When you're an alcoholic, the only passage of time you ever seem to notice is how long it takes to open another bottle of the local elvish wine and begin drowning yourself in the rich, exotic flavor of artificial amnesia. Every drunk has their reason, mine isn't that much different from everyone else's I suppose. It really takes a drunk to understand another drunk. To everyone else, my problem might seem something that requires professional attention and a good potion brewed by a talented apothecary, but to a drunk I am a brother in the endless pain that every draught we swig helps to dull. Normal people are just selfish, they don't understand my problem, they just judge me. How could they know how I feel, when I can barely feel anything at all? I suppose I prefer it that way... Oryl thought hazily to himself as he reached for yet another bottle of wine brewed from the vineyards of Scara Brae. Despite the fact that he was so drunk he couldn't taste the intricate flavors of the vino, the fey elf appreciated the fact that the island at least had a local brew.
Imports were just too expensive for a man living off odd-jobs.
If Oryl ever bothered to clean himself and stand upright he would have appeared quite handsome, even noble. This was, however, not the case for the sullen elf. Greasy, dirty, messy long blonde hair cascaded down to his shoulders, obscuring his lightly tanned face and purple eyes. His dirty green tunic reeked of booze, though if you wanted a more concentrated stench you needn't go further than his disgusting breath. As usual the tear in his brown slacks remained, unmended, despite the several resolutions to stitch it 'with the next job'. The drunk elf was practically bent over the table reaching for the last bottle he had.
"Uh oh...looks like it's time...to go find some...work...I hate work," he said in a stupor.
Wasting his many talents, Oryl typically took jobs cleaning up in taverns. He did this because it often meant he didn't even have to leave his current location, as he favored taverns when he looked for a place to go for the day. Additionally, he could always trade his services for food and wine instead of gold. Besides, he couldn't think of a single thing he needed money for, as he was usually too drunk to listen to the voice in his head nagging him about the rip in his pants.
"But first...a little nap," Oryl whispered, yawning. After all, as drunk as I am, I won't have to worry about any nasty dreams, he thought with a stupid smirk befitting a drunken baffoon. With that, he stretched and laid his head on the table to nap. It was only about one in the afternoon, and when he woke up the tavern owner would probably need help with dishes from the lunch rush...
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