back in the corner (open)

[caspianbattlehound]

[atrb=cellspacing,4,true][atrb=cellpadding,5px,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://i.imgur.com/2AVyn.png); border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 30px; -moz-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 30px; border: 5px solid #ced4d6;] — give in, to temptation that keeps following you tonight obey the shadows cry He settled onto a wooden chair with a table by himself, as the light from the fire licked at the walls and made shadows into shows. A bottle of ale was on the slab of wood in front of him, settling close to the candle that lit the space and a plate with flecks of food on the surface, remnants of a meal he'd already finished. He was renting a room for the night, and in the morning he'd head back home. It had only been a brief trip, after all, ensuring the transportation of goods through roads with wolves and burglars, in a small moment of calm, at least for him. He wasn't needed for much else right now, but hopefully he'd have something better to do soon. Well, he used the word 'hopefully' rather loosely. Something more to do for him, usually meant people were hurt or going to be hurt, or threatened, or something of that sort, so hoping for that wasn't really good, was it? Muire and Olrun were both at his feet, resting but not sleeping. No one could sleep with this noise the Bards liked to call 'music'. Caspian tipped the bottle of ale against his lips for a swig.

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[rubyfatale]

WEEP FOR YOURSELF, MY MAN
( • YOU'LL NEVER BE WHAT IS IN YOUR HEART• )

Markarth.

Not exactly the best place for a Forsworn. After all, his tribe had overrun mines and attacked farmlands outside the city for years. They had mostly settled down in the recent years, but obviously things were still sore. Merle was certainly known around Markarth, the only reason he wasn't killed on sight for getting close to the city was because he was the son of one of the tailors. Always watched with a careful eye (as he was not 'civilized' they said), he might as well have been kept on a leash.

He didn't visit often. He hadn't seen his father in months, and that was fairly normal. But he needed a bit of coin for the next trip he was about to make. The taverns were always willing to buy meat, and Merle was all too willing to hunt for coin. People needed to eat, right?

Escorted by a city guard, he was let into the tavern. Immediately people looked at him and what little bustle was in the tavern halted for several moments before continuing as normal once they realized that the savage was being looked after. He was dressed in clothes that certainly gave away his heritage: animal hides, with a spiky hewn bow typical of his people. His shaggy brown hair was messy and he hadn't shaved in about a week. He smelled like the tundra and the fresh air of the wilderness.

But that wasn't the most noticeable thing. He was carrying the carcass of a small deer across his shoulders. The legs had been tied to make it easier to haul, and the killing arrow had been removed, a small trail of blood leaking from the wound. It had stopped dripping, thankfully, or else the tavernkeep would have scolded him. The guard waited at the entrance of the tavern, watching him carefully as the Forsworn made his way across the tavern to the barkeep. Once at the bar, at the empty spot, he slammed the carcass onto the bar. The people around him eyed him with a bit of nervousness, though he didn't seem like a hostile person.

The tavernkeep did not seem too amused by the method of deliverance, but he waved for the kitchen hands to take the carcass. They seemed far more pleased with his bounty and dragged the body off to be gutted and skinned. The tavernkeep removed some coin from a purse behind the counter and set the small stack on the counter. With a nod, Merle took the gold, counted out a couple pieces and set them back down on the counter, putting the rest in the coinpurse attached to his belt. He was handed a pair of wine bottles, and he cast a glance to the guard, who hesitated before nodding to him. Merle left the one on the bar for the guard, who approached the bar and began drinking. Merle took his wine and bit the cork off, taking a sip of it soon after.

He scanned the tavern area before a pair of dogs caught his eyes. Immediately a smile came to his lips. He loved animals of all kinds, and those dogs looked like they were part wolf. Favored creatures of his chosen patron, he carefully approached the dogs and their owner, making sure to keep his distance lest they perceive him as a threat.

"Gorgeous beasts," he said in admiration. "Were they given to you or did you meet them?" he asked. It was difficult for him to get his point across sometime, but he had found that many dogs who had been rescued were more loyal than those who had simply grown up in their pack with their humans.

WEEP, LiTTLE LiON MAN
( • YOU'RE NOT AS BRAVE AS YOU WERE AT THE START • )

W O R D S • 632
T A G G E D • Cuppy!
L Y R I C S • Little Lion Man - Mumford and Sons
T E M P L A T E • PANIC! ITS LAUZ of CAUTION
N O T E S • Mmm venison!

[caspianbattlehound]

[atrb=cellspacing,4,true][atrb=cellpadding,5px,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://i.imgur.com/2AVyn.png); border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 30px; -moz-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 30px; border: 5px solid #ced4d6;] — give in, to temptation that keeps following you tonight obey the shadows cry Manners were something keenly missing in the hall of this tavern. As a woman to his left shamelessly flirted with the man whom she sat upon, a man to his right sang loudly to his drink and laughed with what Caspian assumed were his friends, or at least a fair bit of people wanting to see him in pain the next morning, still slightly intoxicated and fumbling while his head pounded and swelled. A man at the front put a carcass on the counter, to sell, no doubt, but a carcass.. on the counter. What a sick thing; in what day and age was it that placing a dead animal onto a counter was socially acceptable in public, not a butchery or home? It was a sad, poor state of affairs that Caspian had no will to pay attention to. Disgusting people, but it wasn't as if it mattered. He had better things to do than to pay any more attention than necessary to the sloven crowd, but he did note the guard accompanying the idiot with the dead animal with just a flicker of curiosity. He thought at first that the guard was somehow important to something or someone, like the man he had followed inside, accompanied, but he wasn't sure as to why he was there. But that seemed to not quite be the case, as the guard settled at the now possibly bloody bar and ordered a drink to nurse upon like the company he kept, sitting as he was, talking perhaps, laughing and going about their business after the slight unease around the brunette hunter. He assumed he was a hunter, unless he just found carcasses to bring for payment, or perhaps bought them from another, but that was possibly the most useless job he'd ever even briefly thought upon, besides bards. Honestly, what the hell was a bard, and where could he go to avoid them while having a drink and a place to sleep through the night? They called music what he called noise, and their voices all seemed to be irritatingly similar to the point that he just wanted to hit them repeatedly until they never sang again. Preferably, he could hit them in the throat. That would be a permanent fix. As would death. Permanent death. Lost in his own pointless and slightly repetitive thoughts, he didn't notice the man approaching until he was just a few feet away, and the moment he did notice, his spine gently straightened and his shoulders tensed as his eyebrows furrowed just faintly in distaste and curiosity. What did he want? Could he leave? He had better things to attend to than entertaining some fool. But what came from the man's mouth was not what he had expected, and he glanced at his dogs, whose heads were risen and ears perked, before settling his eyes back onto the Breton. "I found them," he answered stiffly, but that was a normal tone. And if he had started with anything but his dogs, he likely would have been annoyed, and that would have showed.. but.. his dogs were allowed to be mentioned, especially complimented. His father had bred dogs when he'd been alive, but these two were his own. He'd found them. Regrettably after he'd killed the mother, but that was hardly his fault, wolf as she had been. He glanced again down to his dogs, who seemed to have eased just a bit with the new company. "They aren't for sale, if that's what you want."

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