C
Cthutie
Guest
Coins can be fun to count. If you have absolutely nothing else to do.
A young man sat in a corner table, nursing a bowl of goat's milk and a small stack of money. The dull thump of his dagger's point repeatedly hitting the tabletop was drowned out by the hum of ambient and increasingly tipsy conversation. He scratched a stubbly jaw and pushed back unkempt hair to reveal a pair of despondent hazel-colored eyes.
Larion had been staying at the tavern for almost a week now, and was feeling increasingly lethargic. Drinking had lost its appeal since the day before yesterday, when Larion had ventured deep into a bottle of hard Orcish liquor and spent the majority of the next day staring into a bucket of vomit. The Book - well, The Book didn't get any more interesting- or make any more sense- no matter how many times he re-read it. In his boredom, he had absent-mindedly carved several symbols from The Book into the wall beside his hired bed. He had considered scratching them out so that Kyila (the tavern-maid that Larion had been half-heartedly attempting to seduce) wouldn't see them and think Larion insane, but it was doubtful she would see the inside of his room before he would run out of coin and have to leave.
Some of the coins had little heads on, and some had tiny skull-faces. In a dangerous area like this, any discs of precious metal were currency, but in Larion's birth city, anyone possessing coins from Geth would be suspected of treason. Larion had enough coins to stay at the tavern for a few more days, but had no idea what he'd do next. The recently dwindling pile of coins shook slightly whenever Larion idly stabbed his dagger at the table, as he watched a colorful crowd of travelers walk into the bar and group together. Several such groups had formed during Larion's stay at the tavern, adventuring types, armed to the teeth or bristling with magical energy- and looking to make quick coin. Larion longed to join one of these groups, but there was nothing qualifying him to go on a special mission. Larion couldn't wield a five-foot greatsword, or conjure a bolt of lighting from a clear sky; life had merely taught him to stay out of trouble.
But staying out of of trouble hadn't got Larion very far. As he watched an orc, a shade, some sinister-looking men and a couple of small animals decide to band together to gain profit from a merchant's fear, he became increasingly convinced that today was the the day that Larion Danil Lomonov would ignore his one life-lesson, and step into the world of risk. Gathering his resolve, he collected his coins into their pouch and rushed upstairs to grab his satchel, stuffing in some food, water, and The Book. He ran back downstairs, intending to join the company that had formed.
They were gone. Larion slumped onto the bottom step, staring at the door, when the Orc suddenly burst back in. Something about the words "We're going to war" kindled something within Larion, and he hurried toward the door, with a final wistful glance at Kyila.
A young man sat in a corner table, nursing a bowl of goat's milk and a small stack of money. The dull thump of his dagger's point repeatedly hitting the tabletop was drowned out by the hum of ambient and increasingly tipsy conversation. He scratched a stubbly jaw and pushed back unkempt hair to reveal a pair of despondent hazel-colored eyes.
Larion had been staying at the tavern for almost a week now, and was feeling increasingly lethargic. Drinking had lost its appeal since the day before yesterday, when Larion had ventured deep into a bottle of hard Orcish liquor and spent the majority of the next day staring into a bucket of vomit. The Book - well, The Book didn't get any more interesting- or make any more sense- no matter how many times he re-read it. In his boredom, he had absent-mindedly carved several symbols from The Book into the wall beside his hired bed. He had considered scratching them out so that Kyila (the tavern-maid that Larion had been half-heartedly attempting to seduce) wouldn't see them and think Larion insane, but it was doubtful she would see the inside of his room before he would run out of coin and have to leave.
Some of the coins had little heads on, and some had tiny skull-faces. In a dangerous area like this, any discs of precious metal were currency, but in Larion's birth city, anyone possessing coins from Geth would be suspected of treason. Larion had enough coins to stay at the tavern for a few more days, but had no idea what he'd do next. The recently dwindling pile of coins shook slightly whenever Larion idly stabbed his dagger at the table, as he watched a colorful crowd of travelers walk into the bar and group together. Several such groups had formed during Larion's stay at the tavern, adventuring types, armed to the teeth or bristling with magical energy- and looking to make quick coin. Larion longed to join one of these groups, but there was nothing qualifying him to go on a special mission. Larion couldn't wield a five-foot greatsword, or conjure a bolt of lighting from a clear sky; life had merely taught him to stay out of trouble.
But staying out of of trouble hadn't got Larion very far. As he watched an orc, a shade, some sinister-looking men and a couple of small animals decide to band together to gain profit from a merchant's fear, he became increasingly convinced that today was the the day that Larion Danil Lomonov would ignore his one life-lesson, and step into the world of risk. Gathering his resolve, he collected his coins into their pouch and rushed upstairs to grab his satchel, stuffing in some food, water, and The Book. He ran back downstairs, intending to join the company that had formed.
They were gone. Larion slumped onto the bottom step, staring at the door, when the Orc suddenly burst back in. Something about the words "We're going to war" kindled something within Larion, and he hurried toward the door, with a final wistful glance at Kyila.
