Swiet Dibbs
Novice
The front doors of the tavern swing open with an ill-tempered sigh, and a bald man in studded black leather lorica pauses upon the threshold as his tired, grim eyes sweep the mezzanine shrewdly. He squints, crow's feet bunching at the corners of his eyes, before he lets the travelling bundle of bedding, pouches, and shield drop from his shoulder to hang from one hand at his hip; the pommels of twin blades extrude from the pack, glinting in the light of the oil lamps as his shoulders roll once.
As though a dire decision has been reached, Swiet Dibbs steps into the tavern to find a room for the night; his pouch is light, just enough for food and accommodations for the days prior to the impending journey to Dark Elven lands.
The festival beckons, and all crows are coming home to pick at the flesh of glories as-yet unconquered.
He has been away too long.
Durgo will be angry, but that is a constant state for the man.
Vaeger is another concern entirely; Swiet was to join his retinue, before other... events conspired to drag the warrior away from his commitment.
"Blood's in the cracks, mate..." mutters Swiet, inexplicably, before he heads to the bar.
As though a dire decision has been reached, Swiet Dibbs steps into the tavern to find a room for the night; his pouch is light, just enough for food and accommodations for the days prior to the impending journey to Dark Elven lands.
The festival beckons, and all crows are coming home to pick at the flesh of glories as-yet unconquered.
He has been away too long.
Durgo will be angry, but that is a constant state for the man.
Vaeger is another concern entirely; Swiet was to join his retinue, before other... events conspired to drag the warrior away from his commitment.
"Blood's in the cracks, mate..." mutters Swiet, inexplicably, before he heads to the bar.