He emerged, again
A wild, tangled mess of beard and hair covers the face of an emerging man. His bulky body set in the frame of the doorway which offers his seeking hands some purchase and support. Dry lips part and a milky slime running with streaks of sickly green and faded yellow is spat noisily on the ground where it settles in between the cracks.
A grindstone of a neck turns slowly like the effort of a windmill on a wind starved day. ''Where the bloody hell are they all?'' The stark and invasive light of the sun fences with the lashes of a single eye, the other firmly shut. A leathery face made so by hard drinking, smoke and of course, the relentless weather shies away from the stark light as Gomrin admits defeat quietly to the ball of fire in the sky. ''I hope the nine hells are at least darker than this.'' Pushing himself away and inside the building again he starts to collect his gear. ''Much luck of that with all the bloody fire. Should've been a good boy.'' Fingers clumsily grasp axe and helm and his belt seems a living thing as it takes more than a couple tries before both items are fastened. ''Right, still drunk. One step at a time.''
And so Gomrin emerges from yet another drunk stupor. The beginning of it blended together with whatever came after and the man looked it. At least, or so the people who liked him said, he emerged again. His detractors said much the same albeit with quite another tone: He emerged, again..
