The sun blazed high in the morning sky. The flaming ball lighting up the white clouds with an almost holy brilliance that was blinding to watch. It was only 8 am but already the heat of the day was building Though despite this bright fresh start at the bottom of the sky line a red tint hung ominously, beware the old nursery rhyme. Though the people of Lomedore were oblivious to them was proving to be a beautiful spring day as the people of Lomedor began to live their lives. The searing light of the morning shone down on the Wilwarin Inn and Pub. The rays passed through the grubby squares glass that covered Omurn's window and the grubby second hand light began to wake him from his catatonic sleep.

Wearily his eyes began to part. Still unwilling to see the new day. From his point of view the world appearing as a blur from squinting eyes. He could barely reconise the site that was brought to him. Where was he this time... He wasn't outside. He could feel no coble stones under him but he was wet. Slowly as parts of his body regained their senses he tried to make sense of the world that he found himself in. His hand rose up and shakily felt his chest and body. Cold to the touch, hard... it must be his armor yet it was wet... He brought it up to his eyes and the waving image slowly came into focus. A dark sticky liquid clung to his skin and all over his chest and the bed he was laying in. He pulled it closer and sniffed. Nose wrinkling he moved his head away sharply from the evil smelling liquid. He moved and sat up in bed frowning as different parts of him screamed in agony. He pulled his other hand over his face and felt something dried on. Parts of his brain feebly made a connection... vomit?

The realization sunk in and he swallowed his dried throat as he fought the urge to throw up again. He wretched. This wasn't a good start. He threw his legs out over the bed and pushed the soiled sheets away from him. Omurn looked down , vomit and... was it blood? Shaking his head he tried to stand up and failed. The world span as the blood rushed from his head and he almost passed out. To much to soon, he should know that. Omurn had gone through this to many times to count. He settled for breathing deeply. He was feeling together today. Maybe he was building a resistance to the potion or he was just lucky today. Other than his bodily condition his mind seemed almost... sane. He tried to raise himself up again and managed to lift himself out of the bed.

Shakily he moved towards the door. He slid his feet over the wooden floor his hands cradling his head. Now he just had to figure out where he was. He slowly pushed the door open wincing as it creaked. He looked down the hall. Two people stood talking he moved back into the room and listened in as best he could. "call the guard now... make it fast" His eyes widened. Where ever he was he wouldn't be hear for much longer.

He made his way back to the bed and slumped back into it. Just what had he done last night? Splintered memory's loomed up out of the time fog. One minute shards of his life being dredged up from the murky haze. Punches thrown and violence dealt out again. His life was a mockery, nothing more than a string of violent attacks linked with frantic bids to get his hands on the amber nectar. It was no wonder that he was going to be arrested now. He could see his crimes laid out before him in bursts of rage and anger that made his skin crawl. He hated what he had become but now there was nothing he could do he had to stay alive. The other options didn't bear thinking about.

He turned to the window... there was no way of opening it the lead bands and glass damning him. He was trapped well and truly. He cast about starting to feel the panic rising. What was he going to do now... He looked around feeling more fear rising through his blood. Where was the bag... it had to be here somewhere...

All traces of sanity drained from him as a panic took hold of him and like a puppet master forced its charge to dance. He span around ignoring the bursts of pain that flared over his bruised chest. It had to be here, just had to be. His eyes flitted over the room as his breath began to speed up. Throat tightening with fear he cast around as a primal panic engulfed him totally.

He fell onto his hands and knees and began scrabbling through the bedsheets. Ripping them open with his blood encrusted hands. His lips curled back to reveal stained teeth as he bit them together in a bid to stop him from screaming out. He could feel the panic reaching a zenith. He bit back the tears. He was ruined with out it. He could already feel parts of his brain falling away. He let the fear out in a gushing torrent. He screamed at the top of his lungs and grabbed the bed. Huge muscles in his arms and legs strained as he ripped it off the floor, tipping it to the side. He collapsed into a pile. Tears streaming now down his soiled face. As he curled into a ball he could hear footsteps. Each sounding like a clash of steel on steel in his fragile mind. His eyes opened, watching the world through his tears. The door began to open and he realized his prize was in front of him. In the middle of the room... to far away to reach now. It was all over. He stared at the jars and bottles spilling out over the floor. His addiction in plain sight.

A week after recovery, he was back to the barracks for reteaching. The fact both baffled and infuriated Thavron. How in the bloody world would they feel the need to replace him as colonel of the Third Company? Sure, they assumed he was dead, but at the very least they could give him back the position he worked nearly his entire life for. Or even allow him to live in his own home with his wife. But now he was stuck in a building full of sweaty, disproportionally muscular men (and women) who take more time out of their days grunting and flexing their muscles than actually doing their duty. The gnats would be far more efficiently managed under his command.

The early morning wake-up call sounded, but the brown angel had already been awake, grumbling in his misfortune. The beds were horridly cramped, arranged in high bunks lined up along the sides of the room. On the level above him was one of the newer recruits, Irene, a former warrior-priest of Threnody. Thavron found the woman annoying, always referring to him as "Mr. Thavron" as she constantly told her nigh-repetitive stories of past experiences, even late into the night. She even had made the outrageous claim of seeing the Goddess of now-Order herself, which prompted only vague disbelief and hostility from the brown angel.

By the time he felt the girl stir above him, he had already begun strapping on plates of armor for the daily grind and so-called "training" in the late afternoon. It was unfathomable to him why he would need bloody training, especially since the thirty-year-old had been in the Guard since he was eighteen. He was more than capable. And, of course, it was inevitable he would be tossed into horribly mundane tasks like some kind of bloody greenhorn, along with the rest of those bumbling fools who think they're going to save the world by keeping criminals out of the city.

Within moments of the brown angel completing his addition of armor, a smartly-dressed man opened the door and strolled through the room of changing soldiers, stopping periodically to wake up stragglers or issue orders. When he passed the bunk housing Irene and Thavron, he sharply turned and focused his attention in the latter. The brown angel, having since stood up to retrieve his spear, felt a presence behind him and turned to compensate, tossing a steadfast but borderline defiant stare at the Captain of the Foot.

"Captain Bleddyn?" The brown angel forced out through clenched teeth.
"We've gotten a call from Wilwarin. They need you to make an arrest." Grand. In true Lomedor fashion, some poor tosser must have had one too many pints and gotten himself in a bar brawl. The usual. The captain walked away before receiving a confirmation from Thavron. Forcing out an audible snarl at the retreating man the guardsman balled his hands into fists briefly before settling down a bit and grabbing his spear to head out.

"Hey, Mr. Thavron! I had this really neat dream last night, want to hear?"
Walking away, the brown angel sighed. "Maybe later, Irene." Near-immediately he disappeared out the door.


Bursting through the entrance to the Wilwarin Inn and Pub, Thavron's gaze was tense but noticeably blank and uncaring. The pub was surprisingly still, most likely due to the time of day, save for two men softly speaking to each other with periodic gazes at the inn room doors upstairs. "Thavron Ráma, Lomedor Guard. I got a call to come here," he droned, approaching them. Both of their faces lit up slightly at the mentioning of the guard, the more heavy-set man stepping forward with a large grin.

"Excellent! The man is upstairs, in the second door on the right. He started an absolutely horrible bar fight last night, and we need you to take him away. Probably dangerous, hungover, or both." The brown angel gave a curt nod, turning toward the visible upper floor and making his way up. Within moments, an ear-curdling scream radiated out from the specified room, forcing Thavron to stop, wince and mumble a curse. Now he knew he was dealing with a man either in severe pain or clearly and utterly off his head. It was one of those moments the brown angel despised his job.

Stopping briefly and giving a sigh, the angel gripped Integrity tightly and forced the door open. "Lomedor Guard, drop your weapons!" roared Thavron instantly and out of reflex, spear flying through the air to come to an abrupt stop, point facing the... oddly pitiful-looking man, who was curled up in a ball on one side of the room. In the center were piles of broken or spilled glass jars and vials. The guardsman's hardened exterior turned puzzled. What the bloody hell was going on? "Sir, get on your feet. You're coming with me."

His eyes snapped open with total shock as the guard burst in through the door. With a flurry of motion the angel rushed in through the door and pointed a weapon at Omurn. The words he spoke melted into an animalistic roar to Omurn. An expression of hate and anger. It was now that a fresh wave of fear hit him like a hammer blow. He edged away, pushing himself back from the center of the room. His eyes unblinking focused only on the angel that spelled ironic doom for him. They ran down the guard that towered over him, a massive warrior and fighter. More than a match for him, probably. At least the way he was now. He tried to swallow his fear but felt a knot block his dry throat. The eyes flicked down the shaft of the spear at the unwavering point that threatened him. The cold clinical gleaming edge that seemed to grow closer with every passing second.

His lips moved in a gentle murmur as he watched on, entranced by the glistening metal. Beads of sweat began to materialize along his brow. His senses began to block out the external world. All he could focus on was that spear tip, for him it represented the calculated point of all he feared in this world. More noise as the angel spoke... They sank into his brain and coerced it into making the connections required. He snapped out of the fear that gripped him.

Omurn's eyes snapped up to the angels face. Lips mouthed an word but no noise escaped. Slowly it dawned on him and Omurn unfurled. Emerging from his ball he unsteadily and slowly pushed his body from the oak floor to his feet. Swaying slightly he took a step forward. He was drawing out the inevitable now. He was desperately in someway of escaping but an unmatchable fighter stood between him and life. After all what would they do to me? Kill me? butcher me and bury me in the wilderness or worse. He didn't speak the words but thought them but while he thought his lips moved to every word. Edging closer again he stood over the bag now.

At his feet lay the key to his escape but even his panic stricken mind knew he couldn't reach them. The distance was to great. The time taken to long. The risks to high. That spear would pierce him first. The solider would bear down on him and rip him to shreds while he writhed on the floor on the broken glass and spilled poison. He needed another way out and he was desperate. For the first time, he spoke.

"I was like you," His hands rose up and clutched his head, running fingers through the unwashed matted hair. The words hung in the air for a few seconds before he managed to organize more thoughts into words. "But that life... it," His eyes closed as he prepared himself. His stance changed subtly. Weight shifting onto the other leg as he readied himself for the charge. "destroyed me."

His muscles tightened like springs before releasing all the power they could. His body sprang back. Away from Thavron, away from the doorway, away from capture. He shot forward as his body turned to face his objective. It was a last desperate bid for escape and freedom. His boots thudded heavily on the wooden floor. The window loomed large in his vision as he charged head long at it. He jumped. Bringing his arms in and his shoulder in front of him.

The window buckled outwards. For a tantalizing moment it seemed as if the lead fastenings would give way under the weight and force. The small square panes of glass shattered and fell outwards like glittering snow onto the street. The window held. He slumped backwards and fell heavily on the floor. Gritting his teeth at the explosion of pain that erupted in his shoulder he pushed himself up and started to run again. His boots caught on the bedsheets left by his fit of rage a few minuets prior.

He fell again, skidding over the floor and coming to a halt in the middle of the room. Inches from the bag. The spilled bottles and vials tantalizingly with in reach. His teeth growned together as his hand stretched out and grabbed at a bottle. He brought it down with a heavy hand and gripped to tightly. It shattered in his iron grasp. The glass and amber fluid spilling out over the the oak and soaking into the floor. He growled in anger and his fist slammed into the wood. His head fell down, hitting the floor. That was it. He was beaten.

(note, im giving thav full permition to arrest me, drag me up, yank me out of the pub, what ever you deem necessary)