(no subject)
He was walking home from the butchery in town, plain paper bag in hand. The contents of said bag are not precisely something he wants to discuss with anyone, and doubtless would evade any questions about it. He should, by all rights, appear to be a young man in his twenties, but quite frankly he doesn't look it. It's not his fault. The minor gods, AKA casting people, of his universe are cruel, cruel beings.
He opens the door to what serves as his home--a fairly ill-yet-possibly-expensively-furnished room that looks like it's in a chemical plant of some kind--fully expecting to step into said room. Instead, he steps into the Inn. He blinks. He stares. He looks as if he ran into a tree thirty seconds ago.
Inn, please welcome your first cradle-robbing creature-of-the-night visitor.
He opens the door to what serves as his home--a fairly ill-yet-possibly-expensively-furnished room that looks like it's in a chemical plant of some kind--fully expecting to step into said room. Instead, he steps into the Inn. He blinks. He stares. He looks as if he ran into a tree thirty seconds ago.
Inn, please welcome your first cradle-robbing creature-of-the-night visitor.