<blockquote><div><cite>Wave Drakon wrote:</cite>A weathered brown boot splashed through a large puddle, the movement of the occupants legs causing it to flick water forward with every stride, dashing the muddy path before the lanky individual. The cloaked and hooded figure took loose, hobbling strides, his worn and battered scabbard clacking against the metal of his rusted greaves, the blade wherein as worn and ancient looking as the armour he wore. His mahogany coloured leather cloak rested  around his entire body, clasped at the front by a brass and oak leaf shaped brooch. At the hood itself it seemed to be made for somebody much bigger, the top rim coming as far down to put the upper half of the figures face in the shade, against the moonlights somber glow. <br/><br/>With his arms crossed behind his mostly leather clad exterior, the stranger glanced up at a tavernside lamp light, concealed from the rain by glass they both gave off a low yellow glow above the doorway. The illuminated wooden and copper sign swung with a brief but ear piercing squeak with every small gust of wind, this tall figure licked his dry cracked lips, gazing at the name below the image. A raspy and tired voice came forth from his lips, "The Brass Knuckle tavern and Inn." As he inhaled the cold air, it hit his lungs hard making them itch and ache, causing him to cough dryly. With a shuffle of his shoulders under his loose fitting and dented pauldrons the figure stumbled towards the tavern entrance, his shoulder catching onto something solid. A rather plump human stood to his left, his breath smelling like rotting fish and vomit, <span style="font-style: italic">"Oi! Watch where you're going fella, or I'll snap you like a twig."</span> He belched loudly and spat a gob of yellow phlem at the strangers feet before stumbling away into the night.<br/><br/>The towering figure turned into the tavern away from the rain, the drunken slurs and banter could be heard echoing quietly around the oak walls, his boots lightly tapped and squelched on the floor coming to a stop as he took a seat on a singled out barstool next to another cloaked patron. He gazed at the bars fine woodwork before the bartender approached him, <span style="font-style: italic">"What'll it be friend?"</span> he murmured half-heartedly.<br/><br/>The cloaked man raised a single finger up, his eyes not following suit. His voice became laboured as he spoke, "Just,..the single water. Please." He lowered his finger to the bar surface again, his body shaking from the cold sensation settling on his skin as it soaked through his exposed tunic.</div></blockquote>