Potc Advent Calendar of Doom: December 12
He smiles ruefully at his last coin as he pushes it forward on the counter. Granting him passage out of reality one last legitimate time. The last remnants of a once great heritage drowned in pain. What the fire didn’t take alcohol washed away in mere months. Through a string of tiresome countries in a hasty blur into oblivion it took him here: a nameless town in the middle of nowhere with nothing but all consuming guilt in his pockets. The humourless chuckle born deep in his throat alerts the old man behind the counter and the fiery liquid is put away with a litany of mumbled words in an unknown language. One quick movement and his fingers close around the old man’s thin wrist, drawing many eyes on him.
“Shouldn’t have done that,” he hears a calm voice from the right, a man slowly sipping his drink, dark hair falling in his shadowed eyes. But before he could reply he’s grabbed from behind and dragged outside by three men.
Later, when he’s lying in the mud, coughing up blood, suddenly black boots appear in his line of vision and the dark-haired man from before kneels down beside him, his voice just as unaffected as a few minutes ago, eyes scanning the filthy alley instead of directed at him.
“Someone wants to talk to you.”