The bottle sat upon the table a crystal clean glass sat next to it. The two were a marriage of desperation, even as a gloved hand picked up the bottle and tilted it into the glass, filling it with an amber fluid. The light of the nearby candle expanded easily through the room as the gloved hand lifted it to the lips of its master. The light revealed much, it revealed a place filled with various Fae and Darconids. Some were looking at the owner of the hand with disdain, other with a morbid curiosity.
It was nothing the Master wasn't used to.
The hand obediently followed its master's whims and placed the glass, half empty upon the table once more. The wood was worn and weathered, a veteran of a thousand desperate attempts at getting drunk, and would probably weather a thousand more. Even as the figure sat upon a rickety chair, more of an amalgamation of wood in the likeness of a chair than any true means of seating.
The hand rose, brushing a stray lock of crimson red from the worn face of the Master. It stayed there for a moment, shading stormy grey eyes from others view. Giving him the briefest of moments, where he could believe that he indeed did not have to be in Dheathain. As much as the Master hated Dheathain, he was happy to be out of his last locale. He loathed Radasanth with a horrid distaste. After all Radasanth had few good memories, but a sizeable collection of bad ones.
Some had even followed him here.
Hopefully one of the better ones would come sit with him soon. She had after all left the Master so long ago to see about a few things. Not that the Master minded, he merely needed time to sort himself out. He needed to accept the fact he was once more in the rich and vibrant lands of Dheathain, and that he was not going back to the ruins that had been his home for so long. Ruins that were home to a bed that he rarely used in favor of another's, and a woman who he had loved, a home now long since reclaimed by nature.
A woman who had warned him she would disappear one day and he would never be able to follow.
The night was humid sending a brief layer of moisture upon his skin, and rapidly cooling by the soft breezes. The buildings of the area had been propped up so that, with only a smattering of windows, a crisp breeze could prevail through most of the tavern, keeping its denizens cool, even with the oppressive heat about them. Already the vest that he had become accustomed to wearing, was sitting in his pack, and a couple of buttons on his shirt were loose. Following suit his sleeves had been rolled up in an attempt to expose more flesh desperately to the night's air.
A hand gently traced another reminder of the past. A slightly pink line that raced down the Master's forearm. It was the gift of a man who had tried to defend a ruthless tyrant. A man who used the underworld as his toy, to acquire things he truly didn't need. In the end the Master had killed the tyrant, but nearly lost use of that arm. Even now the Master felt exposed to those on the right, even with the reassurance his arm was alright. The Master sighed tiredly before he drank from the glass, more thoughts of the past rolling in.
It was just one of those nights.
Jared Cesarino was tired, and he just wanted to sleep.
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