Thirteen coins clinked and clanged in Lokenth's leather pouch. Not too bad, all things considered.
He had been on the Isle of Arcachon, going where he had not gone before, exploring countrysides recently conquered by the realm of Arcaea. New lands, he figured - perhaps the walking dead abominations and the snarling beasts there would be easier to kill. As of late they'd been harder than ever. His body still ached from the serious wounds they'd given him, and more than once since then he'd had to run for his life. He wondered if he was getting too old for this business. His skills were sharper than ever, and his equipment the best he'd had - what else could it be, but weariness and age?
But he'd hardly had a chance to test himself against the curse of the lands on that island than the Baron's men had set upon him, and before he could think to defend himself (not that he would have tried to resist) he was bound in fetters and hauled off to a dark, damp dungeon.
He entertained thoughts of trying to escape, or writing to the King whom he'd given that sword to once - bribery was out of the question - but he was freed, as wordlessly as he'd been captured, and let out onto the streets of the capital.
Now night was on him, and he had acquired a bottle of hard liquor to celebrate. He walked the ways of the city, not quite roaring drunk, humming to himself. He'd wanted a better life, wanted a chance to serve as a knight, and perhaps that would happen one day - but for now he was simply a free man, with all he needed in his sack and in his bottle, and he was content. He swaggered and smiled at the women and the men alike, enjoying the pleasures of life as a commoner. Perhaps he needed nothing more.
He headed to the tavern for a refill, and tried not to think of the caves and crypts where his future dwelled.
