Closed [The Rearing Stallion] An ale for a tale (Razkar)

[Kristopher]

21st of Summer Kristopher stepped inside the great room of the Rearing Stallion and brought with him the bell of candle light, or maybe it was the other way around. The familiar scent from the kitchen's caused his stomach to growl a bit. He wasn't hungry, gods no! Having just eaten, he took it as more of a nostalgic sound. He'd nod to it had it not looked crazy to do so when by yourself. After all, both his stomach and he knew the pain of eating shykey food all too well. It was probably a punishment well earned. After all, he did leave the family home. Twice. The last thought was somehow again voiced in his father's tone. Quite sad that he still took the time to recollect that conversation. Dinner was a distant third in his thoughts. With that in mind, he'd try and get this whole ordeal over with quickly. Kristopher, you see, rather disliked public places. Even more so when they provided cheap booze actually. Still the cheap booze was his reason for being there so he'd try and find some irony in that – he'd fail. He wasn't even sure of what was going through his head coming here. He wasn't really sad, not yet anyway. Since there was no sorrow to drown away, he'd look the other way and try to spot something he could celebrate. Again, he found no reason to be here. Whatever urged him into this overpopulated situation remained unnoticed. Perhaps it was just easier to pretend he was out with someone when he had a drink in his hand and the room was all loud and jolly? That didn't make him belong any, but it was a pleasant thing to feel. Getting a mug of ale, he'd sit at the only truly vacant table and try his best not to look at anyone with the exception of the people that came in every so often. The rearing tavern wasn't really the nicest place on the planet, but Kristopher had his own reasons for picking it regardless. The paternal side of his family would never show their faces here, his father having a lifelong feud with the owner. He couldn't even recollect the reason for the two of them arguing any longer, and he doubted anyone currently living could – those two included. His mother wouldn't come either, which was a shame, but probably for the better. She needn't see her littlest boy chugging down ale of all things. Thinking of her always left a bad imprint in his mouth, so he washed it some.

[Razkar]

One of the advantages to be a savage, Razkar had found in his travels, was they people left you alone. The fearsome visage of a Myrian - bedecked with bone and skin fetishes, tribal tattoos, piercings and festooned with weapons crafted from bone and iron - was innately unsettling to almost every race in Mizahar. They provoked a certain morbid curiosity, true, and the truly adventurous would sometimes approach him... but most of the time?

They gave him a wide berth, and that was fine by him.

Case in point: when the door opened and the cool night air was replaced by the stifling blast of sweat, smoke and exhalations of dozens of drinkers and revelers, a few eyes turned his way. Most saw the Myrian in the doorway, clan in sandals, loincloth and a patchwork cloak around his shoulders, weapon harness holding a half-dozen blades... and eyes sweeping the interior for a challenge.

Faces turned away. Gazes were averted. Razkar smiled to himself. Perfect.

"What'll you be havin', sir?"

Razkar had to admit, though, the female didn't have much of a quaver in her voice when she spoke to him. Buxom in body but with age lines around her eyes, she's probably been watching hard men swagger in and out of the Rearing Stallion for years. So he smiled up at her from his corner booth, half in shadow and by a window.

"Ale, please, mistress." He handed her a few silver coins and pressed her fingers around them. "Keep rest. Is enough?"

"Oh, it'll do, I'm sure..."

Razkar cocked an amused eyebrow as she sauntered away. But, to business! He quickly shimmied the hidden treasure from under his cloak: his new backpack. Modestly-sized, but he didn't need much, he'd purchased it from a stall in the Great Bazaar. Near the one where he'd made his far more important purchase...

The Myrian all but grinned with his sharp, filed teeth as he took out the bag of pungent dried tobacco leaves with something akin to reverence. He opened it and took a deep, luxuriant inhalation, eyes closed... and memories of barrack room arguments and laughter, family meetings and late night hunts, all of it came back in a rush of Taloba Grey.

"Sometimes you get lucky," he murmured in his own tongue, eagerly packing a hefty bowl into his worn pipe, "And who knew that they'd be growing the Grey in Kenash?"

There was a ceremony, if one cared to use the term or to observe what followed. The Myrian carefully put the pipe stem to his lips, then the candle's tentative flame to the end... ah, that familiar sound of burning plant matter... the warmth and bite as the smoke filled his mouth... and he swallowed it down...

Razkar let out the breath with a sigh, filling his little corner with aromatic flavor as his eyes took on a brief sheen of pleasure. A long time... too long. And now, for the bargain price of two gold mizas, he had a pound of the stuff; more than enough for the season, he guessed.

The Myrian reclined in his booth as his ale was served, frothy head nearly spilling over from the stein and in that mood, he was willing to forgive the unfortunate barbarian... mediocrity, of it.

He merely nodded to the serving wench and went back to his pipe, puffed contentedly, mind in memories far from Syliras...

RecieptAle, Backpack and Tobacco: 5gm