The Inn was quiet. Here and there the soft murmurs of forgotten drunkards drifted past him. Their breath would reek the same as their tales, he thought to himself as he made way towards the counter, fermented and drowned in their own pity. He's seen them all around. Old men, intoxicated more by the sound of their own voice then anything else. In love with the notion of their own self-importance; filled with some kind of perverted anger at what they have not achieved. They are in every tavern, brothel, and intoxicated pen of fools.
For some reason a smile crept on his lips, he actually missed them, he realized as he slid a silver across the old wooden top. A huge, filthy and ale stained apron meets him at eye-level when he looked up. Further up, in the recesses of the flame-lit, orange glow of the establishment, a pudgy face and somewhat vacant, piglet eyes stared down at him. The towering barman boomed out. Which is rather befitting, he thought, for a barman to do. “What'll it be?” Seemed the only distinguishable words the giant man said. Curt and to the point.
Seeming a little dwarfed by man and his booming words, and being rather new to this town, Gorlen mumbled. “Your cheapest ale... “ he wanted to ask if the man had a chair for him to stand on as well, maybe leveling the playing field, but wisely chose to ignore his ego for now.
He was in good spirits... or not yet, but getting there. And as soon as he bloody possible, as well. Taking the drink from the tower, he made his way to rest quietly beside the fire. Behind him the drunken flock of men still argued, or talked, no noticeable difference really.
The flames reminded him precisely of what he tried to run from in the first place. Of his own past and his sister's death. Reminded him of the fiery depths of his own distilled hatred he now hides from, runs from. Of what he was... he thought for a second... forced? to do? Was that a too a strong word? Forced? For no one is really forced to do anything, are they? If you don't, you just die – you can chose that if you really wanted to. But he didn't, he chose for others to die in his stead. He was the one plunging his dagger in their throats, stealing their coins. The Shadows knew what they were doing. They had his sister. They had everything he lived for... But yet, he lived for this as well. The thrill of excitement, the soft creak of a board, the stir of muscle a man's neck. However, he never really enjoyed to kill, he just had to. Insignificant. He had himself and his to worry about. In any case, he thought, it was either them, his sister, or himself; it was just too bad they tended to suck on the dry end of Lady Luck's bosom.
He took another sip of his ale as he looked around the Inn. The barman was dirtying a mug with a rugged well-worn rag. One of the men behind him already lied with his head passed out on the table while the others carried on around the pathetic figure.
It was easy pray, but he needed the coin now more then ever. With a jaunty stride Gorlen moved towards the congregation of laughter and drink, letting the flow of excitement gage his movement. Never, never move too quick. Always be in sync. This was the most mundane of tricks, but it had to do for now. His eyes already caught the man's pouch hanging rather unsuspectingly by his side.
When he tripped himself, he fell good and proper. Doens't help to do something halfheartedly, now does it? Flying bodily across the oblivious man and knocking over a few drinks in the process, the men did what all of them always do – jump up in complete indignation. He tried to hide a smile as his fingers quickly worked the knot lose on the man's pouch. “Wha de blooday hell do shoy think cha doing.. ?” one of them, clearly a farmer by the looks of it, slurred. Two of the others went for their knives as he shoved himself off his barely conscious victim, pouch already disappeared in the cavernous confines of his full cloak.
He nodded, excused himself, and tried to leave without a fight, but the men were already itching for a brawl. He could provide much more then that, if they so wish to test his mettle, and try his patience. His hand moved quickly and places from his own pouch enough copper for twise the weight of ale spilled on the table. “My apologies” Gorlen shook his head shamefully. “Guess had one too many for the evening...” he says, looking up through the shadows of his hood. If only the farmers purse were of less substantial weight, it might just have turned out differently. See, he thought, it helps if you have your Lady's favor. Maybe this town is not so bad after all.
