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Snippet #1930662

located in Calisma, a part of Calisma, one of the many universes on RPG.




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Character Portrait: Gallow Ó Tuathaláin
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He found his glass nearly empty about the same time the Prince bid them farewell, leaving them with their instructions and an awkwardly silent tavern to do whatever they wished amongst themselves. He had to wonder if whether or not that was even remotely a wise decision, or then again it could have just as well been an excuse to leave the whole disparaging situation behind. But, before his very eyes, he watched as the butting heads backed away, their fires fanned, and they drifted off to their separate corners to do as they wished. He sipped the last bit of his drink and set the glass down, wondering silently what he should do, now. Go back to his room at the inn? Well.. he'd have to, anyway. His sword was still there - he'd decided to leave it behind, though he had stored his dagger away in his boot as usual - along with all of his supplies. And as he sat there thinking, staring into an empty glass, the tavern slowly emptied of those remaining who'd come to answer the call. Gallow had clearly heard the invitation to the pub, but he had little love for company at the moment and treasured what time he would have to sort out his troubled mind.

Time ticked away around him, leaving him behind in its smooth passage until the burning gold above was gone below the horizon. He felt it little by the time he finally found his legs again. Collecting his weapon and his helm, Gallow left the Black Vagabond behind without a word and made his way back to the inn through the city's nighttime crowd. There was a bard entertaining guests on the lower floor when he arrived, but he ignored the warm light, the smell of food and turned an uncaring ear to the pleasant song as he made his way up the stairs to utter solitude - or as close as one could come to it in a city, really. He laid his armor out with care, looking over every inch of forged steel. There was a story in the plates of metal. His armor had been made new for wear some years ago, and he'd tended to the suit lovingly in much the same spirit the master craftsman who'd made it had when he personally worked and shaped armor into art.

Sometimes he envied the gods. Their absolute awareness and certitude. There were no moral quandaries for them about right or wrong, and their sight went far beyond into all things unknowable to the mortal mind. For a human could only guess (no matter how skilled their powers of deduction might be) as to how the pieces would lay when they fell a certain way. But he had not been blessed to be as they were, and so he and all the others of this world simply had to make due. A wretched state of affairs in all truth, but there was no rhyme or reason in arguing. Which begged again the question: why was he still feeling hesitant?! Questioning oneself in such a way was just akin to fighting circumstance. He supposed that, in the end, it was all because he was only human. His frustration lent him strength, and he buried the anxiety away.

Now the real battle was whether or not he would even be able to sleep.