The night air was cool in the dark alley between two taverns. A strange man with pointed ears and a cleanly shaven head sat against the wall, cross-legged and eyes closed. His breathing was calm, relaxed as though the strange elf were sleeping.
His hands tightened their grip on the iron-capped oak quarterstaff laying across his legs, and the elf flinched, his beard loosening itself from the braid. Suddenly the elf's breathing became quicker, faster, more ragged, as his eyes shot open, one orb crimson, the other grey. His eyes frantically moved about the dark alley for a moment, as if trying to remember where he was.
"Calm yourself, Morgrad." The elf said to himself, careful not to let his deep voice be heard from outside the shadow filled alley. Shaking his head, Morgrad realized his vice-like grip on the staff, and released the oak staff. Breathing a sigh of relief, Morgrad stood, stretching his legs as he did. It was well into the night, and many would be sleeping at the late hour but Morgrad knew that after the nightmares he wouldn't sleep for several days. He shrugged, considering his bizarre sleeping pattern. There was every possibility that his martial prowess would increase if he got more rest but after nearly a century and a half, the bearded elf had long since caring.
Walking over to his staff, Morgrad expertly wiggled his barefoot under the weapon, then pulled his foot up quickly. With an almost unconscious movement, Morgrad caught the staff in his hands. Running a calloused hand over his bald head, the monk sighed in boredom. How long would he spend wandering the city before finding work suitable to his talents?
He nearly laughed aloud when he considered his self-proclaimed line of work. A monk turned bounty hunter was rather unheard of, but Morgrad could think of little else he would be useful at. A sudden noise from one of the taverns put the monk on full alert, raising his staff in case of an attack.
