There are two things that are very clear (and outstandingly prominent) in the Moonlight Tavern: one, the ghostly wisps of heated breath tell you many, many people are congregated under one roof. Their voices erratic, boisterous, slurred, elated, the influence of alcohol breathed into a rising atmosphere that would have to have been butchered with a machete and packed into multiple boxes before the thick aura would dissipate. The second is faint (and near to impossible to distinguish if you're blind) and only noticed by sober patrons... Is the lack of actual community.

Sure, there are loud people sharing drunken stories and opinions with each other, but how deeply involved are they with the other person? Do they even know each other? Do they actually enjoy each other's company? The tavern feels as if it were housing a bundle of anxiety and stress. Tired adventurers stay tired, wallowing in their pains after the absence of liquid nullifiers. They either have to find some sort of incentive to stay sitting upright in a chair or finally sling their heavy weapons over and across their breast and backs, leaving the heat to rejoin the midnight shades of Arad...Accompanied only with their specters as they travel.

This night however, is peculiar. The atmosphere seems to have traveled away from the bar and into the streets. Tiny lanterns illuminate the outside courtyard of the tavern, projecting their glow onto the various patrons that decorate the sides of the walls and benches until they are overly full and groaning. Content smiles and idle, murmured chatter litter the area as their faces all hone into a cleared space in the farthest corner of the courtyard... A man with a lute-type acoustic sits on the cobblestone ridge, plucking at the instrument precisely and harmoniously. The first thing you notice is that the instrument is being played with his left hand... The second is the blue glowing shackles encasing his demonic hand's wrist and upper bicep.

A Slayer.

The demon knights. Men and women cursed by the demon lord Kazan, the generations of Arad's children that have been plagued with this curse for hundreds of years. Untended to, these demon arms will slowly consume their body and take control. However, many preventative methods and shackles have been fashioned to suppress the demon's within, allowing Slayers to live normal lives---to an extent, at least. Slayers are considered dangerous, habitually unstable and bad luck to any traveler that comes into contact with them. Socially ostracized and bitter of their cursed fate, a Slayer will either be very hostile or retracted from engaging in any form of community... But this one was different.

Where stories tell of these warriors striving to find a cure for themselves and their brethren, none have ever told of those who try to find a niche back into the lives they have lost----or ones playing a mandolin nonchalantly in a bar.

His gray shaggy hair covers his eyes entirely, the bridge of his nose and curled smile the only expression noticeable. After a short and sweet tune, he pauses and raises his head, addressing all of his onlookers,

"How peculiar, you must think... For a Slayer to serenade the public..." He strums quietly, his smile firm on his face, "...But you know, I have found the one and only good use for this demon arm..."

The Slayer stops strumming to lift up his cursed arm, curling his claws inward, his grin expanding,

"A pick."

The courtyard roars with laughter, a lighthearted and up-tempo tune follows. Suddenly the lingering anxiety of the crowd melts away, followed by patrons lifting themselves from their seats to clap, dance, and sing to the familiar melody. Nobody stares furiously at his demonic arm anymore, nor the blindfolds that cover his eyes as the hair slides away from his face... All are perfectly engrossed in a moment of sheer ignorance and relief.

Just the way they should be.

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Dungeon Fighter Online - Asura
Wacom Intuos 4
PaintoolSAI & PSCS3
3-ish hours