<span style="font-size: 115%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-weight: bold">Grahnfall, Linden- Year 4977 AO </span><br/></span><br/>The tavern was dimly lit, with dirty tables and a strong, perpetual scent of manure hanging over the interior (in spite of the lack of any farms in the vicinity), and yet, to Barth it was like home. The young prince took a deep swig from his tankard and slammed it down onto the scarred, rickety table separating him from his companion. He grinned groggily at her, before issuing a thunderous belch that caused several heads to swivel towards him.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF00">"Shcuse me," </span>he mumbled, still smiling contentedly as he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. The eyes that regarded him from every direction didn't linger for long; he was a common sight in Grahnfall, and if he was seen anywhere in the town it was to be expected that he'd stop in at the King's Lance.<br/><br/>The name of the establishment always amused him; first, the sign outside depicted a tall, regal man in full plate armor (he was certain his father had never worn so much as a pair of steel plate gauntlets), second, he was fairly certain Paetar Krinwulf would never set foot in such a tavern even if the alternative was dying of thirst, and lastly, it was doubtful that his father could even pick up a lance, let alone wield one properly. Barth had spent many a day laughing at the image amongst his friends, though usually not within the castle. Unless they'd been drinking, of course.<br/><br/>He blinked in the direction of a window, peering at the fading light outside.<span style="color: #FFFF00">"I don… don't feel like riding back t'the capital right now, Ben. What shay y'put me up f'the night, eh?"</span>he squinted at her to punctuate the question, still grinning like a fool. Idly, he rubbed at his chin, which was only then beginning to darken slightly after the clean shave he'd given his face in the morning. It was lucky his facial hair grew so slowly, as he wasn't much for beards.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF00">"I'll ride ba…" </span><br/><br/>He broke off as a massive yawn took hold of him. By the time he recovered his jaw was somewhat sore from the stretching.<span style="color: #FFFF00">"I'll ride back in th'morning,"</span>he said as he finally managed to complete his thought.<span style="color: #FFFF00">"King's got some folksh come up from the countryside, going t'give em a listen. See wh… what they want." </span><br/><br/>He raised a hand in the direction of the barman, with two fingers extended upward.<br/><br/>The place was fairly crowded, no surprise given the time of night, and in the corner could be heard the sounds of groans and cheers emanating from a dice game taking place on a particularly large oval table. The occupants of the place were mostly of the more casual sort: traders, shopkeepers and craftsmen, but given the presence of the nearby outpost and the fact that the capital wasn't far off, soldiers were a fairly common sight. Nobles passing through town usually avoided the Lance, preferring to keep to the Shy Mare northward; although the Mare was cleaner and without the smell of shit, it served ale that Barth firmly maintained was watered down.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF00">"This round'sh on me. A pr-princely gift, for a worthy shub… subject," </span>he finished with a bleary smirk as he wobbled dangerously atop his stool. He steadied himself with an effort, releasing a hearty chuckle.<br/><br/>He'd lost track of how many drinks he'd downed that evening, but he knew it was much more than he'd had in a long time.