He looked forward, knowing that the weather didn't fancy him. In truth, Diedrick hated rain with every fiber of his being. It was wet, unwelcoming. It created mud everywhere and painted his beloved skies a moldy grey. Despite wearing a waterproof jacket, the exposed parts of Diedrick's body grew wet. In retrospect, perhaps he should've brought an umbrella, but it was too late to turn heel.
"Ah, fuck it, gotta keep going," muttered the man, seemingly referring to some unseen crowd. Or was it perhaps that he talked to himself? It was hard to tell. "Hopefully, the tavern isn't far off. Otherwise, I'll be soaking wet, and people might assume I have pissed myself on the way over, ha!" Diedrick strung his words together with belicious positivity, finding humor in the unlikeliest of places. His desire to marble every event with a degree of amusement stung a nerve of some people, yet he seldom found himself caring.
Soon enough, the place he was looking for came in sight. Squinting his eyes, Diedrick saw past the rapidly worsening torrent of water that had all but rendered him blind. He made out the basic features. A red, tiled roof, ornamented with two chimneys; mahogany-colored walls, presumably made out of sturdy hardwood and doors upon which hung a sign saying "Thorfinn's tavern."
Diedrick crept closer, enticed by the homey exterior and the promise of shelter. Gods knew that a nasty storm was building up. The longer he stayed outside, the further he risked catching a cold, if not something worse.
He laid his dish-plate-sized hand upon the door's ornately crafted surface. Diedrick's brow arched, taken aback by the smooth surface. The male wondered if the entrance was waxed, as everything pointed to that possibility, yet such costs proved expensive. How could an owner of a remote inn located in the middle of bum-fuck-nowhere afford such services? Diedrick found himself perplexed at the notion, despite banishing it in mere seconds. He pushed against the frame, unsure of how effortful his entry would be.
The tavern's doors opened ever so slightly, their creak barely above a whisper. Much to Diedrick's relief, they were heavy, meaning that he didn't swing them open with excessive force. Oddly enough, he struggled to enter, his body far too tall and wide for the relatively minor doors. In truth, they were perfectly normal and the problem laid within Diedrick's overwhelming size. It was no secret that he towered over most men to a varying degree. Such was the occurrence that he could come off as a frightening presence even when he had no intention of doing so.
A handful of strangers glanced at him, equally suspicious of Diedrick's arrival. They were a few, a clear indication that the tavern's remote nature had its pros and cons. On the one hand, it rarely had to deal with rowdy crowds. On the other, its budget took a hit due to the relatively low population density of the area surrounding it.
Tarathrieal
"Ah, fuck it, gotta keep going," muttered the man, seemingly referring to some unseen crowd. Or was it perhaps that he talked to himself? It was hard to tell. "Hopefully, the tavern isn't far off. Otherwise, I'll be soaking wet, and people might assume I have pissed myself on the way over, ha!" Diedrick strung his words together with belicious positivity, finding humor in the unlikeliest of places. His desire to marble every event with a degree of amusement stung a nerve of some people, yet he seldom found himself caring.
Soon enough, the place he was looking for came in sight. Squinting his eyes, Diedrick saw past the rapidly worsening torrent of water that had all but rendered him blind. He made out the basic features. A red, tiled roof, ornamented with two chimneys; mahogany-colored walls, presumably made out of sturdy hardwood and doors upon which hung a sign saying "Thorfinn's tavern."
Diedrick crept closer, enticed by the homey exterior and the promise of shelter. Gods knew that a nasty storm was building up. The longer he stayed outside, the further he risked catching a cold, if not something worse.
He laid his dish-plate-sized hand upon the door's ornately crafted surface. Diedrick's brow arched, taken aback by the smooth surface. The male wondered if the entrance was waxed, as everything pointed to that possibility, yet such costs proved expensive. How could an owner of a remote inn located in the middle of bum-fuck-nowhere afford such services? Diedrick found himself perplexed at the notion, despite banishing it in mere seconds. He pushed against the frame, unsure of how effortful his entry would be.
The tavern's doors opened ever so slightly, their creak barely above a whisper. Much to Diedrick's relief, they were heavy, meaning that he didn't swing them open with excessive force. Oddly enough, he struggled to enter, his body far too tall and wide for the relatively minor doors. In truth, they were perfectly normal and the problem laid within Diedrick's overwhelming size. It was no secret that he towered over most men to a varying degree. Such was the occurrence that he could come off as a frightening presence even when he had no intention of doing so.
A handful of strangers glanced at him, equally suspicious of Diedrick's arrival. They were a few, a clear indication that the tavern's remote nature had its pros and cons. On the one hand, it rarely had to deal with rowdy crowds. On the other, its budget took a hit due to the relatively low population density of the area surrounding it.
Tarathrieal
