(( Jumping in here to see what happens :3 ))
The thick tavern door opened with a creek, which ushered in a burst of cold air and snow, which swept through the tavern like an assassins arrow in the night. In the doorway, a man stood, and oddly enough, he made to effort to fully step in. He was shrouded in shadows, the lighting from the hearth and the darkness from outside silhouetting him completely, yet the faint glimmer of steel suggested he was fully armored. About his shoulders billowed a tick heavy cloak, the wind from outside cuasing it to flap to and fro, making a slight clatter under the heavy din of the bar fight within.
Askar made no move to enter the bar, it was like he was frozen in that spot, unable to move, unable to think, for the rich copper smell of blood smacked him in the face as he had opened the door. His parched throat burned in want and need, he had gone so long without feeding. "Stop it..." he scolded himself as he tried to move further into the bar, disgruntled patrons sending him angry looks from the cold he let in. "Be stronger than this curse...be stronger..." Slowly, and with great effort, he entered the tavern and closed the door.
Holding his breath and intending to hold out the smell, Askar quickly moved to the farthest table from the bar fight, and the suspected injury that filled the tavern with the smell of the miracle elixer that gave him life. As he moved to the table, he passed by the hearth, which illuminated his figured quite nicely, giving all eyes upon him a good look at what he had to wear. He was clad from head to toe in the ancient armor of the Blades, an unknown order to most, seeing as how its died out over the past five hundred years...but word of its regrowing due to the Dragons returning had gotten around, perhaps someone in the bar would recognize that armor. The armor wasn't the most striking thing he wore however, what was, was the mask that covered all of his face. It was cast from a dark material, possibly iron or maybe even steel, it was hard to tell in this lighting, and it was cut in the shape of a abstract face, with a stoic expression. Not a single feature on the mans face could be seen, which could give onlookers, especially those apt to reading facial expressions, pause and caution; masked men bare ill-intent.
Making it to the chair he had spotted from the doorway he eased himself within it, looking tense and like a coiled spring ready to launch. The aura about him gradually became darker, more sinister, and the mask lent to the over-all "creepy" feeling about him. The thought of getting up and leaving the bar struck him, but he stifled it, getting up and leaving but a few moments after entering, would arouse more suspicion that should he just stay. It took everything he had to quell the beast that shouted and raged for him to launch himself from his chair, straight at the bleeding patron, and rip into his neck with the ferocity that his kind were known for. "Stendaar give me strength..." he whispered to the Heavens, hoping for something to intervene into this fight, be it bar keep, fellow patron, or the great Stendaar himself, anything to relieve him of this torturous plight.