In the meantime, enjoy some not-gonna-be-finished and poorly written Elthrellefin!
Elthrellefin sauntered? Ambled? Swayed through the heavy wooden doors of the tavern, cloak thrown over the, honest-to-Isha, hole lazily oozing blood from his shoulder. Like, whoops there goes his arm, sort of gash; which had, more or less, stoppered itself. The tavern hadn’t livened up in his absence (unfortunately), drunks near the bar, kingdom-ers chatting idly over dinner. Elthrellefin’s ear twitched, pointed tips creating little grooves in the hood. Shifting his weight, he started for the stairs, swooning midway when a filthy human child ran by, jostling Elthrellefin’s arm. He growled, baring his blackened teeth to it, not bothering to wait for a reaction. Fuckin’ lovely this place was.
His room was, more or less, trash here, beer bottles there, oh! Inviting blankets and pillows—fuck he was bleeding on the carpet. Best not to head for the bed then. There went his cloak to join the mess on the floor. Kicking open the bathroom door because, well because, Elthrellefin was riding on adrenaline from BossMan’s thugs. He tossed three teeth into the sink, bright crimson and marred from the crude tools he’d used to extract them. Gripping the edge, he went for a weak smile into the grungy mirror. Ugh. Praise Isha no Dogs had stopped to ask why an elf was covered in so much gore.