Miriana had calmed down by the time Boran stopped by the infirmary to check on her. From the door he watched as Eshana, the naga who ran the clinic, set about addressing Miriana’s wound. With a few drops of her venom to numb the pain she got to work with practiced hands. Boran had been on that table many times himself and knew their touch well. They were memories he held fondly despite the pain. For some time the doorman had held a flame for the healer and while he’d heard rumors she returned his affections he could never bring himself to act.  

Before he could be noticed he turned away and headed back toward the bar for a drink but reversed course when he saw Megra exit the basement. He had been stewing and now found he could not bring himself to face her. In his mind he had failed in his duty. He had reacted too slow and hesitated too long when trouble started allowing the catastrophe they now faced. 

Ducking his head he hurried across the room to keep watch out one of the large front windows. After a few minutes he felt his back begin to ache and on instinct he reached for his stool. But as he did he felt his rage begin to rise. There had been a time not too long ago he could pull a fully loaded horse cart on his own for two days straight. Now he couldn’t even make it through an entire shift without having to sit down. In the three decades he’d spent at the inn he watched his youth and his strength fade. He was supposed to grow old with dignity, that’s what  Megra had told him when she freed him from the circus all those years ago, but there was no dignity in any of this. Without his strength he was useless, useless to the Hearth, useless to himself, useless to her. 

With a shout he kicked the stool, the wooden legs splintering as the seat flew across the room and into the burning fireplace. The cushion hissed and crackled as the flames burned away the soft leather then bursted for a moment as they reached the soft down. 

The commotion drew the attention of a few of the other workers and even brought Eshana out of the clinic to see what had occurred. She watched as Boran marched across the floor away from the shattered stool. For a moment it seemed as if she might say something but whether she couldn’t find the words or the nerve she retreated back into the infirmary. 

No one else attempted to speak to Boran, not even the guard posted outside the armory door. They stepped aside silently as he slid his key into the heavy lock which opened with a chunky clang. Forgoing the blades and bows that lined the walls Boran made his way to the back of the room reaching for something leaned against the wall in the back corner. 

Boran wrapped his fingers around the handle of a large club and lifted from where it had rested for nearly two decades. Hoisting it up he recalled how much lighter it had felt when he last held it. He promised himself he would get used to its weight again and inspected the weapon. It seemed that unlike him time had not weakened the club. The antlers that formed  a row of spikes on one side were as strong and sharp as ever, as were the shards of broken blades that formed serrated teeth down the other. 

As he looked over the weapon he gave a silent plea of forgiveness to his ancestors. The club had belonged to his father, or so he’d been told, each deadly accoutrement was a testament to a past victory and a fallen enemy. His mother had told him tales of his fathers deeds, how he had resisted invading armies, faced down powerful beasts and won her human heart. She had called him the finest example of his tribe but by the time Boran had heard the tales both his father and tribe had long passed on. His mother soon followed and he found himself forced into service as a beast of burden until Megra found and freed him.  

Slinging the heavy weapon over his shoulder Boran made his way back to the window. He set the club onto the ground in front of him with a heavy thump and leaned onto the handle to ease his back. His tale so far had been a far cry from the stories of his father but while he still had breath in him he could at least have a final act worth telling.