¬ Somewhere, a wrong turn had been taken.
Not a minor navigational error, no— there was a significant lack of room for those in the agenda of someone on the run. This was— and he was quite certain— not his country. The elf was standing in the middle of a square belonging to a town he’d never seen, looking as calm as he could possibly force himself to appear. The odd part, surprisingly, was not that he had found himself in a new land; but rather that the only reason any of the people here payed him a second glance was to give him the once-over he’d seen far too many times from Isabela. No prejudice, no disdain. The worst he’d experienced thus far was a curious glance at his tattoos.
It was only natural, then, to do what he would have done back home. In short— find the nearest tavern, and start listening in on the gossip. As it happened, the answers usually came more truthfully from the lips of a drunk man than a sober one— and faces were not so easily remembered, although that issue seemed to be behind him. Unless, of course, he really hadn’t gotten away from his assailants, and this was still Thedas. Maybe the stars just looked different— no. It was far more likely that he was crazy than the skies.
The Prancing Pony, eh? Certainly had a nicer ring to it than The Hanged Man, he’d give it that. The fugitive pushed open the door and was met with, thank the Maker, a grand total of zero familiar faces. Taking a seat in the corner, he decided upon a full re-evaluation of his current state, and that he needed to make a plan— until the barmaid came over and practically sat on top of him.
How, exactly, was he supposed to react? In his world, Lyrium would be considered a deformity, a link to the Fade— not exactly a welcome change, considering the woman was running a hand along the side of his neck; and, well, it hurt. Fenris was not without manners, but the look on his face was practically begging her to stop. The last thing he needed was to start glowing in a place where just the sight of inactive Lyrium was viewed as something worth a second look, or, in her case, a touch. He promptly got up just as that familiar slow burn was starting in the backs of his hands, and was about to leave before another girl stopped to ask him something or another about a ‘lady of the wood’. He had no idea what she was going on about, but it looked like he was going to hear the story unless someone intervened.
Meeting the eyes of a guy who had just come through the door, he tilted his head and set his jaw— a silent ‘I’ll pay you back someday’ offered in a last-ditch effort to get out— and hoped for the best.
▪❚❘{♚} —— Hunger came more frequently, often followed by an unusual need to visit civilization in order to cure such problems. He can hunt and roast meat upon an open fire, yet when digits attempted to curl around the grip of a dagger, eyes open to discover it was all a dream and that there was a reality he had no choice but to accept. Raw, quick-kills cannot always satisfy his hunger. Village butchers cleaned the blood off of meat better than he can and applied herbs and spices whose very thought made his stomach churn with delight. Stoves and kitchens provided better chances of the meat being cooked right (and less chances of a stomach ache that he is no stranger to). The Ranger saw The Prancing Pony in sight; for a split second, an area above his left eyebrow twitched, along with the scars that marred his visage. Oh, he was well aware of the frisky barmaids. He, too, was no stranger to their flirtatious mannerisms. They knew well to leave him alone, but there are times when one forgets and begins making a move.
Making sure his hood was secure, the Ranger stopped directly in front of the entrance to the tavern, stepping a little out of the way when people left and came. Anywhere in Middle-Earth, it was a strange sight to see a Ranger of the North among civilization and not with his or her own people. He lived alone -- a vagabond, if you must -- the life that most rebellious teenagers dream of, yet rarely does one ever grasp hold of it and never lets go. His thumb unconsciously massaged the pummel of one of his swords, aware that there was no threat within the general vicinity, yet he was more used to fighting than settling down in a place where rambunctious activity was rampant and people were oblivious to the concept of peace and quiet. Finally -- after a stumbling, drunk Man narrowly missed the ground after a fall, he nudged his way past the poor fool and opened the door. . .
An Elf? The Ranger had yet another kind of fair share dealing with the fair folk, but this one appeared. . . rough. Feral, almost, but at the same time not so. One not gullible and used to combat versus the comfort that the elves of Rivendell so much preferred. Too tan. . . definitely not an Orc, for that the stranger would have been a rather handsome one. Snow white hair -- Galadriel sported a very shiny head of blonde, but an Elf having this color. . . The moment green eyes locked with the strange Elf's, he was fully aware of the situation at hand. With his hood still concealing his amused expression, the Dúnedain flashed a smile at the barmaids beginning to surround the poor person. One knew and left beforehand -- the others lingered on for a few seconds before attending to other more. . . willing patrons of the place.
❝To think the barmaids would get the message...❞ He sat down in front of other and positioned himself so the suspects in question won't try to approach any further. ❝Unfortunately, they are just as stubborn as an Orc.❞
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