This time, his head ached even more - Most likely because of the fact that this time, he hadnt drank some infused water, but instead - Beer. He was forced to drink it, that much he remembered. Oh how he hated beer, how he loathed any form of alcohol. The drunkards' drink, the one that clouded your mind, made you slip. Atleast he knew what time it was, though he didn’t know where he was for a moment - He woke up in a bale of hay, with thin strands of grass in his mouth, and dust on his face. Forcing himself to stand, he realised that he had been 'left', or he had fallen, neither seemed right enough, by the Pony, outside. Why exactly that was, he didn’t have the faintest clue to - But he spat beside him, wondering now about just how lucky he was, to avoid having anything, not even that of value, stolen from him in the night - Including his life, as down-trodden as it seemed now.
"Roderick!", he shouted out, scarcely caring who now stared at him; The man who woke up in the hay, covered in all forms, types, and sorts of discarded waste. "Roderick!", he said, again. There was no reply, for a moment, until from behind him, under the arch-way of the Prancing Pony, was the Scarred Man.
"What?", the scarred man said, equally as loud. "What, by the gods, are you calling me for!?"
Quintyn's face turned sour. "What am I calling you for? To explain. Why I happened to wake up... Out here. Like... This.", he waved his right hand up and down, to gesture just how he looked.
"Oh. That'd be because you tried to kill some man dressed in grey.", the scarred man said. The sheer thought made Quintyn turn cold.
"How dare yo--", he began, but wouldn’t finish.
"Oh. Wait. No. Some man in grey kissed this other man in blue, and then there was a fight and... Well here you are.", the Scarred Man smirked, He done that on purpose.
"I... Then why don’t I remember any of this, hm? Explain yourself - Or I'll be explaining a lot about the way blood runs thicker than water.", Quintyn said.
"Oh calm yourself down, damn it! It's called getting drunk, hm? You drink one place, you end up somewhere else." the Scarred Man said, bursting into laughter.
"I. Don’t. Drink. I want the bastard that forced me to, brought here -right- now.", Quintyn said, his face clearly showing his current state of anger. "Now."
The Scarred man smirked at that, "For what? So you can fight him too? Ah yes, that'll be why your head is aching. You may, or may not, have got punched thrice. Besides, you cant truly wish to stay dressed in... That. For much longer, can you?"
Quintyn smiled, going along with the crude joke. He looked down at his clothing, it was torn in several places, slightly ragged, filthy with dust, and smothered in hay. "Right.", he said calmly, before entering the inn through the back-door, and heading to his accommodated room, where he changed from his once black, now brown and grey, tunic, vest, and trousers, to a thick, if still light, jacket - Which was equally as black as his old 'clothing' -If it could still be called that- a pair of linen, also black, trousers, and a pair of leather boots, dyed black. Quintyn did seem to love black.
He entered the inn's main area, a smirk on his face as he saw just how many other patrons were there. He did love fantasizing about other patrons, who they were, how he could torment them, whether they had families or not, who they -could-, one day, be. He approached the bar-top, and, in a flat voice, stated "Water." to Barliman, a young lady to his right staring queerly at him. She spoke first, telling Quintyn that if he wanted water he should simply "Go outside", where it had apparently started raining. Was dry a moment ago, Quintyn thought.
He turned to face her, his face expressionless, "I prefer water. It doesn’t dull your senses, like ale - Now, if you want to get drunk and wake up rolling on the floor, please do.", he said in a slightly offensive tone. She didn’t seem to mind, nor care, though, and simply replied with the truth, that she was drinking tea, not any form of alcohol. "Tea clouds your mind.", Quintyn said, trying to regain some form of dignity, after that awkward moment, as he placed three coppers on the table, sipping the water, "The money's for the tankard - The water tastes horrible."
After the randomness of that conversation, the two pressed onto something else, Quintyn asking for the lady's name, getting the reply of "Ameren. Ameren Branson.", he did think that was a queer name, and when asked for his own - He replied, "Robert".
Something should be said here. Robert isn't Quintyn's 'name', but rather his 'second name' that he gave himself, the reason for which can be explored at a later date.
The lady, now known to him as 'Ameren', did naught but smile, stating that it was a dull name, and that he looked more a 'Marcus' than a 'Robert'. At this, Quintyn clenched his teeth ever so slightly, And ofcourse, 'Marcus' isn't a dull name!, He thought, with a strange sense of mental-sarcasm.
He described his name by stating that he had given it to himself, not wishing to be well-known by his birth-name, the reasons for which he kept to himself. Ameren simply laughed, telling him that she would have to make up a story for the name.
He did wonder about that. People like... That. Ones that are constantly happy, no matter what - Whether you insult them or no, whether you assault them or no, happy. He loathed that, the very thought of it - Eternal happiness. It was something he had never had, and he never wanted it; To laugh in the face of everything...
He simply smirked, when she said she would have to begin working, Oh, she was a bard, else Barliman would, by quote, "Tan" her "hide". Turning to the table, he picked up his tankard of water, which had actually been empty the whole time, and took a false-drink from it.
Turning to make his leave, he noticed a man sat at one of the benches, sighing and pitying his own, quite clearly sad, life. Perfect.
Approaching the man, he pulled out a wine-skin, full of, as he knew, water which had been infused, with herbs. "Water infused with herbs. I hate the stuff, but...", he said, offering it to the man. He refused, so Quintyn put the skin away, smiling grim, "Well this is a happy day, isnt it? What exactly is wrong with you, hmm? You don’t much look like you're from... Here.", he said to the man, who continued groaning.
After a moment, he finally spoke, It can speak!? He thought, "I'm from Combe", he said, Even better... The conversation itself was quite boring for Quintyn. It was the classic fool-boy who didn’t want to do what his father had in mind for him, too weak to say anything. So he decided to have a little bit of fun.
He opened his mouth, and the words that came out were just as poisonous as the drink he had offered earlier.
