Rextoret
top kek
Garrus stepped out of his dilapidated boat, and onto the wooden dock of Gellir's Rest. His long black hair, now tied into a ponytail, bounced as he stepped up. Tiny droplets of moisture and snow from the cold Skyrim air pelted lightly onto his armor which was torn, sliced and burned from years of harsh battle. No longer were there any signs of the Morrowind's Thieves Guild upon the rough black leather. Many heavy weapons clanked together as he walked. A Ebony longsword was in a scabbard upon his hip and multiple iron daggers covered his body, with one in each boot and more hidden away inside his armor. A large steel greatsword went diagonally across his back, then his pack went on, with a Ebony shield tied onto it. Over this was a basic wooden bow, along with it's arrows. The man had abandoned stealth a long while ago. Garrus reached up to his face and ran his callused hand across his chin, feeling the stubble that adorned it. Under his hand, he also felt numerous scars. His eyes were no longer bright, they now drooped and showed no emotion in the pits they were.
Garrus walked down the dock, his boots pounding upon the soft wood. He reached his hand down toward his belt, in a movement obviously well-practiced. He pulled his hip flask off his belt, then opened it and put it to his lips. Tipping his head back, a few drops if whiskey fell down into his throat. Annoyed by the fact that it was now empty, he put it away and began his walk to the local tavern. Many weary eyes seemed to follow him through the town, mystified and slightly scared of the man who seemed like a walking armory. A few people cowered back, afraid that this man of battle would approach them.
Garrus swung the doors of the tavern open, marching loudly over to the bar. Taking a seat at one of the stools, he looked over at the Nord who was serving the counter. "Whiskey. Now." The Nord shot a glare toward Garrus, obviously disapproving of the Imperial's behavior. Garrus shot one back. "I said whiskey. Now. Or are you too stupid to get those small words through your thick skull?" The Nord scowled. "Fine." He slammed down the bottle of whiskey in front of Garrus. "18 septims." Garrus dropped the necessary septims into the Nord's hand. Turning away, Garrus filled up his hip flask with the whiskey. Once the hip flask was filled, he put it away and gulped down the rest of the whiskey straight from the bottle. The alcohol no longer seemed to have much effect on Garrus, or maybe he was just drunk all the time now. It was hard to tell.
Laughter erupted from a nearby table. Garrus sent a look toward the table. A scrawny Breton who sat surrounded by Nords, seemed to be making jokes. "See that guy over there? In the black. He has a ponytail, what a little girl!" The Nords began their laughter, although one remained quiet, obviously aware of the danger Garrus provided. Garrus quickly stood and walked over to the Breton. His weapons loudly banged together as he approached. The man looked slightly horrified. In one quick movement, he grabbed the Breton by his shirt collar and slammed him into the wall. The tavern quieted, many eyes aimed toward the one-sided fight. The man cowered, trying to escape Garrus' grip. He didn't let him. He tightened his grip and began slamming his gloved fist into the Breton's face. He felt the man's nose break under the force of his hits. Blood began to splatter after each of Garrus' hits, sending small droplets onto Garrus' left cheek. He dropped the man, who began to hold his broken nose in a attempt to stop the bleeding. Garrus walked away casually, returning to his stool at the counter. A few of the Nords ran over to the Breton, picking him up and rushing him out. Many of them cast a sour glance toward Garrus. Garrus continued to sit and watch them, not even bothering to wipe the blood off his cheek.
Garrus walked down the dock, his boots pounding upon the soft wood. He reached his hand down toward his belt, in a movement obviously well-practiced. He pulled his hip flask off his belt, then opened it and put it to his lips. Tipping his head back, a few drops if whiskey fell down into his throat. Annoyed by the fact that it was now empty, he put it away and began his walk to the local tavern. Many weary eyes seemed to follow him through the town, mystified and slightly scared of the man who seemed like a walking armory. A few people cowered back, afraid that this man of battle would approach them.
Garrus swung the doors of the tavern open, marching loudly over to the bar. Taking a seat at one of the stools, he looked over at the Nord who was serving the counter. "Whiskey. Now." The Nord shot a glare toward Garrus, obviously disapproving of the Imperial's behavior. Garrus shot one back. "I said whiskey. Now. Or are you too stupid to get those small words through your thick skull?" The Nord scowled. "Fine." He slammed down the bottle of whiskey in front of Garrus. "18 septims." Garrus dropped the necessary septims into the Nord's hand. Turning away, Garrus filled up his hip flask with the whiskey. Once the hip flask was filled, he put it away and gulped down the rest of the whiskey straight from the bottle. The alcohol no longer seemed to have much effect on Garrus, or maybe he was just drunk all the time now. It was hard to tell.
Laughter erupted from a nearby table. Garrus sent a look toward the table. A scrawny Breton who sat surrounded by Nords, seemed to be making jokes. "See that guy over there? In the black. He has a ponytail, what a little girl!" The Nords began their laughter, although one remained quiet, obviously aware of the danger Garrus provided. Garrus quickly stood and walked over to the Breton. His weapons loudly banged together as he approached. The man looked slightly horrified. In one quick movement, he grabbed the Breton by his shirt collar and slammed him into the wall. The tavern quieted, many eyes aimed toward the one-sided fight. The man cowered, trying to escape Garrus' grip. He didn't let him. He tightened his grip and began slamming his gloved fist into the Breton's face. He felt the man's nose break under the force of his hits. Blood began to splatter after each of Garrus' hits, sending small droplets onto Garrus' left cheek. He dropped the man, who began to hold his broken nose in a attempt to stop the bleeding. Garrus walked away casually, returning to his stool at the counter. A few of the Nords ran over to the Breton, picking him up and rushing him out. Many of them cast a sour glance toward Garrus. Garrus continued to sit and watch them, not even bothering to wipe the blood off his cheek.