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Description
Arlon sat complacently, staring off into the distance. If you were to come up behind him, you would have sworn the old man were sleeping. Conscious he was, yet lost in his mind of a time that has long since past. This is what he did with most of his days; he felt it was his duty to remember, "for there is wisdom in the story and thus it is my duty is pass it on," as he'd often claimed.

I'm not particularly certain if Arlon was all that wise, or if he merely gained a knack for rambling on about all things old out loud. People seemed drawn to his crusted old voice, long pearl beard, but I can't for all my marbles claim to know what his stories meant, or why he told one story on one day, or another story the next. Sometimes he would alter minor details of his story, from the last telling, then return to his previous telling the next time he told it. One thing always seemed the same; for those who listened, always left the Old Dripknot Tavern walking a tad taller than when they came. Come to drown one's sorrows, which in reality means to reminisce your way into an expensive bar tab, and instead leaving without the faintest recollection of their essence -- and perhaps less intoxicated.

The door in the corner lurched open with a shy repose giving way for a curious sort of figure. Wearing a sand soaked cloak, the individual quickly scanned the room and promptly blazed a path to the bar. A far hand dropped a rucksack beneath a stool and the individual, a what appeared to be a man, pulled down his hood as he sat.

Just another man passing through, many would have thought, if Arlon didn't stop speaking to take note of the man entering the Tavern.

Description
Arlon sat complacently, staring off into the distance. If you were to come up behind him, you would have sworn the old man were sleeping. Conscious he was, yet lost in his mind of a time that has long since past. This is what he did with most of his days; he felt it was his duty to remember, "for there is wisdom in the story and thus it is my duty is pass it on," as he'd often claimed.

I'm not particularly certain if Arlon was all that wise, or if he merely gained a knack for rambling on about all things old out loud. People seemed drawn to his crusted old voice, long pearl beard, but I can't for all my marbles claim to know what his stories meant, or why he told one story on one day, or another story the next. Sometimes he would alter minor details of his story, from the last telling, then return to his previous telling the next time he told it. One thing always seemed the same; for those who listened, always left the Old Dripknot Tavern walking a tad taller than when they came. Come to drown one's sorrows, which in reality means to reminisce your way into an expensive bar tab, and instead leaving without the faintest recollection of their essence -- and perhaps less intoxicated.

The door in the corner lurched open with a shy repose giving way for a curious sort of figure. Wearing a sand soaked cloak, the individual quickly scanned the room and promptly blazed a path to the bar. A far hand dropped a rucksack beneath a stool and the individual, a what appeared to be a man, pulled down his hood as he sat.

Just another man passing through, many would have thought, if Arlon didn't stop speaking to take note of the man entering the Tavern.