<a class="externalLink" href="http://www.f-list.net/c/darren%20rathrein" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">My character.</a><br/><br/><i><span style="font-size: 12px">B</span>ooty Bay. A town where nothing is sacred. It was one of the few places on Azeroth where you could meet a noble Paladin on the same table with a low-life thug or pirate. <br/>
It was rush hour and as usually, the final moments before the sun set upon the lush Stranglethorn lagoon and gave closure to the day, the streets of the bay were overflowing with life. Pirates and sailsmen, readying their vessels to sail out into the sunset sea, either to rest, to travel or to plunder. Merchants, packing up their tents and caravans and heading out of the bay. Or simply pedestrians who wanted to get a final purchase before all the shops closed down for the evening. <br/>
Pretty soon, when the final rays of sunlight ducked beneath the horizon, the streets were devoid of life, leaving only the soothing sea breeze to wander the alleyways and streets of the port town. There were very few permanent residents in Booty Bay. At day, the town had thousands of visitors, but at the night, the people who were bold enough to stay at the town barely reached 40 people. Most either commuted or were tired travelers who wanted to book a place to spend the night, before they were going to resume their adventure on the following morning.<br/>
There was only one place in Booty Bay that never slept. The one beacon of energy in an otherwise sleeping town. A place where constant laughter could be heard, a place where you can hear the chiming sound of glasses connecting in a cheers before they were chugged down by their tipsy owners. The <span style="color: brown">Salty Sailor Tavern</span> <br/>
<br/>
The man who sat alone on the counter was clearly of Half-Elven descent. His name was Darren Rathrein, a rugged sharpshooter from an unknown origin. Sporting the usual ash black colored shirt and leather trousers, with a flintlock revolver holstered on his hip safely in a fancy leather sheath and two daggers positioned on each hip, also in fancy ornamented leather pouches. The man appeared twenty-something years old for Human standards, though Half Elves age differently and he was 57 years of age. No taller than your average Human, with a broad-shouldered toned figure, yet not without the Elvish grace and slender-like physique to it, making him appear more athletic than muscular. His hair would be shoulder-length and standing in a semi-spiky way, grey-ish white in color. His face would be completely shaved giving him a younger appearance. His hand slid to his glass if whiskey, bringing it to his lips and taking a rather brave swig from it, setting it back on the counter, rotating it around to try and fend off the boredom. He looked around the inn, his eyes set upon the patrons. <b>"Sure is lively today"</b> he'd remark in a low tone. The fact that no one was on the counter left him kind of frustrated that there was no one to converse with. But the night was still young, the moon had barely nested itself upon the star ornamented sky. And there was plenty of time to enjoy his whiskey, a nice talk and whatever the night had to offer before he would head to his room for the night. A long day awaited him, so unwinding was the best option so far. Clearing the thoughts off his head, he'd take another bored sip, looking over his shoulder to see if someone was headed his way...</i><div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>