16th Fall 512 A.V.
Afternoon.
Afternoon.
Baird sat at the bar, alone. The faint metallic smell of blood permeated the air around him, and there were a few noticeable rips in his cloak. He had been one of the first to arrive at the Silver Sliver Tavern that night - that day, even - though in his defense it had been a trying first few days for him. Not many could claim tho have had the same welcoming party as Baird did. Not that many would have wanted it.
That morning, Baird had first checked back in at Tarsin's to make sure nothing of his had been disturbed during the night, and then it was off on a search for the nearest tavern. That turned out to be the modest little place the ravosalaman had called the Silver Sliver. As far as taverns went, this one was pretty run-of-the-mill. And Baird knew his way around run-of-the-mill taverns. Soon he found himself at the bar with a mug of ale and a cold loaf of bread in the other. It was almost like the good old days all over again...
...But there were a few jarring differences, thing that couldn't be ignored. Things that had not been there last time Baird was in a tavern. For one, he had actually needed to breathe back then.
Baird sighed, which in and of itself was unnecessary. He felt as tired and as crotchety as an old man. The days seemed to be getting longer and it was getting harder and harder to keep rising every morning. He couldn't keep doing this forever; he had a sinking feeling that one day, soon, he would just shut down and give up. He felt sore from everything that had went down last night – hell, he felt sore from everything that had happened in the last year. His mind kept going back to that single day in the Cobalt Mountains...but he quickly drove that thought out of his mind. That was the only way he knew how to combat his lethargy - don't think about it.
That was one of his rules, see; he must never look back. Because if he did, then he was lost.
Enough. Baird turned his attention away, focusing instead on the brownish liquid inside his mug instead. The ale tasted like it always did, poor as piss. This time, however, there was something even worse that the taste; the fact that he couldn't get drunk off of it. And gods above knew how much he wanted to get drunk. But Baird knew that his undead body could only be sated with blood, which meant that drinking ale would have as much effect on him as water. He chuckled. Now that's the real curse of the undead, isn't it?...
Baird suddenly jerked his mug up in a toast. “To the gift of immortality,” he said, “and may whoever came up with that idea go fuck themselves.”
He drank.
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