THE LION ISN'T SACRED WHEN NOT SLEEPING NEAR THE LAMB
The best way to achieve the truly impressive was to begin with little victories. For example: getting out of Stormbreak (1), reaching the Citadel (2), maintaining civility while in company of the Citadel's savages (3), and even managing to find a bar (4, weighted more heavily than the rest, possibly the most important victory so far). What better way to learn about the most pressing news than to find a place where locals gathered, drank and talked? And what better way to keep his own spirits up than to drink along with them? Brecken liked to think he possessed a remarkable talent for holding his liquor, though the veracity of this supposition would most likely be tested before dawn.
He was on his second pint of the evening. He was feeling pleasantly buzzed. The room was warm and close around him, and though he had harbored concerns about illness before entering, he had now forgotten those. Such were the wonders of drink — a sloughing-off of the less useful emotions, a quickening of more pleasant ones. For now. Brecken was not a spy, so he was not hunched over a table in the back, taking in the room. He was instead in the middle of it, catching the eye of whoever happened to be looking at him with a companionable nod, speaking when he had the chance. He enjoyed this part — pretending to make nice. So far as he knew, no one in the room actively deserved his disdain (yet) and so he could pretend they were friends until something happened and he wanted to kill them. For now, of course, with drink warm and golden in his veins, with the fire a pleasant heaviness in his lungs, he was most interested in learning things. And continuing to drink. The days ahead would be less pleasant, and he deserved to prepare for them well.
Who knew, after all, when he would next be able to sample what Snowcloak had to offer?
He was on his second pint of the evening. He was feeling pleasantly buzzed. The room was warm and close around him, and though he had harbored concerns about illness before entering, he had now forgotten those. Such were the wonders of drink — a sloughing-off of the less useful emotions, a quickening of more pleasant ones. For now. Brecken was not a spy, so he was not hunched over a table in the back, taking in the room. He was instead in the middle of it, catching the eye of whoever happened to be looking at him with a companionable nod, speaking when he had the chance. He enjoyed this part — pretending to make nice. So far as he knew, no one in the room actively deserved his disdain (yet) and so he could pretend they were friends until something happened and he wanted to kill them. For now, of course, with drink warm and golden in his veins, with the fire a pleasant heaviness in his lungs, he was most interested in learning things. And continuing to drink. The days ahead would be less pleasant, and he deserved to prepare for them well.
Who knew, after all, when he would next be able to sample what Snowcloak had to offer?
IT IS EVIL WHEN IT EATS UNLESS IT'S FEEDING FROM THE DAMNED.
