29th of Spring, 515 A.V.
"Another." Rhov grunted as the burning taste of alcohol singing the whole of his mouth. He was unused to the Syliran style of ale, its flavor rougher than the sweet spiced Ephyrian wine he was weaned on as a youth. Raising the mug for another swig, Rhov let the liquid scorch down his throat, sighing with relief as the numbing substance dulled his ever active Chaktawe senses. As the barkeep brought forth his drink, dark and heady, from under the bar, Rhov slid his empty cup towards him. He swirled the murky contents of his mug, letting himself be lost in the backdrop of the inn.
Rhov had only been to the Rearing Stallion once, and it had been under much happier circumstances. The room had been filled with laughter and stories; friendships forged with easy confidence. Rhov had briefly considered asking for Orin, but dismissed the thought quickly. He did want to disturb so nice a man with his foul mood and temperament. Onyx eyes swept the area around him, seeing what scene had replaced the happy memories of days gone past.
The Stallion was lively and crowded; the excited chatter of strangers filling the air with a wall of sound. Faces foreign to Rhov danced in and out of his vision, going on about their day with carefree nonchalance. A few cheers rang loud and true as someone struck up an upbeat tune, and the inn erupted into a sea of movement. Smiles flashed as names were exchanged, strangers dancing with strangers without the slightest pretense or foreknowledge of each other. The whole sight might have seemed rather happy to a passerby, but to Rhov it served only as an annoyance.
In normal circumstances, Rhov would have avoided such a crowded place like the plague. He did not do well in stone walls, and crowds increased his discomfort immeasurably. The city was noisy, the people and their customs strange, and their guards far to involved in such subjects as 'modesty' and 'appropriate public dress'. If it wasn't for the fact that this was the nearest place to get a drink on his trek back to the Mithryn Outpost, Rhov would no doubt be as far from the imposing towers of Stormhold Castle as physically possible. However, if recent days proved anything, Rhov was hardly experiencing normal circumstances as of late.
Possession was the paramount reason that Rhov had wandered from the safety and comfort of his secluded room at the Mithryn. He had been exploring the strange indigo keep and its adjacent forest in the Cobalt Mountains, when he had suddenly found himself bereft of all control of his body. That experience itself would have been enough to drive a man to drink, but the gods showed no kindness to Rhov that day. The spirit which inhabited him showed him a world on the brink of death, had filled him with memories of death and despair, and then proceeded to use him as a pawn in an age-old battle. Needless to say, the entire endeavor pissed Rhov off to no end.
The experience was disconcerting to say the least, but it did not end wholly there. In the silence of his mind, in the dark corners where he hid the rage and fury that , in the place where his demons tended the fierce flames of hatred, Rhov thought he could hear a voice whispering wrathful falsehoods in his mind. A leftover of his possession, perhaps. A result of some unknown bond which he and the ghost shared. Whatever the reason, Rhov found his solace and the whispers' silence at the bottom of a bottle.
Washing his darker thoughts down with an unhealthy gulp of dark ale, Rhov slammed the now empty mug down on the table. "Another," he ordered, his tone abrasive and unpleasant.
"Maybe you should slow down there, pal." the barkeep began, caution and concern tinting his voice. He moved to remove Rhov's cup, but a feral glare from the bounty hunter stilled his hand. The barkeep would not normally be so easily dissuaded from his effort, but Rhov carried the look of a man who needed to forget. Sighing, he replaced Rhov's empty cup with a full one.
"Leave the bottle. It's going to be a long night."
