- Messages
- 38
- Character Biography
- Link
Iscandor walked down a busy street as he felt the sun continuing its trip downward and out of sight. It was dusk at this point, and the orange skies were pretty enough to warrant a painting. Humming a little tune as he walked along, he would spy a small tavern nestled between other buildings of similar size. What interested him most, however, was that another initiate walked in as he watched on. How could he tell it was an initiate of the Dreadlords? Put simply, the confidence exploding off of the swaggering young man nearly formed a visible aura around him as the person hired to attract attention stepped aside in deference. The Dreadlords are that well known around here? The young man would think, somehow surprised and totally unsurprised in equal measure. However, this event brought up another couple of questions. Do Dreadlord Initiates also drink here much? I've never had any alcohol, but should I force myself to? Would that make me seem more like everyone else?
Contrary to what the above questions might come together to read as, Iscandor wanted to flow, not conform. The ocean does not like to be held captive, but if put into a container it adjusts to the shape as though to make things more comfortable for itself. Like water, Isca prided himself on the ability to make the best out of a complicated situation like social status, even if it meant making some bad choices. Water took the path of least resistance as well as moved in as many directions as it could when stationary, and likewise the young man always had a plan B or C or D for good measure. Pulling out one of his two daggers, Iscandor would twist the hilt in his hand, squeezing it once or twice. It was a ritual, and one he always did while thinking this exact thought: I'm about to do something very, very stupid.
With a deep breath in, he would sigh and quickly cross the street before more horses and carriages blocked him. Arriving at the front door of the tavern and greeting the person outside with a nod, he would see their eyes flicker about his entire body and then visibly relax. He doesn't see me as much of a threat. I'll use that to my advantage and assume the patrons inside will have the same thought or be too invested in chugging drinks to care at all. At that thought, Iscandor himself would visibly relax, repeating a mantra to himself that effectively said: "Get in, try some booze, and leave. You have no other reason to stay in such a sloppy place." With this plan in mind, he'd meander through the door, listening to it close behind him with a slam as an annoyed customer cursed about how cold it was inside, then sit at the bar. Waving over a bartender who took his precious time getting over to his seat due to chatting and what looked like flirtatious banter, he'd point to something on the menu he had heard of.
Ale was a drink that seemed to be the stereotypical drinking fare, and didn't seem to inspire too strong a reaction from the other customers around him, so when a tall mug of it was placed in front of him, he swiftly took a big gulp of the drink and regretted it immediately. Unabashedly and reflexively spitting the drink onto the bar, he was almost tempted to lick the bar to get it off his tongue as a mixture of saliva and alcohol made the flavor nearly twenty or so times worse. Still, he managed to keep down what little bit remained ingested, and was promptly beset upon by a group of patrons who had begun to make jokes about him. What's so funny? That reaction was normal, so how am I the one being laughed at for not enjoying a beverage that tastes like fermented spiders died holding stinkbugs in a ham and cheese sandwich?
"That was so fucking funny, you little wimp!" One would say, eyes shining with tears of laughter.
"Yo, Bitch-Boy, what's up?" Another would say, joining his friend.
"Hey, who just served a minor?" Someone else would say, joining the chorus.
All Iscandor could do was stare blankly ahead, wondering to himself in stunned silence. That shit sucked. All these people are laughing at me. When did it go so wrong? When he realized thinking about it would do him no more good, he would snap out of the embarrassment-induced trance and slide off the stool, accidentally bumping into someone else on his way out. Ah, shit, the boy would think, mentally preparing for another round of verbal abuse.
Contrary to what the above questions might come together to read as, Iscandor wanted to flow, not conform. The ocean does not like to be held captive, but if put into a container it adjusts to the shape as though to make things more comfortable for itself. Like water, Isca prided himself on the ability to make the best out of a complicated situation like social status, even if it meant making some bad choices. Water took the path of least resistance as well as moved in as many directions as it could when stationary, and likewise the young man always had a plan B or C or D for good measure. Pulling out one of his two daggers, Iscandor would twist the hilt in his hand, squeezing it once or twice. It was a ritual, and one he always did while thinking this exact thought: I'm about to do something very, very stupid.
With a deep breath in, he would sigh and quickly cross the street before more horses and carriages blocked him. Arriving at the front door of the tavern and greeting the person outside with a nod, he would see their eyes flicker about his entire body and then visibly relax. He doesn't see me as much of a threat. I'll use that to my advantage and assume the patrons inside will have the same thought or be too invested in chugging drinks to care at all. At that thought, Iscandor himself would visibly relax, repeating a mantra to himself that effectively said: "Get in, try some booze, and leave. You have no other reason to stay in such a sloppy place." With this plan in mind, he'd meander through the door, listening to it close behind him with a slam as an annoyed customer cursed about how cold it was inside, then sit at the bar. Waving over a bartender who took his precious time getting over to his seat due to chatting and what looked like flirtatious banter, he'd point to something on the menu he had heard of.
Ale was a drink that seemed to be the stereotypical drinking fare, and didn't seem to inspire too strong a reaction from the other customers around him, so when a tall mug of it was placed in front of him, he swiftly took a big gulp of the drink and regretted it immediately. Unabashedly and reflexively spitting the drink onto the bar, he was almost tempted to lick the bar to get it off his tongue as a mixture of saliva and alcohol made the flavor nearly twenty or so times worse. Still, he managed to keep down what little bit remained ingested, and was promptly beset upon by a group of patrons who had begun to make jokes about him. What's so funny? That reaction was normal, so how am I the one being laughed at for not enjoying a beverage that tastes like fermented spiders died holding stinkbugs in a ham and cheese sandwich?
"That was so fucking funny, you little wimp!" One would say, eyes shining with tears of laughter.
"Yo, Bitch-Boy, what's up?" Another would say, joining his friend.
"Hey, who just served a minor?" Someone else would say, joining the chorus.
All Iscandor could do was stare blankly ahead, wondering to himself in stunned silence. That shit sucked. All these people are laughing at me. When did it go so wrong? When he realized thinking about it would do him no more good, he would snap out of the embarrassment-induced trance and slide off the stool, accidentally bumping into someone else on his way out. Ah, shit, the boy would think, mentally preparing for another round of verbal abuse.