“I ‘eard…” Taraborn slurred, “yous don’ like mah singin’” He tried to point at the two men, no, one man, before him accusingly as his head swam.
“Aye, it’s worse than a dwarven love song.” The man responded angrily, pushing to his feet to stand a couple of inches below Taraborn. It was still intimidating, for he seemed twice as muscular, a blacksmith probably.
“Well ye know wha’?” Taraborn answered, struggling to stay upright, “I wrote that fer the woman I love! So ye can f**k off!”
“Where is she then? Ran away so she doesn’t need to hear that s**t?” The man downed what was left in his mug, thumping it down onto a table and squaring up to Taraborn. “I suggest ya get out of me face sharpish.”
“Oh yeah? An’ whatcha gon’ do if I don’t?” Taraborn matched the man’s gesture, downing his cider and dropping the mug when he missed the table. It clattered across the floor, cider spilling everywhere. He raised his fists in an attempt to intimidate the other man. “I could ‘ave you!” He declared as he wobbled, losing his balance.
“I don’t want no trouble, ye got till the count o’ ten t’ get yerself out o’ trouble.” The man began to count, but didn’t get very far. On two Taraborn, violent threw his head forward, headbutting him before throwing a sluggish punch into his gut. His opponent staggered back, and wiped the blood from his nose. “If tha’s how it is…” He grumbled before swinging his own punches.
Taraborn woke with very little memory of what happened, except he was in a lot of pain, particularly his face. His eyelids were painful to open, and the light burned when he did. There were hands touching him, he realised, soft, gentle hands pressing bandages to wounds on his face. He opened his eyes again, and his blurry vision saw a tumbling mess of red hair.
Narys. He thought with a smile, recalling the last time he had awoken like this and the tender, careful activities that had followed, before realising she was far away.
Taala? He asked himself, thinking of his former comrade in arms and her husband, who had been from Dale. Perhaps visiting his family?
His vision cleared enough for him to realise it was neither of them. It was a Dalish woman, possibly in her late thirties who was caring for his wounds.
She realised he was awake and began talking at him, but he wasn’t listening, for one thought ran through his mind.
I miss Narys.
