Howick Walthorne

Howick entwines his fingers together and leans forward in his chair to rest his forehead against battered, bruised knuckles; that single emerald eye lethargically closing to allow a moments respite from his taxing endeavors. Sleep deprivation has taken place of drunkenness as of late, and it causes the rogue’s mind to sway violently as if a ship in storm; the course ever changing. 

Thoughts turn to Howick’s closest companion in such troubling times and to his whereabout; a ball of tension twisting the man up from his very core. They had seen one another often since Howick returned from the Broken Isles on his leave, but still it felt as though they were worlds apart. With thoughts of Mortimer eventually arise thoughts of Lya; causing a grunt of discomfort to pass from him.

She was a friend, a lover, and above all an empathetic soul he could at one point find solace in. Someone he would fight with as often as he would fight for, but now a name that could only dig a knife into his stomach. Howick had given the woman his heart and she saw fit to deny him a place in hers; causing him to feel betrayal, and thus guilt for feeling so. A shake of his head begins to set things back on a clear path, and he rises back to a sitting position. “Oi loved ‘er, but nae anymore. Maybe we could be friends. If the war doesn’t kill me.”