It was dark. He liked the dark. It was night and the humdrum of Bree was busy dying down. From where he stood, upon the blacken roofs of the slumbering town, the sludge and the grime, a distant memory that threatens in the corners of his mind slowly and languidly made it's course through. Upon the roof, high above the noise, voices and mumblings, of men desperately in search of that elusive love, of woman in need of the caress of a caring hand, he stood silent. His eyes, narrowed slits through which only a glimmer of light can be seen, watched without interest nor care, without thought nor musing. Gorlen stood as silent as the night itself, immaculate in its welcoming confines and certain in her embrace. The night has been his lover for years and has by now become a close friend. For two decades he has been sheltered in her embrace. To this he has now once more returned to - the night, which he called home. It is with in these moments, between the thought and the deed - the act and the consequence, that he thought he was afforded the most solace.
He could scarcely feel the cold breeze biting like a hungry rat, nibbling on his face. The sigh that departed his lips, emotionless and labored, seemed resigned with a certain inner sadness and need. There could be seen no smirk nor smile, no lines of his usual laughter in his eyes this evening; nor was he in the tavern busy with idle chatter. His eyes seemed cold and solid in his skull, an amber death that filled its confines. His footing was sure and steady, as it usually was at these times. His hands calmed and poised by his dagger. His eyes and mind focused on what he should do..... what, however, should he do? There was a million thoughts flying and cascading through his confused and somewhat scared consciousness. The last few weeks in Bree has been one of surprises, of teachings and lessons learned. It was a time of growth and laughter and song, a time of sorrow and anxiety. Within these few cages of time, these compartments of days and nights, in the continuous flow of being, of creation and living; he has come to understand himself, if to no one else. Events, chances and the chaotic strike of clocks told of a brief moment of his existence. An existence to which he had no clue nor inkling as to the eventual course or destiny.
Gorlen closed his eyes to the inky darkness of his own mind, letting himself be devoured by the play of wonderful senses around him. The susurration of the wind blowing its freezing and penetrating breath across the soft and bare tissue of his skin, the sound of occasional feet falling upon the hard stone of the cobbled streets, the sound of his own breath slowly departing his lips in forced calm. The cold never bothered him, only made him feel more alive... more, here. He could still taste the mead he had that morning in the tavern; bitter-sweet, a play of contradictions, of rotten and fermented barley, seeping down upon, and etched by now, in the muscle of his tongue.
It was strange how sound travels so slowly upwards as if it first explores all other avenues, up being the last to concern. He thought curiously, strangely intrigued by the notion. For he could see the man call out down the road towards a woman by the rock. The words, though, however, escaped him. The inflection of the voice on the other hand carried the meaning clear and certain. It was too dark to see more then the general outline of the individuals at the bottom, unfortunately, but neither did this hinder him in his curiously fastidious glare. His mind was looking for things to do, searching desperately in the gloom of everyday life for that something to occupy his constantly over analytically and active brain. The man, from the distance at which Gorlen could see, was dressed in dark leathers and the stance he so strangely carried seemed foreign, yet, somewhat familiar. He carried himself with a certain ease only born to those confident and sure in their ability. His hand absent-mindedly moved towards his dagger, unsheathing it from its warm and comfortable shelter. The taste of iron, of adrenaline, coursed through his teeth with his slow and careful breathing. The distance was great, the man was still far, but if aimed correctly and the wind keeping its course and laborious strength, he might succeed in snuffing his life out right there and then. Upon that thought, that mere second of wonder and spellbound captivation, he realized he needed to still his mind somehow else.
There has been told of a certain fight club in Bree, a means to fashion himself a few more coins as well. The man he talked to, Ergaric? He was horrible with names. But never the less, the man went by the moniker of Sven, of that he was sure. Sven gave him a few silvers for the meantime while he waits for an opening. A kind gesture indeed, he must add, Gorlen smirked silently to himself. A few good ales that might buy. Though, recently there's not been much drinking. Tea seemed the only beverage which he could afford, and this opportunity would be a welcome blessing to the dastardly situation he has regarding the sad state of his finances.
