Alignment: Neutral Good
He tips the tiny mug, his steady hand nonetheless managing to spill a tiny drop or three on the way to his lips, finds it not full enough, then tips it further. His head tilts with the thing and the hood of his cloak falls back from his horns. His empty hand instinctively lashes towards it, then halts just short, as he remembers where he is. He catches your eyes again. Mirrors of solid silver; reflective, hard and buried in furrow brows.
“I shouldn’t tell you this – or maybe I should? Did I already tell you this? Was I lying? I mean, honesty, it’s one path, right? …but the gnomish whiskey. I mean – gnomes…who knew? Tiny little bastards.”
“It’s bad enough with the … you know.” He gestures vaguely to his person. “Blood of the darker kind, and all that. But there’s dragon in there too – no it’s not whiskey. Might as well be. But it’s not. So there’s dragon in there, and demon. Paints some vivid pictures if you want something to lose sleep over. But even that fades eventually.”
“The ones you imagine – not the ones that come unbidden. Maybe it’s the magic? I like to think it’s all of us, but I’ve never been rude enough to ask. The voices too. I mean, there’s magic in blood – and then there’s the magic in blood like mine. Water and madness, blood and oil. Oh, and fire. Lots of fire.”
He tips the tiny mug over, tapping it upside down on the table as if to shake out an angry bee. Taps it twice, turns it sideways and looks at it cockeyed.
“Well, what? Pass me the godfucked tiny pitcher so I can refill this fuckgod’d tiny mug.”
He fills and empties the “mug” a few more times.
“Oh, don’t worry, the real fire in my blood burns these liquid flames out fast enough. Plus – I mean, gnomes!”
The hood has made its way back over the horns again. He gestures off into the darkness. Embers fleck the warming air as the sun hauls itself upward.
“So. Where was I? Shoreglen. Was that it? Or the blood? I always get stuck on one of those -always being the two times I’ve retraced these paths with words – Shoreglen was – and probably still is – exactly what it sounds like. Picturesque. Terrible place to be my kind, anyway you slice it. Not that I’ve found a great place, mind you – don’t think I’d say if I did, just in case. Wouldn’t want it getting out you know…”
His head shifts slightly to the side, as if he’s whispering into the darkness, but there’s nothing louder than the crackle of the fire’s last log. The flames flare vivid purple for a moment,
“I saved them from… from something. Maybe more than one something, who knows…idyllic places like that attract fiends like toadstools and fey. Ask me when you find a stronger spirit.”
He stares sideways into the empty mug again, daring it to fill itself, then crams two fingers into it, twists them around, then pops them into his mouth.
“It’s like a fey princess pissed out fermented blueberries..how did they…” he mumbles. His back stiffens and his voice returns to normal.
“And they accepted me and it was great – sure, why wouldn’t it be? They were decent people at heart, right? Until another Tiefling showed up.”
“..and they stoned him.”
..and I left."
“…asked me to throw the first one too…awful considerate of them.”
The child-sized mug slips from his grip and tumbles to the ground. If he’s snoring, it sounds an awful lot like a fire dying at daybreak.
Pre-campaign, entrance to inn where the party meets
It wasn’t a particularly stormy night, but nor was it a clear one. Rain pattered gently against the roof tiles, easing the drunks into the casual camaraderie of the wet and soon to be so. Eyes lift briefly to the sound of the front door creaking open – perhaps hoping for a flash of lightning and the coming of a hero – only to be politely disappointed (and casually distracted) by the violent slamming of shutters on the opposite wall. By the time any of the evening’s languid revelers could be assed to remember the door, it had long since creaked closed. The shutters were loud enough that they seemed important – as any good distraction should be.
A few not so easily shifted eyes noticed the entrance of a cowled figure – but his cowl was not so shabby nor so flamboyant as to draw opinions one way or another. The room’s sole troubadour – perhaps annoyed at the interruption, perhaps happy for the change of pace and a moment to tune his lute – was one such individual. He noted the cowled figure slipping casually into a shadowed booth in the closest corner. The figure certainly didn’t seem surprised at the shutters’ sudden cacophony. He motioned for a drink as the troubadour finished tuning.