Thread Closed
The man entered, covered in a robe, its threaded materials like the strands of sackcloth. Beneath its brown exterior, layers of rough cloth engulfed him, his face hidden by the hood that draped low over his face. As it swayed about his visage, small nicks and cuts could be seen, placed alongside and across traces of red ink that dyed what little could be seen of his face.
He had only just passed a man who had departed as he had arrived at this tavern, and felt as if something had just concluded. There was a slight buzz about the room, and his eyes, searching out the area from beneath the edge of his hood, caught the light of the lamps. His face angled slightly upward for only the briefest of moments, soaking in the faces of those who sat about, his ears listening to the dull hum of conversation that emanated from several tables. As quickly as he'd allowed himself to expose his face for that second, he quickly turned away, face to the floor as he searched for a suitable table. It betrayed itself to him, a humble, round thing that sat tucked into the corner of the tavern.
His boots, made of soft cloth and secured about his trousers with the security of ropes that crisscrossed up to his calf, made nary a sound, though there was a gentle swish in the air as his clothing moved about him. It billowed around him, swallowing his figure for a moment as he strode forward, the breeze catching the materials as he made his way to the table. His roughly gloved hand took hold of the nearest chair, his eyes favoring the corner, and his body followed. The sound of the chair creaked as he pulled it towards him, dragging it so that he could place his back to the wall, enabling him to look out upon the patrons of the building. Slowly, he lowered himself into the chair, leaning back and breathing deeply, the scent of liquor on the air. His tongue broke from his mouth, like the head of a turtle from its shell, and slid along lips that were cracked and dry.
"I'm thirsty," he whispered softly, too soft to hear by all but the keenest of ears, but he did not move. For now, he watched.
He had only just passed a man who had departed as he had arrived at this tavern, and felt as if something had just concluded. There was a slight buzz about the room, and his eyes, searching out the area from beneath the edge of his hood, caught the light of the lamps. His face angled slightly upward for only the briefest of moments, soaking in the faces of those who sat about, his ears listening to the dull hum of conversation that emanated from several tables. As quickly as he'd allowed himself to expose his face for that second, he quickly turned away, face to the floor as he searched for a suitable table. It betrayed itself to him, a humble, round thing that sat tucked into the corner of the tavern.
His boots, made of soft cloth and secured about his trousers with the security of ropes that crisscrossed up to his calf, made nary a sound, though there was a gentle swish in the air as his clothing moved about him. It billowed around him, swallowing his figure for a moment as he strode forward, the breeze catching the materials as he made his way to the table. His roughly gloved hand took hold of the nearest chair, his eyes favoring the corner, and his body followed. The sound of the chair creaked as he pulled it towards him, dragging it so that he could place his back to the wall, enabling him to look out upon the patrons of the building. Slowly, he lowered himself into the chair, leaning back and breathing deeply, the scent of liquor on the air. His tongue broke from his mouth, like the head of a turtle from its shell, and slid along lips that were cracked and dry.
"I'm thirsty," he whispered softly, too soft to hear by all but the keenest of ears, but he did not move. For now, he watched.
![[Image: Mog%20House%20Final.jpg]](http://usera.ImageCave.com/DaishiGajo/Mog%20House%20Final.jpg)