flisek

“One day, Georgie-” His father paused, gulping down his mead like a man possessed. George looked up from his cleaning to watch as it poured down the man’s beard and soaked his tunic with a disinterest he’d honed over 10 years. 10 real long years. “-Norland will rise again. Just you watch, runt. Just you watch.”
As it were, the old man was right. Norland rose—and then it fell. Again and again, the same story, yet the tune never changed. If George had been a thinking man, maybe he would have thought it noble; but George was not a thinking man. He was a doing man- a simple man- and the tireless blustering of a boozing, mirthless codger who reeked of spoiled meat was far more bosh than any simple, doing man ought to deal with. Still, he was a decent lad. His youth was spent mopping up bile after pops crawled home from the tavern, roughing up debt-collectors and working his hands raw to keep food on the table, even if they were scraps. He took up an apprenticeship with the smithy as soon as he could hold a hammer, and it’s never left his hand since. He knew his old man’s fists better than he knew the damn spiel, and he could recite that one word for word; but still, he took care of the bitter fool until the day he died, angry and friendless in his own home. The day the old bastard kicked the bucket marked the first day of George’s new life. He packed up all his worldly possessions (tools, coin, an old journal of mum’s) and set out on his own, traveling from town to town for work and leisure. One can usually find him in a pub & inn, where he stays until work runs out, enjoying the company of tavern wenches and no shortage of bar fights.