[ P ] A cure for minds unwell

your veins are full of ice-water

Hound's Head: a tavern and inn well kept with a view of the ocean past the cliffside and well stocked on the inside with booze and patrons- and also well paid by a man numb to the touch of reality. This was his home, or atleast a bed to lay on, even if it lacked lavish, soft furs and a hearth warmed by another all day. It wasn't as large as his own estate, but it wasnt nearly as empty like the Scowcroft manor was. It wasn't tainted with the touch of the mess that became of the last year that seemingly seeped into the very walls and floors of his home; the past had no home here like it did there, his mind was not suffocating from the air that threatened to burn his insides with each inhale that reminded him of just how wrong his life had turned there. He managed whatever duties he could from right here- birds were never ending it seemed, and his mother had sent a couple wolves to not-so-conspicuously keep tabs on him that he turned into his own messengers and stand-ins for any gatherings he didn't want to attend. When he first arrived, he did his best to keep himself hidden, but eventually he grew too restless and bored to keep to one room or one bar. It didn't take long for someone to spot him and get word back to the manor, but that didn't pull him back to his home. Instead, he paid whatever was asked for a room from the Hounds Head. And how perfect this was, being just a minute or two paces away from a bar. It was a crutch, really. It- he -was pathetic. The day was still bright, thanks to the season, but it's timing -somewhere between the day still charging on and coming to an end- brought more company in. He was perched close to an opening in the walls, it offered a slight breeze of sea salt and damp air. The scent alone was enough to carry his attention to the beach that was a few minutes walk down the way, but he couldn't be bothered to leave where he was sitting. Instead, he lost himself in wandering thoughts and his gaze swallowed up the ocean itself. If anyone tried to pester him, he wouldn't know- mentally he was down there on the beach, and not sitting with sorrows that the booze hardly offered a cure for. typentype "

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