It was dark. He liked the dark. From beside him the quiet of the new town rose up like a newborn babe; infantile in its exploration and uncharted in its fetal state. New opportunities aplenty and coin to be made. Lake Town proved to be a mistake, it seemed to him when he thought back. Henrieta died, his sister, his only family that he had left. Snatched away from his helpless grasp as she cried in fright and anguish. Oh, but did he not struggle against their hold on him that day. His arms flailing in their steel-like talons. What was he to do? They controlled him back then, demanded his obedience to the point of sadistic pleasure.
It was also a dark night back then. Cockroaches and the water-rats of Lake Town scurried upon and over them, around them, filled them with their stink and sickness. Inside the filthy room, his sister, a mere 14 years old, cowered in his arms while he himself felt the fear of certain dread eat away at his soul like a hungry crow, tearing apart the last threats of his being. He knew what they would do when they returned. Kill her. Steal away his only family from what he now had left; for what he had lived for.
But that was then, and this is now. This is a new town, new beginnings and new possibilities.
He felt at his dagger by his side, making sure of its comforting presence as he made his way down the cobbled street, leather boots still squishing against the hard surface. The town was desolate at this hour, only the soft whispering susurrations of ally cats and rats digging in the rubbish filled avenues could be heard. He just passed a the gates of Bree and was on his way looking for place to rest. Earlier it rained and he is now soaked to the core, wet and dirty from days on the road. After leaving the Rangers by the Forgotten Inn in the lands of the Eglain, he made his way here on the back of a wagon. The driver, one of the grain farmers of that debilitated lands up East, as the manner of their kind, asked him too many uncomfortable questions to which even himself he had no answer for. He asked him where he was headed – Bree. Where he came from – The Dale lands, Lake Town to be precise. What he was doing here – He does't yet know, he was on his way; maybe he was running from his past, maybe he was running to meet his future. He doesn't know.
It came to be, eventually, that they reached the gates of Bree passed through the old wooden entrance to town and the farmer left him with only what would be counted as a curt nod; clearly not impressed by his deplorable company. And from there he made his way to where he stood now. In front of the Prancing Pony, it seems.
With face hidden beneath the cowl of his black and soaking, hooded, robe and his cloths stinking of old sweat and days of travel, he made his way up the steps towards the door of the inn. With a heavy sigh, he opened the door and let himself in. The whiff of ale and the stank of sweat washed over like a warm welcoming embrace of a long lost lover, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into her welcoming confines. He needed her attention as much as she needed his. He also needed to have a drink, badly.
