When we stay in taverns, I sleep on the floor. There are some adventurers who crave a soft bed and a full pint. While in town, I miss the hard earth and the stars overhead. For as much as I complain about what we do, whether there's a point, or whether we make any difference, I know that I would not survive without it. My arm was made for swinging steel; I'm not alive when I'm not fighting for my life. While others are content to while away their silver in town, I am always eager to leave it.
This cider is the constant need for escape, from even the safest of situations.
Reviewed on 21 Jul 2024
