(no subject)
In the Northpoint tavern in Düren, Daelric sat with a mug of ale in his hand. He blinked his bloodshot eyes slowly, raising the mug to his lips, drinking deeply of the local brew. He belched slightly, and gazed about the room, observing the other drunkards and tavern-goers. He noted, to his extreme displeasure, that a stall away from him sat a serious faced drunkard who seemed to lack the courtesy, or ability, to control his own flatulence. In the corner, a group of soldiers from some other city, Daelric could not honestly care any less where exactly, were ogling a tavern wench with a very pronounced chest and a lack of anything resembling common sense. Daelric noticed the usual assortment of lowlifes and scumbags that seemed to congregate at places like these. He swore quietly under his breath as he noted just how many of them there were. If they started trouble, he would be hard pressed to get out. He gulped down the rest of the ale, and slammed it down on the table, wiping his mouth with his right arm. He cracked his knuckles, and then raised his hand, signaling to one of the maids that he wanted another. She grinned at him, and picked up his mug, turning away and walking to the bar. He could not help but focus in on the way her hips swung from side to side as she walked, and the way her long legs moved each step. He shook his head and looked around once more. His eyes stopped quite abruptly on, to him, the oddball. He was bedecked in scarlet robes, a neatly trimmed black beard adorning his face. His lanky frame seemed so out of place amongst the stocky broad folks here.
“Noblemen…pah.” He grunted, grabbing the ale as the wench handed it to him and downing over half of it in a gulp. He had had just about enough of nobles in his lifetime. What was it, he wondered, that made them feel the need to rough it out among the commoners? He shrugged and glared at the table in a drunken stupor. Three young men entered the bar, glaring down at the occupants, and made their way, much to Daelric’s displeasure, to his seat. One of them, the leader apparently, said something to Daelric, who, in his stupor, heard not a thing.
“Peasant, I command you to remove yourself from our seat!” he screamed, his whiny voice grating on Daelric’s nerves.
“How about no? Now beat it runt.” Daelric growled and lifted his tankard up to finish it. He was quite content to bask in his drunken stupor for awhile, until one of them slapped it out of his hands, the tankard flying into the wall, breaking apart and spilling the brew along the wall. Daelric stared at his hand for a moment in disbelief, than a sigh escaped him. “Look kids,” he began, placing emphasis on kids, “I won’t hurt you too bad if you replace the drink you just knocked out of my hands.”
The nobles seemed to think that was absolutely hilarious, and as such broke out into laughter. Daelric growled quietly, clutching the bridge of his nose, and stood up, glaring down upon them.
“Your funeral.” He muttered, and swung his right fist, catching the ringleader on the jaw, the fist impacting on it followed by a satisfying crunch, and the boy was laid low. He followed up his first move with a savage backhand to the next boy, leaving him sprawled upon the soldiers table, spilling all of their ale as well. They swore and drew their weapons, but Daelric ignored them as he focused upon the one who had so arrogantly spilled his ale. The youth balled his fists together, trying to strike Daelric, but he missed, and was rewarded for his foolishness with a painful right hand jab into the groin. A high-pitched squeal escaped his lips before Daelric seized the opportunity to upper cut him. The boy fell over unconscious, and Daelric lifted him up by the neck and hurled him out the tavern door.
“Much better.” He grinned slightly, and turned around to find the blades of three soldiers at his throat.
“Daelric Morieth?” one of them asked officiously.
“Yea…that’d be me.”
“You are hereby placed under arrest by the order of Lord Alocae, in accordance with the laws of this city.”
“Well… shit.” he muttered as he was chained up and hauled to the prison.
“Noblemen…pah.” He grunted, grabbing the ale as the wench handed it to him and downing over half of it in a gulp. He had had just about enough of nobles in his lifetime. What was it, he wondered, that made them feel the need to rough it out among the commoners? He shrugged and glared at the table in a drunken stupor. Three young men entered the bar, glaring down at the occupants, and made their way, much to Daelric’s displeasure, to his seat. One of them, the leader apparently, said something to Daelric, who, in his stupor, heard not a thing.
“Peasant, I command you to remove yourself from our seat!” he screamed, his whiny voice grating on Daelric’s nerves.
“How about no? Now beat it runt.” Daelric growled and lifted his tankard up to finish it. He was quite content to bask in his drunken stupor for awhile, until one of them slapped it out of his hands, the tankard flying into the wall, breaking apart and spilling the brew along the wall. Daelric stared at his hand for a moment in disbelief, than a sigh escaped him. “Look kids,” he began, placing emphasis on kids, “I won’t hurt you too bad if you replace the drink you just knocked out of my hands.”
The nobles seemed to think that was absolutely hilarious, and as such broke out into laughter. Daelric growled quietly, clutching the bridge of his nose, and stood up, glaring down upon them.
“Your funeral.” He muttered, and swung his right fist, catching the ringleader on the jaw, the fist impacting on it followed by a satisfying crunch, and the boy was laid low. He followed up his first move with a savage backhand to the next boy, leaving him sprawled upon the soldiers table, spilling all of their ale as well. They swore and drew their weapons, but Daelric ignored them as he focused upon the one who had so arrogantly spilled his ale. The youth balled his fists together, trying to strike Daelric, but he missed, and was rewarded for his foolishness with a painful right hand jab into the groin. A high-pitched squeal escaped his lips before Daelric seized the opportunity to upper cut him. The boy fell over unconscious, and Daelric lifted him up by the neck and hurled him out the tavern door.
“Much better.” He grinned slightly, and turned around to find the blades of three soldiers at his throat.
“Daelric Morieth?” one of them asked officiously.
“Yea…that’d be me.”
“You are hereby placed under arrest by the order of Lord Alocae, in accordance with the laws of this city.”
“Well… shit.” he muttered as he was chained up and hauled to the prison.