Character: Thorne Briers
Status: Observing.

As the travelers dispersed across the barracks, a united sense of relief permeated the air. Warmth was a precious resource welcomed by everyone present, including Thorne; while his magic responded best to the cold, he did like being able to feel more than numbness. Silently, he moved forward and took a seat at the table, draping his cloak over his chair. Gray eyes scanned the room's interior before finally coming to rest on the table's scarred, worn-out surface. As the other travelers had gone off either searching for food, claiming their beds, or gathering near the fires, his immediate beeline for a chair before doing anything else was a bit strange.

In actuality, he was just tired. He didn't need to claim a cot — they were all the same, with their most distinct differences being their distance or lack thereof from the braziers and fires in the room. Given his constitution, that made hardly any difference to him. Might as well let others claim their beds while he rested his own feet.

His mind drifted back to the scene earlier: the distant clang of a bell, the hurried arrival of a scout. [i]Scouts... western ridge... haven't returned...[/i] The way tension had bled into the young lord's face, jaw tightening in anticipation of something that loomed in the horizon. 

He stared sightlessly at the table, at the cracks and scratches that decorated its surface. Among them, was an initial scratched into the wood. [i]M[/i]. Was that being still alive, he wondered? Those that came before and those that came after; a neverending cycle.

[i]This is a world of loss.[/i]

An echo of a memory came pushing forth, and that was when he knew that he gone far too deep into his thoughts again.

Someone approached. A girl: pale-faced, though touched with the warmth of the room — presence silent. She placed a basket on the table and left. No extra movements, no attempt at conversation made. Thorne took back his glance, gaze resting upon the basket. 

Well. If someone was kind enough to bring food to the table, then he wouldn't put on airs.

He took a piece of bread from the basket. Rough, maybe a little dry, but warm. He took a bite and started chewing, idly listening to the din of the living around him.

Some of the travelers had seemed to take this rare moment of respite as an opportunity for light socialization. The woman with red eyes, with the pointed ears — Thorne had been taking note of her since a while ago. There was an intensity to her, lingering in her upright stance and her direct gaze, but her actions showed a care that, though measured, was undeniably real. Even now, she was conversing with the reticent bread-bearing girl, who looked to be responding positively to her attempts, even if a little reluctantly.

He had a good impression of people like her.

Voices rang from the cots as well. One was especially familiar: that of the spirited archer who always seemed to provoke some kind of trouble. He had been observing Thorne earlier. In fact, he'd been observing everyone in the group — he hadn't really made an attempt to hide it. He possessed the sort of optimistic openness that, while a tad enviable, could easily be vanquished by the horrors of the world. Thorne had seen it happen. 

Far too many times.

([i]How would this man fare?[/i])

Not that it mattered. Their paths would only cross for this short while.

The sellsword, the one bearing a greatsword, was conversing with the archer. Sort of. He'd plopped himself down on the floor at one point. Why he chose the floor and not one of the fair few cots available, Thorne didn't know. The content of their conversation... unbidden, a small smile spread across Thorne's lips, there and gone again.

[i]A 50/50 split? How bold.[/i]

The sellsword was approaching, his heavy footfalls making no attempt to soften his presence. Thorne felt the other mans' gaze sweep over him, lingering on him for a moment before moving on. Idly, he wondered what he was looking at. The sellsword stopped before the crimson-eyed woman, frame towering over her, pointing at her with undisguised hostility. 

[color=#0072bc]"You."[/color]

A quiet tension seeped into the room. Thorne sat unmoving in his chair, lowering his eyes to the bread in his hands — listening.

A pause.

Then, he sensed a stare in his direction. Not at [i]him[/i], but... at the basket of bread.

[color=#0072bc]"I am hungry, and you have bread."[/color]

...

Wry amusement flashed across Thorne's face. This time, it lingered.