Sweat covered Jedore, crawling on his skin like insects. How many dreams can a man have, he thought? How many sleepless nights until he finally breaks? He was beckoned by a womans voice, like always, towards the tower shrouded in fog. It was dank, and down right chilling everytime he entered into that dream. A mist covered the ground that seemed to suck up his feet and he glided towards an open doorway at the base of the structure. The closer he got to the tower the more and more it seemed to drag him by invisible strings, and the doorway would widen, the voice grow louder, turning into a stone mouth with sharpened teeth. He never made it inside before waking up again. But that was earlier, in the morning. It was dark out now, time to work. The tavern would be busy. Always was. One of the only good things his brother had left him before he died, the dumb bastard. Jedore was cleaning a glass with a dusty cloth from behind the bar, watching with a weary eye those that stood around him. He was tired, and angry, angrier than usual in fact, and he felt people could tell. He could feel their eyes, and he heard them whisper, or laugh, and he knew. They saw him, a man in his late forties, short gray hair and thin mustache, tall but thin and handsome as all hell if he do say so himself, even with his left eye gouged out and covered up with a patch. They saw all that and they laughed because he was nothin' but an old dog tamed by years of easy living. A beaten man.
Jedore looks to the man closest to him, eying him up. He looks peeved, he thought. Panicked even. He watches him get up as if to leave, but Jedore sees a drink with no coin besides it and he barks,
"Ey! You! You gonna pay fer that drink before you march out of 'ere, or what?!"
