L
Laggy Lagiacrus
Guest
Original poster
It was the usual scene at the Laughing Boar tavern – a backwater establishment that was as insignificant as its patrons. A mish-mash of riff-raff and society's cast-outs, it was the perfect place to go for a drink where nobody would bother you, even if you were more likely to die of typhoid than alcohol poisoning in there. Apart from that, however, there was little to it that was appealing. The tables were slanted and chipped, and though they were clean enough to look at (from a distance), most had some form of mould growing on them. The floor was dirtied from whatever substances had stained it, and that wasn't even mentioning the pungent stench lingering in the air.
Aside from the chattering of shady dealers and embittered drinking buddies, the tavern was largely filled with just the clinking and thudding of flagons filled with the cheapest, strongest alcoholic beverages the owner's meagre income could get. Nobody paid attention to anyone else in there – not just because it was none of their business, but also because it was likely they didn't want to get involved with any business being done there. It wasn't a nice little restaurant managed by a husband and wife that had a certain charm to it. This was the sort of place a cutthroat would go to drink, so nobody could bother him.
And in one of the darker corners, where even the most reclusive of backstabbers hadn't the motivation to tread, sat a haggard-looking man. He was not an old man, though in some people's eyes, the age of forty was not one to be scoffed at. Especially since most of the peasant and slum-dweller population died of disease, starvation, or something equally unpleasant before the age of fifteen. Yet, his mannerisms, and the look in his eyes, made him look timeless. And not in the majestic way either – more in the sense that he thought he had lived far too long, and that he had seen far too many things.
Though it would be normal to see a number of grey hairs on the head of a man his age, the sheer number of them was quite astounding – this, combined with his tired demeanour and the wrinkles forming trenches across his exhausted face, would give the average passer-by the wrong impression of his age. Not that he cared. In fact, all he really seemed to care about was the fact that he had almost reached the bottom of his tarnished flagon, one dented and chipped from years of abuse and poor cleaning. Droplets of his precious elixir fell on the table top, as he brought his bitter fury down on the table, flagon base slamming against shabbily-maintained wood.
"I need another drink.."
Aside from the chattering of shady dealers and embittered drinking buddies, the tavern was largely filled with just the clinking and thudding of flagons filled with the cheapest, strongest alcoholic beverages the owner's meagre income could get. Nobody paid attention to anyone else in there – not just because it was none of their business, but also because it was likely they didn't want to get involved with any business being done there. It wasn't a nice little restaurant managed by a husband and wife that had a certain charm to it. This was the sort of place a cutthroat would go to drink, so nobody could bother him.
And in one of the darker corners, where even the most reclusive of backstabbers hadn't the motivation to tread, sat a haggard-looking man. He was not an old man, though in some people's eyes, the age of forty was not one to be scoffed at. Especially since most of the peasant and slum-dweller population died of disease, starvation, or something equally unpleasant before the age of fifteen. Yet, his mannerisms, and the look in his eyes, made him look timeless. And not in the majestic way either – more in the sense that he thought he had lived far too long, and that he had seen far too many things.
Though it would be normal to see a number of grey hairs on the head of a man his age, the sheer number of them was quite astounding – this, combined with his tired demeanour and the wrinkles forming trenches across his exhausted face, would give the average passer-by the wrong impression of his age. Not that he cared. In fact, all he really seemed to care about was the fact that he had almost reached the bottom of his tarnished flagon, one dented and chipped from years of abuse and poor cleaning. Droplets of his precious elixir fell on the table top, as he brought his bitter fury down on the table, flagon base slamming against shabbily-maintained wood.
"I need another drink.."