Work Text:
Click.
Clack.
Click.
Clack.
The stranger walks in, twisted visage glaring harshly in the torchlight. The room holds its breath, as if even itself is frightened by the presence. Coin is slid over, exchanged with a tankard. The mug is filled with mead, of which is unknown to the rest. The barstool creaks and groans, protesting under the weight of the newcomer's bulky armor. The metal glints crimson, a promise of blood spilt once before, and will once more. The tankard is bled dry like a draugr left to rot, poisonous ooze spilling from the rejected soul. The helm is pushed back into the proper place, hiding the scarred, twisted mouth. The stranger gracefully stands, boots clicking as they walk out. The room breathes out in relief, the cloying presence of the stranger dissipating like the corrupted control of a Forsaken as they screeched their final cry. Whispers infect the room, growing similarly to the ivy covering the walls.
Einherjar.