Thread: Unfolding legends (Sharub x Bravocherry)

He rolled his eyes at her remark, unseen by the shade of his hat, but that couldn't hide a faint smirk. Bran kept his head forward, back slumped and hands in his pockets. His Strangers Sword still strapped to his back, and his ring now upon his finger. His headache began to dull as Nana lead Bran through the town. Her hooves clopping against the cobble. Under the warm red light of the fading sun, Bran couldn't help but stave off a bit of daydreaming... He thought of the time he had to fight the Thundering Serpent atop the mountain in which it always rains. He waited, heart pounding, breath hot against the slippery rocks. The beast had already smelted most of his armor, and what remained would not protect him from another barrage. His pants smoldering, shirt torn in half, and blood now dripping into the puddle at his feet. Nothing left but his bastard's sword and the Shield of Mirrors. He thought of the time he had seduced a powerful elf noblewoman, Her Lady Miss Ereden of the Wilting Blossom. He spent months at her bed, months of passion and unrequited lust. Months of delicious delicacies, deadly duels, and dirty deeds done to Her Lady. And many of course in return. Her intense, heavy, sultry sighs of passion sung out in his head like a sweet melody he'd never forget. He had proven himself to her in battle, having beaten her Dancing Petal Martial Art in hand combat, which had been passed down for generations by the women of her family. He had thought of how he got the strangers sword... He was shocked from his musings by the spell spoken by young Nana, having barely caught the words before he was startled by the blue fire. It flickered, the cobalt flame giving off a chill. All of a sudden, the weak light that had been casted had flooded Brans view, and for a second he was dazed. Goddamn mages never goddamn tell ye when they goddamn cast a goddamn spell he mumbled in his thoughts, awkwardly blinking to try to regain a proper focus. As his eyes began to adjust, he saw that the darkness that had been enclosing them as they had walked and he had daydreamed was now gone. Torches. Remind me to fix up some torches he mumbled as he followed Nana down the cobble. The good folk started to turn in, and as with most places in Gralia these days, the bad folk start to come out. The thieves and the scum began to crawl out from their holes, and into the new light of the moon. A rat selling murky and misty potions. probably poorly mixed, at best. A tiefling gambler, with a brimmed hat that had holes for his bright red horns to stick through, rolled up a cigar of what looked like hobbit herb and blackened, crushed tobacco. The darkened shops of witch doctors and soothesayers. A blind goblin begs for spare coin. These were the folk Bran was more comfortable with. Because when a rat selling you a bad batch of Devil Tongue stabs you in the back, you don't sit there thinking to yourself, asking how you got in that situation. These people may be dirty and devilish, and they sure as hell are not honest. But that's what Bran liked about them. He found himself tempted too, by the whores of many brothels. Fine curves and soft skin, the scent of debauchery lured him in like a moth to flame. He looked ahead at his young mare companion. He wondered if she was as novice as she appeared. They came to the Inn, and as they did Nana spoke another spell and the light shrank back into it's staff. Torches he reminded himself. They entered, and upon doing so he saw Nana perk up almost instantly. The wary travelers of far off seemed to have her mystified. Bran, himself, was not as impressed. He breathed in the rich, smokey air and coughed. Looking around the room, he found two dwarves who seemed to be in quite the hardy arm wrestle, a lady server who carried ale and wine, and an elf which he couldn't decide was male or female. That's the bloody trouble with elves he thought. She spoke into his ear, and he nodded. He found a booth, vacant towards the back, and made his way towards it. His dull eyes glancing from patron to patron. His eyes were quick, up and down the adventurers and minstrels alike. Armed. Not armed. Armed. Not armed. Armed. Nice ass, definitely armed. His sword hummed dully at his back, and his headache was now a distant memory. Even his appearance had now become more healthy, less, well, hungover. He places his strangers sword between his legs as he sits down, resting against his right thigh. He then removes his hat, revealing his scruffy, unkempt brown hair.