#poorwanderingone

Solitude had been a dominant fact of Feynriel’s existence for as long as he could remember.  He had begun life as a half-human child in a close-knit community of elves, and an odd one at that.  Then he had set off on his own, and wariness had kept him in an apartment by himself with few true social ties despite the corresponding loneliness that he could never quite stop feeling.  He had acquaintances at work, certainly, and once in a rare while he would actually feel some fleeting connection with the patrons, but that in itself was laced with danger and not to be pursued farther than the edge of the Rose’s public area. 

Every so-often, his apartment seemed too quiet no matter how much music he played on the old stereo he had rescued from a dumpster, and it was then that he ventured into the Lowtown social sphere as patron, rather than performer.  Feynriel wasn’t much of a drinker, as he feared that dulled faculties would leave him more vulnerable to the susurrus of demons that followed him like a billowing cape or the train on an old-fashioned bridal gown, but the Hanged Man was a good place to go and absorb the ambiance, perhaps even chat with someone in their cups enough not to try to pursue the liaison further.  It was there he fled when the solitude became oppressive. 

On this night in particular, he wasn’t working and had just completed the painting he had had in progress for the previous fortnight, and so felt rather at loose ends.  The moon was nearly full and the night lively, and he found himself loathe to remain shut in his apartment to quietly plan his next piece.  The Hanged Man presented a reasonable alternative.  As always, the sudden riot of noise and warmth and motion that comprised the taproom broke over him like a wave, leaving him slightly dazed, yet comforted: if nothing else, this mundane gathering place seemed as incompatible with his nightmares as any locale could possibly be.