TinyBiceps

Philip snorts out loud at the poster, and crosses his arms skeptically while elbowing his brother James. "Aren't thieves supposed to be clever? Do they not know the guards aren't incompetent anymore?"

i'm not really a magic man but COOL

+1,000,000

the man. the myth. the legeND HEY THERE I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD

hey it's me

Age: 48 as of 1623 Full Name: Philip Andrew Longridge Ironsword Nickname(s): Philly, philp Birthdate: 20th of the Sun’s Smile, 1575 Gender: Male Race: Human, Heartlander Title(s): Patron of the Hangin’ Keg (Self announced) Religion: “”Canonism”” Ambition: Be a damn good bartender Residence: Adelburg, Sutica Eye Color: Light blue Hair Color: Dirty blonde Hair Style: Worn back like a lion’s mane Skin Color: Peach-y Clothing: Casual; Red vest and partially opened white dress shirt, blue suit pants with a brown utility-esque belt. Height: 6’0” Body Build: Medium-build Voice: Smooth, velvet-y and deep Looks throughout the ages: Important Events: The Cane Of course he remembers. After the city had been taken unbeknownst from him, she sat him down by the fire. She told a story of a great king. That’s where it had started, he supposed. The Sea Monster He remembers the disgusting suction of its tentacles, slipping against his mid section. His small frame somehow held out, until the sea beast had been slain. He also remembers not wanting to **** with anything in the water ever again. The Missing Family He remembers vividly. His wild imagination takes him on rides every day but they all end at the same stop. He remembers how the Order was his home -- no. How the people in the Order were his home. But just as the Order, they’re gone. Tainted forever or gripped by death it matters not, they are gone nonetheless. The Solace He remembers the vines. The tall trees with spindly branches hanging overhead. The droplets of water splash like paint from a paint brush, filling him with ease. He was only gone for a couple years at most. He was isolated, but he returned. The isolation choked the guilt out of him, wringing his mind out like a wet cloth. The idea of guilt seeped, leaving him with peace. Wafts of freshly brewed mead graces Philip’s nostrils as he wipes the counter clean for the ‘nth time. He takes a deep breath in, taking in everything around him. The joyous laughter of drunken men, gossip of noble woman huddled in the corner, even the salty sting of the abhorrent unwashed men who often entered. He relishes every second. As he breaths out, he lets go of his long-hanging guilt, his unhinged hatred of what he considered idiocy, and finally, above all he finally sets free the feeling of incessant loneliness. He is no longer afraid -- until the snapping of an impatient man’s fingers derail the train of thought. “‘Ey! I thought Ironsword’s were supposed to be smart.” grumbles some customer, repeating what they had ordered. Philip smiles warmly, bending down to pick up a bottle of the customer’s order. “Enjoy.”