Roleplay from Torxanib Godric Tórrarin ka Habb[/size] [/size](12 hours, 47 minutes ago)[/size]message to all nobles of Greater Xavax[/color][/font][/size]
Godric was late to Isadril. Having your head cracked open in the defense of Xavax could do that to a man. Nonetheless news of the Feast of the Black Swan had quickly spread across the realm alongside the Imperial call to arms and Sir Godric could ill-afford to not make at least a cursory appearance.
Warbornsson was not used to feasts in an Eastern tradition with all the etiquette and formal dances and required greetings. Merrymaking shouldn't require rules but here he is yelling at his retainers to procure something to wear as a mask. Only his Man Otto proves competent: an old-fashioned Toren warmask is dusted off (was this your father's? How did you get this?). Pressed and lacquered leather offered an impressive artistic medium for the craftsman who opted for bull's horns, wild eyebrows, and a snarling mouth with boar's tusks. A heated discussion on the appropriateness of the horns later (it makes me seem virile and strong, I am wearing it Easterners be damned) and Sir Godric has set off.
Arriving at the tavern Godric realizes he may have come dressed inappropriately (a polite but flustered retainer who was waved off comes to mind) but it is too late and Godric frankly does not care. He wears a robe with an arming belt (he lost the argument on whether bringing an axe was okay), a sigil of Tor, and heavy furs draped over his shoulders. His riding boots denote a cavalryman, as strange as a Toren cavalryman may be. The furs add width to an already wide man and the boots give a touch of height to bring him to just above average (now he understands why heeled shoes are becoming a style). The guards are initially aggressive at the foreign looking man but when he growls that the Þegn of Torrenhal submits to no searches the guards relent.
He enters the tavern and is taken aback by the sheer number of nobility. His dark eyes scan the crowd catching a golden lioness with a blonde mane prancing across tables: from the forced non-reactions Godric judges that must be his Lady Xerarch Selenia doing precisely what she does best (that is, whatever she wants to do). Godric Warbornsson sighs, grabs a goblet of wine, and begins mingling with minor nobility.
