Post by Deleted on Jul 12, 2013 10:37:36 GMT -5
It was no secret; Ghor loved his mead. It didn't matter where it was brewed, what different ingredients were used in its making, the distillation process behind creating its flavour...nope, the only thing that mattered was where it was going. His sojourn into the city ended as he meant to go on. Ghor entered his favourite tavern, The Monarch's Arms. It's a wonder that the satyr hadn't been barred for life there already for his obnoxious revelry, but he guessed that his coin was as gold as anybody's. He was already slightly tipsy from a bottle or two that he had 'acquired' earlier that day, and so when he opted for two whole bottles of Gillie's Gutrot, the bartender knew something was likely to go down. But, it was protocol that the satyr receive his wish; he was paying, after all. He only wanted to get drunk and be merry, but a dirty glance and a few hushed whispers later and Fourhorn responded to the perpetrator with a firm headbutt. His original verbal assailant knocked out cold, he turned to the man's friends, one of them breaking his bottle to serve as his weapon. This infuriated Ghor; he had just wasted half a bottle of perfectly good ale! Several choice words were exchanged and before you knew it a bar fight of epic proportions had broken out, ending in Ghor laying out several patrons before high-tailing it back to the wilderness with the law in reluctant pursuit.
Ghor wasn't sure how he ended up back in his territory, but as he awoke, he brayed out in self inflicted discomfort, his head pounding and his body lethargic from the dehydration. With bleary eyes, he took in his surroundings: a very small tree had been uprooted, likely from his escape, there was the carcass of a bear, butchered and half eaten beside him, and he had three bottles of his favourite mead beside him. "Ugh...how much did I spend?" He mumbled to himself, reaching into what little clothing he wore to check his monetary standings. To his 'surprise', he found he had only bought the two bottles he could vaguely remember purchasing, and he remembered downing those in quick succession. How he had acquired another three should have been beyond him, but he could guess what had happened.
"Happy days." Ghor said to himself, flashing a still half-cut but hangover plagued grin as he reached for one of the bottles beside him, ungraciously removing the cork and taking a large swig.
For the record, he was completely unaware of his surroundings. But if anyone, or anything, were to enter his territory, they would risk a volatile response. When still tipsy and suffering from a hangover, Ghor would be prone to...unstable reactions. Anyone who followed him, or approached him, would do so at their own risk.
