Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
Chamorus the Cat
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Nov 1, 2010
Greg sipped at the honey-infused mead he'd ordered at the bar. He'd done a four-week tour in Iran; would've felt normal, if he were attached to a military unit or even a mercenary unit. His paladin order, however, went in where Rangers wouldn't go. Where they shouldn't go. Greg had stuck his metaphorical dick into every other religion and stirred up hornets' nests so volatile that it made the elven conflicts in Vietnam look rather tame. All for the sake of a god that, most times, didn't have time to listen to him.
He took a big gulp and sat the frosted mug down on the wood counter. A slight turn of the head, instinctively checking his six, and he turned back to his mug. He ran a finger over the ghost-like condensation that clung to the side of the handled glass.
Few would note him at all, save that he was wearing kevlar ringed with iron links; subtle magics were infused in each ring. He wore a simple red tabard. A warhammer rested against the counter beside his stool, draped by a thick cloak. A cloaked threat indeed.
Things had wound down since he'd first come in. The live band had come and gone and now, the only thing playing, were the speakers, quietly droning out some slow, synth-infused jazz. Still, it beat the night clubs and ragers and bars around these parts.
"There it goes," someone said from down along the bar. "A fuggin' half-elf for presi-hic-president..." Greg watched the ticker at the bottom of the screen. It got depressing fast, so he went back to ignoring the television and enjoying his mead, as best as he could. Another flagon down, he pulled a bill from a magazine pouch on his armor and ordered another.
He took a big gulp and sat the frosted mug down on the wood counter. A slight turn of the head, instinctively checking his six, and he turned back to his mug. He ran a finger over the ghost-like condensation that clung to the side of the handled glass.
Few would note him at all, save that he was wearing kevlar ringed with iron links; subtle magics were infused in each ring. He wore a simple red tabard. A warhammer rested against the counter beside his stool, draped by a thick cloak. A cloaked threat indeed.
Things had wound down since he'd first come in. The live band had come and gone and now, the only thing playing, were the speakers, quietly droning out some slow, synth-infused jazz. Still, it beat the night clubs and ragers and bars around these parts.
"There it goes," someone said from down along the bar. "A fuggin' half-elf for presi-hic-president..." Greg watched the ticker at the bottom of the screen. It got depressing fast, so he went back to ignoring the television and enjoying his mead, as best as he could. Another flagon down, he pulled a bill from a magazine pouch on his armor and ordered another.