[center][img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/dHRmLjExNi4wNmZmZjYuUW05M2VXNCwuMA,,/snow-kei.regular.png[/img][/center] [color=1BEFF2]Time:The previous night Location: A Tavern in Ironhold Interactions: NPC Equipment: 1 hunting knife, a flask of alcohol, a backpack, small tent, blanket, waterskin, rope, fire starting kit, lightmaker, cooking pot, a bar of soap, some drugs; skaula (8 grams) and zemak (1 ounce), rolling papers, and 150 amas. [/color] [hr] [color=B3E3E4] A map of Avalia. Four figureheads bound and gagged. A hard and heavy rain. The map soon ran red with blood as the throats of the figureheads from each nation were slit with cold brutality. The dark and twisted faces of The Twin-Headed Dragon gave their speeches, they looked proud, they looked to be enjoying this. The only word Bowyn heard from their lips was war. So many of those around him reacted with horror, with anger at the dwarven prince meeting such an undignified end. Bowyn gave a small smile of relief. [color=1BEFF2]“Finally.”[/color] He had waited for this, he had almost begun to think the rest of Avalia was going to keep on ignoring the dark elves, that he’d never get to live to see this war so many had whispered about. The world could not ignore this. He allowed himself a brief second of hope that the dark elves had finally brought their own end down upon themselves. That from every corner of Avalia, hearts would cry out for blood and vengeance just as loudly as his own did. He allowed all his joy to show upon his face, found so much solace in knowing he would no longer be alone in his rage. The emotion overwhelmed him and Bowyn didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. The crowd outside the tavern clearly believed he had chosen wrong as several heads snapped towards his direction. [color=E35407]“Are you fuck’n’ laughing?”[/color] The fist of an enraged dwarf hit him with all the strength of a hammer and he dropped his backpack of essentials to the floor with a thud. Bowyn found dwarves to be excellent company, and their tempers and willingness to fight was their finest quality. The sharp pain in his ribs was a welcomed addition to distract him from a pain that never left him. Deep, jagged scars on his back, where once there had been wings, provided a dulled burn that never left. Occasional aches from something that wasn’t even there to soothe. But new pain was a welcomed distraction. New pain left the old ones briefly forgotten. The winter fairy provided no resistance as the dwarf landed several more blows. Each one seemed to hit a little harder than the last. He let himself live in nothing but the new pain for a moment before grabbing onto the dwarf's wrist and grasping it tightly. [color=1BEFF2]“I don’t mock your prince’s death. I laugh at the death the dark elves have brought themselves. And that I finally get to see it.”[/color] Bowyn spoke, both haggard and amused, as his fingers left frostbitten spots where they dug into the dwarf’s skin. [color=E35407]“Idjit.”[/color] The dwarf spat at him and shoved Bowyn lose with little effort. Bowyn only nodded in agreement as he picked himself up off the tavern floor and grabbed his pack. He licked the blood from his teeth before spitting it onto the floor. He held up his hands, accepting the defeat, and stumbled out of the tavern. Another great attribute of dwarves was their love of feasting and drinking; there were plenty of other taverns in Ironhold where he could spend the night that would not be filled with dwarves annoyed with him. For the first time in a long while, Bowyn felt hope and joy that were not artificial but they were fleeting. He wanted those feelings to last a little longer, and even as he looked forward to war against the dark elves, he knew it would not be filled with moments like these. He ingested what remained of his klemara, the psychoactive substance would give him this euphoria for hours and he only wanted to relish in it. His own private celebration continued as he headed to a tavern far enough away from this one. He healed himself just enough that nothing was seriously damaged or broken, but his skin would bruise and the pain remained. But new pain never felt like loss the way old pain did, it felt only like survival. Bowyn arrived at another tavern called Gukhumi just as the drugs started to kick in. [color=1BEFF2]Time: 10 am Location: Gukhumi’s Tavern-Ironhold Interactions: Arn [@Omni5876] Equipment: 1 hunting knife, a flask of alcohol, a backpack, small tent, blanket, waterskin, rope, fire starting kit, lightmaker, cooking pot, a bar of soap, some drugs; skaula (8 grams) and zemak (1 ounce), rolling papers, and 83 amas. [/color] [hr] [color=1BEFF2]"Your eyes are pretty, all shiny like rubies.”[/color] Bowyn spoke in a slow, slurred, and barely interested voice. [color=E3B2FC]“They’re green.”[/color] A dwarven woman replied with even less interest. [color=1BEFF2]“Right, like green rubies. Hey, can I touch your beard?”[/color] Bowyn stared into the mess of textured hair, watching patterns that twisted and swirled together. All the different shades of brown and gold blended together and held his attention for far too long. The female dwarf made a disapproving grunt as she looked him over. [color=E3B2FC]“Too smooth and skinny.”[/color] She shook her head at him as she left the bar. Bowyn found himself briefly mesmerized by the movements of the wood grain on the bar. Patterns that grew and shrank and flowed together. He ran his hand against the rough wood for a time and then against his own smooth face. Fresh bruises stung as he touched them and he smiled a little at that. The comfortable sinking numbness of drugs that had yet to make their way out of his system left his skin buzzing. Of all the cities and villages he’d visited he found he liked this one the best. The dwarves were pleasantly grumpy and refreshingly honest. That bearded lady was certainly right; he was too skinny and too smooth. He scratched at his face and wondered why he couldn’t grow a beard. And then he wondered what dwarf beards would feel like, probably like a sheep. After a lot of thought, he concluded that dwarves, unlike sheep, did not like being pet and that his face was smoother than the wooden bar. He looked up from his intense study of the wood grain on the bar and suddenly remembered the mug of mead in front of him. He placed a hand around the cold, smooth glass and felt it frost around his hand. Bowyn liked ice, and it was often very smooth. He let out a quiet laugh to himself and felt much better as he drank a mouthful of the chilled mead. Still clutching the glass of mead he tumbled from his bar stool, nearly knocking it over, and walked around the bar. Since arriving in Ironhold, the taverns were where he’d spent most of his time. Many hours of several days, and now many of the dwarven faces only looked like a vaguely familiar blend. He didn’t remember names, or whether he’d spoken with them, just the weird sensation that he’d seen most of them before. All his time in Ironhold was a jumbled blur. Except one face stood out, fully unfamiliar, a rather soft-looking beard, and full soldier gear resting near him. He headed towards the new face with a lopsided grin and sat, without invitation, across from the dwarf just catching his rhetorical question. [color=1BEFF2]“I know what I’d say to Annya Biren. ‘Bout time the light elves got their shit together and took care of the problem they dumped on the rest of us.”[/color] Bowyn said with a nod before taking in several gulps of mead. He gazed into the empty glass, smile fading as he found it now contained only droplets of the mead. An empty feeling began creeping back into him as the effects of the drugs ebbed. He tried to ignore it, to cling to the artificial euphoria for just a while longer. [color=1BEFF2]“You look dressed for war, are you going to join her? Can I come? Are you excited? I’m excited.”[/color] Bowyn said before slamming the empty mug onto the surface of the table. He then found himself briefly distracted by the dwarf’s nearby shield, forgetting all about his interest in the race’s beards. He wondered if he could touch the shield.[/color]