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pinprickWhen Nathaniel was a little boy, he started to dream about a long, vast tunnel. Its ceiling was higher than his house, its walls nearly as wide, and the light was eerily dim. He would walk, taking great strides, and hear this strange song, beautiful and timeless. Then, he would be faced with some monstrous creature, and wake thrashing and shouting as the light went black. His parents took him to doctor after doctor, then in desperation to a mage healer. None could give any answers or advice. Eventually he grew to a point where the dreams were no longer shocking or frightening--he knew the outcome, and could face it feeling somewhat more jaded. But he never got used to it. He still hasn't.
The wealthy district of Denerim has become spectacular, compared to what it was in previous ages. Before, it had a reputation for being brown, full of mud and dog shit--which spoke poorly for the less wealthy districts. It is no longer the time of the so-called dog lords. Now there is color and light, some of it gas and some electric. He walks away from it, feeling stifled and restless, into the old market district. One of the public houses has been in service since the Dragon Age, and Nathaniel has always felt comfortable there, as if whatever he is wandering for, he will eventually find there.
Music plays in the Gnawed Noble Tavern, no longer the haunt of nobility as the name implies, but far more diverse, reclaimed by the people of the market district. The food is decent, the drink gets you drunk, but the most important thing is that the environment is friendly. People here don't judge or look down on you. Artists, artisans, philosophers, and simply passionate people are here. Some writers' groups meet, as do any number of peaceful protest organizations. Nathaniel sits and orders peat whisky before catching golden hair out of the corner of his eye.
He doesn't know why he has always been drawn to blonds. Does anyone know why their type is their type? But it almost goes beyond having a type. He has felt like he is looking to recognize a face, though he hasn't been open to studying himself as to why. He isn't the sort to believe in mysticism. But this man he sees is...how does someone describe it? Beautiful, otherworldly, out of time. And oddly familiar. Like a celebrity might, like someone he ought to recognize. But he knows he has never seen this man before. He also knows he must see him more than once.
"Excuse me?" He stands by the stranger now, peering into his face with a tentative smile. "Can I buy you a drink?"
The wealthy district of Denerim has become spectacular, compared to what it was in previous ages. Before, it had a reputation for being brown, full of mud and dog shit--which spoke poorly for the less wealthy districts. It is no longer the time of the so-called dog lords. Now there is color and light, some of it gas and some electric. He walks away from it, feeling stifled and restless, into the old market district. One of the public houses has been in service since the Dragon Age, and Nathaniel has always felt comfortable there, as if whatever he is wandering for, he will eventually find there.
Music plays in the Gnawed Noble Tavern, no longer the haunt of nobility as the name implies, but far more diverse, reclaimed by the people of the market district. The food is decent, the drink gets you drunk, but the most important thing is that the environment is friendly. People here don't judge or look down on you. Artists, artisans, philosophers, and simply passionate people are here. Some writers' groups meet, as do any number of peaceful protest organizations. Nathaniel sits and orders peat whisky before catching golden hair out of the corner of his eye.
He doesn't know why he has always been drawn to blonds. Does anyone know why their type is their type? But it almost goes beyond having a type. He has felt like he is looking to recognize a face, though he hasn't been open to studying himself as to why. He isn't the sort to believe in mysticism. But this man he sees is...how does someone describe it? Beautiful, otherworldly, out of time. And oddly familiar. Like a celebrity might, like someone he ought to recognize. But he knows he has never seen this man before. He also knows he must see him more than once.
"Excuse me?" He stands by the stranger now, peering into his face with a tentative smile. "Can I buy you a drink?"
