Two weeks after Snowtooth laid waste to Leringard's docks, Steel bursts into the Arms. The hour is late; most are asleep, weary from the work to restore the city. He slams the doors, marching into the tavern area. He marks a direct line. All in his way, tables and chairs included, he tosses to the side. Finally stopping in front of the statue, in front of the sword, Steel rips off his masked helm, tearing apart the customized straps designed to hold the helm in place. A moment passes, the sound of the helm bouncing off the floorboards echoing through the empty tavern. Steel falls to his knees, pounding both fists into the ground, hard enough that the wooden boards splinter and his blue knuckles bleed. He screams and roars and cries in a single breath, loud enough to be heard throughout the tavern, and even those nearby in the streets. The statue, however, hears something else, almost whispered.
Forgive me. I chose poorly.
Those who answer the scream and investigate the tavern find the broken helm, over-turned furniture, and blood-stained floorboards, but Steel is not to be seen.
