Lonely shadows following me
Lonely ghosts come a-calling
Lonely ghosts come a-calling
It was early. The residual winds of the latest snowstorm howled outside the training hall and the shadows stretched long from the torches in their sconses along the walls. The flames flickered and hissed in the draft, and it was cold inside, the air biting even though brasiers glowed in the corners, kept alive by the soldiers that passed through whenever a shift changed. Korbin kept well away from them as he slipped in through the door and brushed snow from his hair and clothes, and they made no attempts to approach him. Already he was regretting this destination, but the options were so limited, and he couldn't stand to listen to the squealing babies and the grating, endless discussions between the women on who should do what. The men were even worse; cooped up for too long, all the talk had an undertone of passive aggression, just waiting for an excuse to flare up in arguments. Already. The sun hadn't even risen properly yet.
He was regrettably sober. Or what could pass for it anyway, these days; the pounding in his head suggested that he had a lot of sleep to catch up on before that would be completely true, and there was a taste like a garbage heap in his mouth. Chulane's efforts to clean him up were slowly coming undone, and the jutting cheekbones spoke of failed attempts to get any food down. Or keeping it. He was a mess, and Korbin knew it. Some days it bothered him, and he tried to tidy up, tried to put in some effort, get back on his feet. But... those moments never lasted long. At the end of the day, the bottle always found its way back into his hand, and the only sleep he got were scattered hours between tossing and turning, between nightmares and constant, churning thoughts that left him no peace.
Restlessly he roamed the stacks, eying weapons without knowing what he was looking for. Swords, spears, daggers, bows... At one point he reached out and picked up a heavy quarter staff, and turned it a few times between his hands. But his limbs felt heavy and his thoughts unfocused, and eventually he set it back into the rack. Sighed, and turned to keep wandering.
There did not seem to be any point in training. He never actually liked it, and... well. What difference did it make when arrows just bounced off dragon scales anyway?
He was regrettably sober. Or what could pass for it anyway, these days; the pounding in his head suggested that he had a lot of sleep to catch up on before that would be completely true, and there was a taste like a garbage heap in his mouth. Chulane's efforts to clean him up were slowly coming undone, and the jutting cheekbones spoke of failed attempts to get any food down. Or keeping it. He was a mess, and Korbin knew it. Some days it bothered him, and he tried to tidy up, tried to put in some effort, get back on his feet. But... those moments never lasted long. At the end of the day, the bottle always found its way back into his hand, and the only sleep he got were scattered hours between tossing and turning, between nightmares and constant, churning thoughts that left him no peace.
Restlessly he roamed the stacks, eying weapons without knowing what he was looking for. Swords, spears, daggers, bows... At one point he reached out and picked up a heavy quarter staff, and turned it a few times between his hands. But his limbs felt heavy and his thoughts unfocused, and eventually he set it back into the rack. Sighed, and turned to keep wandering.
There did not seem to be any point in training. He never actually liked it, and... well. What difference did it make when arrows just bounced off dragon scales anyway?
Thousand voices dead at my feet
Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone
Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone
