Kylila makes her way through the crowded streets of Stormstead, weaving through the gaps between people when she can find them and making one when she can't, her gait swift and purposeful. She shivers slightly and draws her cloak about her as she walks, hood up to keep herself warm. Used to the roiling heat of the southern realms, the former knight found Adran's climate comparatively freezing, even in the milder spring seasons. The simple but thick woolen cloak, bought yesterday morning in the marketplace for a paltry amount of coin, was the only item of clothing that kept in warmth. Even her Ampyrian armor, made of well-oiled leather and steel, was designed to let out heat so as to prevent heatstroke during combat in the deserts and jungles of her homeland, not to keep her warm in the strange, shifting temperatures of the north.
'Back in the deserts, we did not have to worry about the clime changing from day-to-day or hour-to-hour,' Kylila thinks morosely, adjusting her cloak to wrap more fully about her, 'Hot during day, cold during night. That was it. None of this four seasons bullshit.'
Finally, the Ampyrian slows as she reaches an old, dilapidated wooden building, her ears catching raucous laughter and wild carousing from within its confines. She comes to a stop in front of an ancient wooden door whose thickness suggested sturdiness in spite of its obvious age, stained in spots and smelling faintly of vomit. Kylila frowns dubiously, looking up at the sign hanging above it- a board of wood chipped with age, a corner of it stripped off, decorated with an stylized leaping hound whose strong, skillfully-engraved form was deeply at odds with the appearance of the establishment it represented.
After a few moments of hesitation, Kylila lets out a resigned sigh, and then a deep breath- which she immediately chokes upon. She whips around and takes a few steps away, inhaling and exhaling the fresh air with desperation. Finally, she takes one last, deep inhalation, turns around, and walks determinedly into the tavern. She scans the tavern, making a face at its current condition: citizens of all shapes and sizes were partying with bacchanalian abandonment, the majority of them drunk, the rest passed out in their chairs, in their stools, on the dirty, wooden floor, against the walls below massive mounted bucks' antlers- everywhere. There were pools of vomit sprinkled in strategic locations throughout the bar, a not-insignificant number of them beside the face of a passed-out reveler.
Kylila focuses her attention on a corner, finding her target as swiftly as if she'd already known where he was, and starts to make her way there, shoving the occasional drunkard out of her way, doing her best to hold her breath the entire way. When she finally gets there, she collapses into a chair next to a blond, dour-looking man, the majority of his face covered in bandages, and puts her hand over her mouth and nose before taking a deep breath. Then, she mutters towards the blond man, smooth, Ampyrian-accented voice muffled by her fingers, "Why in all the freezing hells of Alaziz did you want to meet here?"
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Topic: You are King III: Spring 938 AAL (Read 131138 times)