F
Francisco Alarcón
Torch and lamplight illuminated the streets of a bustling Cortosi city. As one would expect from a city flourishing from trade, the nightlife was electric. The city and its impressive port was built on the estuary of The Roaring Brother, where commerce ebbs and flows through the seasons.
The once-monk strolled down the street that took all pedestrians through the port district. He had no further business there, aside from his desire to lighten the burden that weighed him so- the heavy purse of coin attached to his hip. A final night of gallivanting to properly say his goodbyes to the city that had treated him so well. The street was lined with inns, bordellos, and taverns, all of which without any vacancy. However, he felt compelled to one place only: The Raucous Rodolero, the largest and busiest tavern in the district. Or so it was said.
Thus the brawler strode in, ostensibly a hooligan, with silver rings, some bejeweled, adorning each finger. A long silk cloak with a thick fur collar and foreign patterns embroidered on it flowed at his knees. A ruby dangled from his earlobe, and a silver cuff hugged his helix. Even among a melting pot, the foreigner stood out. Contrary to his appearance, the air of humble confidence that he carried lent to the mellow way in which he carried himself.
After breathing in what was quite honestly a stench, he let out a happy exhale, pleased to have entered the tavern. His entrance was met with an eerie and abrupt silence.
The once-monk strolled down the street that took all pedestrians through the port district. He had no further business there, aside from his desire to lighten the burden that weighed him so- the heavy purse of coin attached to his hip. A final night of gallivanting to properly say his goodbyes to the city that had treated him so well. The street was lined with inns, bordellos, and taverns, all of which without any vacancy. However, he felt compelled to one place only: The Raucous Rodolero, the largest and busiest tavern in the district. Or so it was said.
Thus the brawler strode in, ostensibly a hooligan, with silver rings, some bejeweled, adorning each finger. A long silk cloak with a thick fur collar and foreign patterns embroidered on it flowed at his knees. A ruby dangled from his earlobe, and a silver cuff hugged his helix. Even among a melting pot, the foreigner stood out. Contrary to his appearance, the air of humble confidence that he carried lent to the mellow way in which he carried himself.
After breathing in what was quite honestly a stench, he let out a happy exhale, pleased to have entered the tavern. His entrance was met with an eerie and abrupt silence.
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