The night was a dull one for Dezrith Reinhart, feet dangling from the rooftop of the tall, billowing smokehouse, as he watched the world turn beneath him - watching the life he had missed: children playing, teens fumbling and failing at first love, and wide, open eyes without a care in the world. He was too far to make any of the faces out or distinguish between elf and human, which was all the better for him as he lived through them, fabricating fantasies like they were lost memories he could never quite remember until now. The memory of two lovers was the best of all. There was a girl in the free marches who gave herself to him in exchange for her little brother's life, averting damp eyes through clenched teeth as he plowed her, but now the memory was of that same sweet face blushing in the streets of Denerim, smiling as she turned her head in embarrassment. He never cared to ask for her name, so now he gave her one.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">---{ O }---​</div><br/>A low groan left Dezrith's lips as the sun lit up the room, rousing him from his slumber. A number of blind swings of his hand later the blanket covered the mage's face, letting him drown back into one more hour of lazing around dreamlessly, finally finding himself on his feet as a mindless, fixed action pattern found him in and out of the bathroom, gobbling down a bowl of rice, and donning a new pair of clothes for a new day, balancing between consciousness and unconsciousness as he closed the door to the old, rickety apartment behind him, clumsily hauling himself down the steps from the tall building as he made his way to The Pearl, one of his usual spots for recreation, and finding new victims for his ploys. Not everyone who visited a whorehouse was an entitled prick, but entitled pricks tended to regularly visit whorehouses. A simple mug of ale - not really fine liquor to a man who had worked as a bartender back in Starkhaven - had him in the corner, drinking in silence, and, as usual, watching the world turn.