[center][h2][color=B87333][b]Rathiain Bukead Anviltank[/b][/color][/h2][/center][center][color=B87333]The Cursed Son of Creation[/color][/center][center][url=https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=iR5RY7pnMGI&si=oXG75O8jPuGSGNbp] Tavern Song[/url][/center]
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Weightless, silent, deep, dark, and endless. Oh, how he wished it could have truly been endless, sparing him the burden of wakefulness. His slumber was abruptly disturbed by the creaking of the door, followed by the placement of something atop his suit. Given his stance, he probably resembled nothing more than a glorified coat rack. Holding a staff in each hand, and with his armor shorter than most, it was easy for others to mistake him for unique furniture. At least he wasn't snoring—that would have been truly embarrassing.

Once more, darkness enveloped him as he drifted between sleep and semi-awareness of those around him. Each opening and closing of the door brought a grimace, though unseen by others, the pain still coursed through his body like a fireworks explosion. How he longed for the door to be a solid wall, allowing him to slumber undisturbed. Despite his exhaustion, snippets of conversation filled the room, yet they sounded like gibberish to his groggy mind. The intensity of his pain made focusing on anything else nearly impossible.

Noticing Dorian, the host of the event, amidst the crowd, he began to rouse himself, attempting to shake off the lethargy. Events unfolded rapidly as information circulated. His suit hummed with energy as he unlocked its mechanisms, granting him freedom of movement. Arcane symbols shimmered along its seams, releasing a soft ethereal mist from various joints. With a grunt of effort, he maneuvered, noting the cloaks and paraphernalia that had been draped over him in his slumber. As he moved, the coat rack behind him was soon laden with his collected items.

Only then did he realize the folly of sleeping directly in front of the door. Yet, it mattered little as he navigated toward the illuminated area. Tensions lingered in the room, though their source remained elusive to him. Undeterred, he approached the table and retrieved an old ceramic jar, extracting its contents into a wooden tankard that seemed to materialize out of thin air. After securing the jar, he stowed it in a small pouch, marveling at how such a sizable object fit so snugly.

Another mystical resonance heralded the appearance of a small rift at the bottom of his helm. Taking a straw, he began to sip his drink, opting to squat rather than take a seat. A strange suction and metallic clicking accompanied his action, but it didn't seem to faze him. His unconventional seating mirrored the diverse gathering of species in the room. Raising his tankard in acknowledgment to Dorian and the others, he observed their varied forms with a nod, grateful for the beverage's gradual alleviation of his pain.

With his suit now on full display, its dark purple hue and copper accents caught the eye. Intricate silver and gold filigree adorned the armor, with a shield strapped to his back and a sword at his side. Despite their size and apparent incongruity, they seemed to harmonize with him effortlessly. The shield, worn with signs of use, sat sideways on his back to accommodate his seated position, yet it shifted noiselessly. The sword, though seemingly new, carried an aura of mystery.

He remained silent, acknowledging the room's occupants in his own way. With each sip of his drink, the pain ebbed, clarity returned, and the tension dissipated. Yet, amidst the gathering of seemingly flawless beings, he couldn't help but feel out of place. Recalling the peculiar coin he had given to Dorian, its intricate designs resonated with him, featuring ancient runes and symbols that seemed uniquely attuned to him.