All along the journey to here, Germaine could think of nothing but the drink she so direly desired. Something strong, not too potent as to wipe out her wits but enough to relieve her of the tension that wrapped around her brain like a python's deadly embrace. Her head pulsated harshly as if knuckles garbed in a steel gauntlet, relentlessly thumping on the inside of her skull. Wrapped in her armor, plated and layered in a strong and flexible, ebony steel, and flowing crimson cloak, she cut quite an imposing figure as she strode through the wisping wind on her chestnut gelding, it's gentle hooves prodding on the streets like a bored beggar. It was very windy so she was thankful of the warmth her cape offered to her, its thick fabric soft and comforting.
Germaine was sure she did not need to be dressed so securely in all her mobile armor, leather tunic and all, even the heavy pauldrons she never cared to wear before. However, that dream that reached her the night before gave her a feeling of uneasiness, an emotion she never had the misfortune to experience before. She was thankful she could not remember it clear for it disturbed her too much. All she could recall was the voice that spoke to her while she slept, visions of death and burning passing over her conscious sight like drifting clouds. It was a woman's voice, one that did not hold the trying of years but about as old as she. Despite its words of terror that shook her to the core, Germaine felt a faint familiarity from the voice, as if she had known it all her life.
She could not--would not- think of it now. It perturbed her too greatly and perhaps she would able to drink away her anxiety in the biggest bottle of brandy they had, no matter the cost. As she approached the tavern, The Wisp o' the Times, read the sign hanging in the front just above the battered wooden door, the headache that plagued her on her way here seemed slightly dissipated and dulled, dismounting she handed Kyran's reins to the ostler by the stables, tipping him handsomely. "Take care of him," she commanded before stepping lightly inside the tavern.
It seemed all eyes turned on her as she walked in. Having so many people stare at you didn't help her headache and seemed to grow doubly as she walked in her impulsive gait to the head of the room, ignoring all of the rowdiness, and ordered the brandy she so eagerly desired. For all her look, her face was serene, her short, black hair sufficiently hiding the two small spikes that were growing out her forehead. When the drink arrived, she was sullen gulped half of it down, feeling the fiery liquid seethe relentlessly down her throat. All she could think about was the terrible dream and the voice that was hauntingly familiar.
