Erik's Contemplation

[FunnyHulkBoy 22]

 

The Sugary ***, the local tavern of Hefrumm, was vacant to all but one tonight. Erik Mossborn sat alone at a table. In front of him sat two things.

 

The first was a mug of ale that he had retrieved for himself, though he was yet to down any of it. He stared down with half-open eyes at the cup before tapping his finger on the rim. The alcohol within rippled, startled from the center, and sent waves that crashed silently and calmly against the wooden edges of the container. 

 

The second item that sat adjacent to the cup was Erik’s helmet. A rare sight to see it sat anywhere but upon the Mossborn’s head. It was an old, worn armor, a survivor of decades gone by. This weathered piece of headwear has truly earned its stripes, donning scratches, dents and dings all over its metal body. Despite these impurities, it has never seen repair, and proudly so. It bears the marks of authenticity, refusing to retreat from its natural, timeworn essence. It has seen its fair share of battle, physical and emotional, most of which bestowed upon by its one frequent wearer, though a handful of these conflicts were experienced by one other. 

 

Erik watched the waves in his drink slowly die down then let out a deep exhale. He lifted the cup, breaking the serenity of the liquid once more, and swigged back some of it before placing the mug gently back down atop the splintery table and looking to his helmet. He reached his scarred hands to it, bringing it a few inches off the tabletop. 

 

The forest dwarf tilted the headwear slightly, glancing upon the inner rim of it. He ran his thumb across two letters engraved in the metal and smiled a small smile. The first letter was an ‘E’, lazily carved and severely aged, split and crossed with scratches and scrapes alike. One could assume this etching shared the same age as the helmet itself. The second letter was an ‘M’, much newer and more deliberately carved. Each of the two markings owned their own distinct styles of engravement. 

 

Erik stared at these symbols for a few moments longer, that soft smile fading from his face as he lifted the helmet to his head and placed it upon his scruffed, orange hair. He then grabbed his mug, bringing it to his lips and downing the rest of his ale in one fell gulp. 

 

He stood and brought the mug over to the front counter of the tavern, dropping it off, a few mina now residing within it. The dwed glanced at the currency and turned before scratching at his ginger beard, his fingers grazing a scar that was carved into his skin above his lip. His mouth opened slightly, as if he was planning on saying something to the emptiness that surrounded him. He exhaled, his eyes trailing across the ceiling of the tavern, glancing from vine to vine that dangled from the rockiness above. After a moment of this, Erik brought his hand down from the scar and finally headed back home. It was far too late to be out and about. He sought to dream good dreams.