Aven wandered along the streets of Reahj, deep in thought. He wasn't the kind of man to give up: of all the pursuits in his life, all the good and the bad, he never found surrender a suitable option. A strategist, always the one with a fallback plan, staying one step ahead of his opponents, that was his aesthetic, and not one easily abandoned. Or so he thought.
That fire had left him a year ago, when a force he couldn't circumvent handed him an ultimatum: 'Leave this world, or your children will be destroyed.' Gods, the one force that could tie his hands with a glance. A mirthless grin spread across his face at the absurdity of his life, the cruel irony behind his misfortune. It always came back to dark matter, the one crux he couldn't amend. It must have been punishment for delving into the secrets of the universe, retribution for stumbling upon an ancient secret that should have remained buried.
So now, everything he loved was a world away from him: Hakon, Eleanor, Jace, all forever lost to him by a single errant wave of the heaven's hand. It was almost comical how quickly he'd lost everything, the reality of it still slowly seeping into him over the past year. His body would not age to death, not with the dark matter that coursed through his veins. He was doomed to waste away in a world that held no promise, no purpose.
He stopped in front of the Fair Maiden Tavern, a stop he used to frequent in his time as a Captain of Ansgar's hand. He supposed they might remember him; after all, time had passed differently in the other world, barely any time having lapsed in Connloath, while a whole eighteen years was added onto his docket. He pushed the door open, walking in without a second thought. After all, what power does doubt have over a man with no purpose?
The patrons on the inside would be greeted with the figure of a man looking near his thirties, with long, keen silver hair, and a matching beard forming a reflective circle around his mouth. His body was clad in what used to be silver and gold armor, now unpolished and dented. He walked in a slow, deliberate noble glide, one of the few traits he still retained from his former pride. He strode over to the bar, and sat down with a heavy thunk of metal against wood. "A pint of Matron's Root, if you have it, please."
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