trembled around his manhood. The pain was excruciating. Gods be damned, the pain was [i]unholy[/i]. He’d taken spearheads in the gut that hurt less than this. At least, he thought they had. That was the problem with age. It played tricks on the mind. 

Focus. That was the key. Shut out the maddening clamor of the city and focus on the job at hand. It was easier back up in the North, where the wind was a constant whisper broken only by the howls of wolves or other wretched beasts. And a man in the North respected another’s privacy enough to let him take a piss in peace. Here in the big city it seemed everyone wanted to interfere in his business. Merchants thrust their wares into his face as if he were some whore in a brothel. It was madness. He’d knocked one trader damned near unconscious earlier in the day. The merchant had grabbed his hand, apparently intending to press some cloth into it. Haljon had apologized when he realized the fellow had meant no harm. 

Gradually he felt the pressure in his bladder begin to relent. The healer he had visited last week had said there were some kind of evil energies leaving deposits in his bladder. He’d wanted to make a small incision, and had only just escaped without his metal tools wedged somewhere unpleasant. Haljon hadn’t survived this long by allowing men with sharp implements to poke around his body. [i]Ten, nine, eight, seven...[/i] He mentally counted down in a silent ritual. If there was one thing he’d learned over his many years it was the importance of routine. It had nothing to do with superstition. Or getting old.

[i]Five, four, three...[/i] He sighed in relief as the pain eased and his bladder got ready to empty itself. [i]Two... one...[/i] “Shit.” The sounds of a brawl interrupted him as he was on the cusp of release, a few drops of discolored piss dribbling down his leg before his cock seized up like a dead man. Haljon thrust his treacherous member back inside his breeches and strode out of the side alley determined to find out what all the fuss was about. Someone was going to pay.

He peered through the windows of the inn, blinking twice in an effort to focus his failing eyesight. Three corpses greeted him, one with with his skull brutally caved in. He spotted a half-naked figure retreating up the stairwell. Haljon snorted. Didn't seem to matter where he went, always seemed to be some kind of violence wherever alcohol was served. He eased himself through the door to the inn, and the bartender yelped as he saw Haljon's scarred, towering image. [color=lightgreen]"T-There's more of y-you?"[/color]

Haljon frowned. He was still getting the hand of this fanciful southerner language, and being that the innkeeper looked about ready to shit himself, he was sure that didn't help his understanding none. Haljon grunted, holding up one finger. [color=cyan]"One tankard."[/color] He said, in his guttural Northern drawl. The innkeeper gaped at him, a little drool finding its way from his mouth onto the table. Then the man spun into action, thrusting a overflowing horn of mead at Haljon and ducking quickly under the table.

Haljon thanked the man in Northern, not knowing the word in any other language, and dropped a coin on the table he thought may be the appropriate amount before departing. As he walked down the busy streets and sipping on his mead, he figured it may be a good time to finally visit that House Valens place. He'd need work before long, after all. Damned if he knew how to get there, though...

Before all that, however, he really needed to piss.

~~

A little while later, Haljon stood in front of the Valens manor. He cracked his neck, hearing a satisfying [i]snap[/i], and checked his greataxe was sheathed properly before approaching the guards. One of them eyed him carefully, before calling to one of his fellows and standing aside. Haljon was led through the manor to what appeared to be a training ground. He gave a low whistle. Not many training grounds like this one in the North. His guide departed, and Haljon was left alone. Shrugging his massive shoulders, Haljon figured he may as well get his blood up. He pulled his axe out of his shoulder-sheathe, and began going through his forms.