[Glynt's PoV]
After 50 damned bottles, scenes and memories should become blurred.
After 5,000 damned wars, faces and names should become blurred.
Glynt set down his latest bottle shakily, far too weakened to throw it to the ground in disgust. When he first came into this stupid tavern he had hoped to drown out everything in his brain.
He wasn't dumb. He knew that this dungeon wouldn't be peaceful for long.
Not a damn thing was peaceful.
Childhood, love, charity, peace.
Nothing was peaceful.
Most were lucky and never had to learn a lesson like that. They never grew up in a country constantly battered by civil war; they never substituted learning how to walk with learning how to carry a weapon.
Sighing as he pushed himself off the counter, Glynt made his journey over to the alcohol rack once again. Soon, there wouldn't be many journeys left as only 5 bottles remained. However, until that future came to pass he was going to drink to his heart's content.
