The pain was unbearable. Intense, throbbing pain unlike anything Taraborn had felt before. It felt like a troll was pounding against his head over and over. The solid, uneven surface he was lying on was not his bed. He slowly opens his eyes, only to quickly squeeze them shut and shield them with his hand. It was as though the light were daggers entering his skull. Slowly he gets accustomed to the light and looks about, still needing to shield his eyes.
“Where the fuck...?” He croaks, his throat dry and painful. The iron bars loom in front of him, further away, the uniforms of the Bree Watch wandering around. Looking around more, he spots a couple of others in the large cell, some awake, some just waking up. He throws his mind back to the night before, trying to recall what had happened.
The night had begun in the Pony, Narys and himself hoping a fight would break out. When it didn’t the couple left, disappointed. Going for a wander around town looking for trouble they bumped into Seaver, some sparring going on at the Dawn Hall. This was all clear enough, but the later it gets the harder it was becoming to remember it. By the time they got to the hall no-one was sparring just Claery and a couple of new people to the Dawn. Whatever their names were he couldn’t remember, only there had been a child as well, and one of the newcomers, a lass, had been rude.
It gets a little hazier, and Taraborn’s gets a sudden flashback to punching a Watcher after pissing into the Boar fountain. Wracking his brain, he tries to join the memory to those from earlier in the night.
Kissing Narys in the Dawn Hall, no one else around. He suggests something. Was it going up to the office for more privacy? Probably. But then the fiery redhead shakes her head. She wanted to say something. She wanted to talk about feelings. He was not drunk enough for this.
What was said exactly doesn’t come to him, but remembers the gist of the conversation.
Narys didn’t want to tie him down, to change who he is. She wanted more from him than he could give. But he could. He would let her tie him down. He had decided this the other day. After flirting with a lass in the Pony, he had spent the night feeling guilty. This was new to him. He tries to explain, but his emotions and feelings were too strange, too difficult to express. Eventually Narys had left, reluctantly it seemed on both sides. That was when the drinking began.
From there it was mostly blank. Somehow he got back to Bree, already drunker than he had previously thought possible and with bottles of spirits in each hand. Snippets of memories, singing uproariously, head-butting someone, the altercation at the fountain.
Above all, Taraborn realised, he needed to get his act together and speak to Narys.
