The life an adventurer was not easily adopted.
This was something Flint was coming to terms with. A couple of days prior, the barber had returned from one of his first quests. Together with his dear friend Orival, he'd attempted to secure the Willow - a powerful magical artifact guarded by the vicious Pandaranns. They'd faced a Pandarann, and had barely managed to kill it without losing their lives. Worse still, it was Orival that had taken the most damage from the beast, and while they both returned from the quest beaten and bruised, he couldn't help but feel guilty over his friend's suffering.
Flint was a competitive man, his greatest rival being himself. He'd not been sleeping well since returning from the quest, riddled with thoughts and questions. What could he have done better? Did Orival think poorly of him now? He'd gone through a hundred answers to these questions, and few of them were positive.
He'd found himself in his local tavern that night. The Winking Wyvern was a fine establishment, situated only a few doors down from his shop. He sat at the bar counter, tankard of the Wyvern's finest brew in grip. Normally, Flint would be the life of the tavern, jeering and joking into the early hours of the morning. Hoctor, the innkeep, was keeping his distance from the barber, well aware of the forlorn look etched across Flint's face. As he lifted the tankard to his lips, he heard the creak of the Wyvern's door open, though didn't bother to turn and check who'd entered.
He did not see himself drawing any friends tonight.
This was something Flint was coming to terms with. A couple of days prior, the barber had returned from one of his first quests. Together with his dear friend Orival, he'd attempted to secure the Willow - a powerful magical artifact guarded by the vicious Pandaranns. They'd faced a Pandarann, and had barely managed to kill it without losing their lives. Worse still, it was Orival that had taken the most damage from the beast, and while they both returned from the quest beaten and bruised, he couldn't help but feel guilty over his friend's suffering.
Flint was a competitive man, his greatest rival being himself. He'd not been sleeping well since returning from the quest, riddled with thoughts and questions. What could he have done better? Did Orival think poorly of him now? He'd gone through a hundred answers to these questions, and few of them were positive.
He'd found himself in his local tavern that night. The Winking Wyvern was a fine establishment, situated only a few doors down from his shop. He sat at the bar counter, tankard of the Wyvern's finest brew in grip. Normally, Flint would be the life of the tavern, jeering and joking into the early hours of the morning. Hoctor, the innkeep, was keeping his distance from the barber, well aware of the forlorn look etched across Flint's face. As he lifted the tankard to his lips, he heard the creak of the Wyvern's door open, though didn't bother to turn and check who'd entered.
He did not see himself drawing any friends tonight.