Snippet #2404495

The most pleasant of nightmares had visited him in his sleep.

It wasn’t a mere frightening experience, one of those wonderful things that had him twisting and turning in his meagre bedroll at the side of the less-travelled road, awakening in a cool sweat and clammy palms that had soaked his clothes, his unkempt beard, the cloth of his gloves. No, this nightmare posessed, even when he was being devoured by the most fearsome of nemeses that he could imagine, a potent sense of purpose that drove him onward. Not only did he wake up with the sweat drenching him and the delightful fear clutching at his chest, but he had woken with a direction, an invigoration of the soul.

Archibald had even had to change his pants, something that he hadn’t had to do since he had just taken his vows and sworn himself to the light. Chuckling darkly to himself, he walked into the bar of Tristram - the evil radiating and soaking the place from ground to the tips of the trees, making him breathe deeply and exhale through his teeth - a purposeful man.

He wore nothing but tattered robes and a hood that was pulled over a smooth face and head, a red semi-circle dotting the place just underneath his clear, blue left eye met his hallowed and pale cheeks.

Underneath the tattered cloth was rusted, heavy plate that was oddly soundless as it moved, a blurry effect surrounding the metal. When the eye rested upon it, it was like it couldn’t focus properly.

He approached the slum of a bar with a sheer fascination, stooping to take in the rotting wood dotting the place and the wobbly nature of a stool as he passed. Archibald’s eyes searched the faces for the most well-armed individuals, and-

Aha. His footsteps took him forward, towards Marius and Orianna’s table, a slight limp to his steps. Standing beside the two, he bared yellow teeth as Orianna finished her question.

“Am too,” he grunted, his voice sounding strained, broken, “sounds like we’re to be traveling mates.”

He raised an eyebrow at Marius, giving him a long, searching look, the difference in the two men’s statures palpable.

“Archibald,” he said, offering his hand - tattered gloves attempting to cover a rusty, gnarled gauntlet - towards Orianna, shifting his shoulder to turn his back on the other veteran.