The tavern doors don't so much swing open as ripple around the hulking night elf known locally as Tretiak.  He moves slowly, deliberately, breathing in the stench of the place, focusing specifically on the coital fluids recently spilled.  His ears bathe in the sounds of grunts, moans, catcalls, and bawdy laughter, as his eyes rake over every female form he sees, a hunger like fire coarsing through his gaze.<br/><br/>Still slowly, careful not to give away his youthful inexperience with haste, he makes his way to the bar, hands clenching and unclenching, and orders a glass of brandy.  He toys with the glass, caught between haughty virility and enforced chastity.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>