A friend's concern
"Soren," calls a voice from the front of the Tavern, wobbly with the influence of alcohol. Glancing over my shoulder, I knit my brows together, hastening to make light of the silhouetted figure. The voice calls out once more, stopping for a minute to peer at me through the gloom before taking a long sniff, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He never was one for manners.
There in the dim haze of the oil lights, Fangorn plods out a little unsteadily. But despite the slight wobble to his movements, his eyes are as sharp as a falcon's and twice as cunning. He may be drunk, but there is no cognition lost in that brain of his.
"It appears you have drunk a bit too much blood, Fangorn. You aren't trying to sabotage our mission, are you?" I jest, but the tones of humour in my voice are half hearted at best. Flicking away my comment as he dashes away curious moths that dance around his horns, he tip toes further out towards me.