The gentle breeze of night flowed around him in her deceiving quiet, she wrapped him in her gentle embrace, like a soft child lying awake in her arms, he sat upon the roof. He enjoyed the night. He was born from within her whom. She cared for him on the streets of Lake Town, his past. She was a gentle friend. So far the only one in which he could truly trust. Below him the town of Bree sprawled open under the dim light of the stars. It was deathly in its slumber. Here and there faint lights of covered flames flicker in the dark, behind windowpanes and draped curtains. Inside these wood and stone dwellings there were families; daughters and sons, loving fathers of children un-begotten. Inside there, there was happiness, he knew. And which also knew he destroyed before, in a lifetime best forgotten, shoved there between the other catacombs of deserted thought. Out here, on top of this roof. The stink of the past can not truly be buried or washed. Can it? he mused drunkenly as he took another swig. The taste was sweet, yet wrong. There should be more then this. He was plastered was his last thought.
Waking up that morning upon the roof, back sore where his dagger pressed heavily against his pine, he trudged his way towards the Pony. When he opened the door the pungent smell of drink made him sick with its oppressive melancholy. He was tired and half dead already as he made made his way towards the counter and ordered himself a morning brew.
The voice of the barman asked if he was fine. Barliman was his name, he found out eventually with a few conversations with this said giant. He wanted to ask this tower, once again – and this has been bugging him – why on earth does he keep that robe on and so blasted dirty, he wanted to ask why there were dirt upon the counter, he wanted to know what he should do about this dreadful headache; he wanted to know a lot of stuff. Things were starting to irritate the living crap out of him nowadays it seemed. With only a shake of his head, a mere glimmer of that irritation well hidden within his eyes, he smiled up at the man. “No... no I'm fine” he mutters. He must look like crap, he thought as he peered down at his clothes. How could he let himself go like this?
There were more then just the usual offerings in the inn at this time. Two lasses, and a fine two they where, sat at a table facing each other. He made his way towards his normal seat lining the wall and placed his drink gingerly before him as he moved in. Something caught his eye as he turned to face the bar with his feet splayed out in front of him towards the room. A smirk crossed involuntarily on his thin lips. Can this be, he wondered out of amusement. The two lass's sipped at their drink while watching him. He grinned wondering as one waved him over. She was wild, full bodied, yet had the look of a fighter; the other one strangely wore unfitting armour, hanging on her frame like a oversized glove, yet with ease she seemed to move as well. He studied them for a while before he picked up his mug of cheap ale, took a decent swallow and made his way towards, a bemused gleam flickered briefly in his eyes.
That was when he heard about this group of Bree-land mercenaries, The Bloody Dawn, they were called. He could make some coin with them at least. He as sure as hell needed it.
The next day he met this girl. She seemed innocent, unspoiled; she laughed and drank with wild abandon, careless and carefree. He enjoyed her company a great deal, but he was afraid he would hurt her in some way. He didn't want to. She should understand him by now, he hoped. He wasn't like these Bree-land bar-flies; he wasn't good for shit's sake. He can't offer anyone anything. He honestly had nothing to give.
