Amongst the cheerful ramblings of a blitzed crowd, the gamblers gamble, the drunks drink, and the wenches look... hmm, most appealing. So far, the pretty ladies were the only worth while avenue of this establishment. If you could even call a lousy run-down pub that.

In the far courner sits a hooded figure, nursing a mug of mead. Occasionally, he would leer over to one of the passing bar wenches with a slight friendly smile. The mead wasn't as appitizing, nor nutritious, as a certain form of red liquid... but it would have to do until a proper meal could be found. Really, it was like devouring bitter sweets. At a different time, it could've been enjoyable.

'What kind of stupid name is "The Black Sheep" for a pub anyway?' he thought to himself. 'Tch.'

Glaring back to a table of patrons, the noise they were making were starting to grate on the man's nerves. He began to drum his fingers across his own table, in an effort to calm himself.