Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-67.86.204.15-20140624222418/@comment-29458028-20140704130235

(My character might seem powerful, but you'll learn his weakness soon)

Sorin Steelfang arrived at the gates of Markath. The night was falling, which was a good thing. Riding in the sun was a horrific experience for a vampire, even one that knew how to mitigate some effects, especially since he came at full speed from Cyrodiil, without drinking blood. His horse whinnied as he steadied it. He would have no use for it now. Vaulting off the horse, Sorin Steelfang took one last look at it, before drinking all its blood and leaving it to die. He would rather keep the blood potions for later.

Wiping his mouth, Sorin Steelfang stepped through the ornate gates of Markath, observing his surroundings. He immediately located the inn using his intuition and took a direct path to it, casually pushing the crowds out of the way. He opened the door to the inn and sat upon a stool, calling for a bottle of nord mead. Better wash away the nasty taste of horse blood with drink, maybe he would go to the temple of Dibella later to wipe his memories of the harsh journey. Shrugging, he took his bottle and downed half of it, observing the other patrons. He sees a Khajit assassin, a fellow countryman, strangely an archer as well as a couple of others. Seems like he was not the only merc. Finishing his bottle of mead, he asked for another. Animal blood really tasted horrible.