The night outside was cold and dark, the sky heavy with thick, threatening cloud. As winter drew nearer, the mornings became freezing, the shadowed hours lasting longer as a biting wind raked its away across Novus. Yet the merry glow of buildings in Delumine’s capital chased away the bitterness of the weather, or perhaps it was simply the liquor. But spirits were high as voice arose in an oddly harmonious barrage of noise as warmth emanated from the pale, brick building.

With the feeling of one returning home, Thaeron pushes open the wooden door with little aplomb, pausing only briefly in the entrance. Framed by the shadows curling in the night outside, his breath misting in the air with the frigid cold, the steed locates the bar. Ambling forward with an amicable gait, he makes a beeline for the bar, weaving oddly skilfully for an equine of his musculature between the tables and crowds. A number of eyes are turned to him, noting Bloodbane strapped across his back and frowning. But he plastered a jovial smile upon his lips, ignoring their glances and seating himself at the chipped, wooden bar. The oak smelt like ale and liquor, sticky to the touch but Thaeron only grinned at the familiar sensation and caught the tender’s eye.

A single shot of whiskey was slid across the counter-top toward him, the amber liquid swirling as Thaeron stopped it with a single tendril of his mind. Knocking it unceremoniously he relished the burn of the alcohol in his throat as he swallowed. From the uproarious din of voices and music, Thaeron could tell few eyes lingered on him and the fire-lit axe.

With little ceremony the man ordered a second shot and downed it just as quickly as the first

Thaeron does not see the man, dressed in shades of gold as he saunters through the crowd, his gait marred only slightly by a small limp. It is not until the horned steed takes a seat besides the fallen god, ordering a whiskey too, that the stallion casts him a sideways glance, noticing the smile that lights up his pale lips. Thaeron smiles too, unable to help himself. His is jovial, the corners of his mouth turning up in that little smirk that he always had.

Which war?

Internally Thaeron snorts, though the fallen god’s face bears only a smirk that dances at the tips.

“Must I have been in only one?”

His words are playful, coy even, as smooth as the whiskey gleaming in the low light. It has been a while since he’s done this- spoken fleeting whiskey words, subtle glances in between- but it comes naturally to him. Even if it’s mostly empty pleasure to fill up the hole in his heart with whatever he can. How long are you supposed to mourn for? A year? A decade? Thaeron had been mourning for centuries, but no amount of liquor could wipe out the pain.

“What war were you in?” His eyes gleam. The same question. The same challenge.

“You can’t have been to many bars then,” he adds, his smile melting into a chuckle. At least this singer had a half-way decent voice, even if the words pulled at the strings of his heart that he wished could be cut. Thaeron had severed ties with all true romance decades ago. But why must it still play him so? Hurt him so? At least he might end the night not so alone- there were more than one pairs of eyes casting fleeting glances in their direction. But perhaps it was his new companion that earnt the looks, with his spiralled horns and ocean blue eyes. Scars that glimmered across the faded tan coat. He was certainly handsome, the fallen god noted with a smirk. But knowing him for all of five minutes was not enough to push Thaeron beyond the realm of coy words and upturned smiles.