Sometimes the steed swore he could feel his missing limb, a ghostly sensation that made his heart pick up, only to disappear and reality come crashing back down. What good was a warrior who couldn’t walk properly? A warrior with a wooden leg? Sure he had Bloodbane (which rested up against the bar in lazy guard, a deterrent for anyone who might want to bother him). But he was more than just a hammer, he always had been. Just when the fallen god thought he couldn’t fall any further.
His voice was too loud in his ears as he heard himself call for another drink (what number was that again?), foreign and bodiless as his bones felt too big and his skin too tight. The tap of glass on wood pierced the chaotic buzz in his ears, sounding for all the world like the crash of a weapon against oak. Thaeron jumped, and yet he didn’t. As though his head suddenly, briefly, cleared and his heart stuttered. And then the sweet burn of whiskey numbed again, the sounds melting around him to a distant, dull, roar.
Thaeron was lost in his misery, slowly sinking into an alcohol-induced haze, oblivious to the activity in the tavern around him. He wasn’t drunk, not yet (pesky resistance!) but he was pleasantly buzzed, wavering warmly on the edge of oblivion and recognition.
The pub was crowded, victim of a dark, cold night. Voice rose in steady tandem, chatter and laughter filling the air. Someone, somewhere was strumming a lute, warbling some lazy tune about Bridget from Backwater, the words lost in the din that surrounded them. But Thaeron hunched at the bar, undisturbed- avoided in fact. Perhaps it was Bloodbane, the sharp side of the hammer stained from years of bloodshed. Or perhaps it was the foul look that graced his otherwise handsome face, the dark gleam in his ruby red eyes.
@Israfel bring on the god-talk ahah
