Cerant could tell by the way his head throbbed, and from the foul taste in his mouth, that he had drunk too much again. Sighing at himself, already dreading the quietly disapproving look he would get from Neikirk, he crawled out of bed and got himself cleaned up.
When he looked respectable, even if he still felt like death, he slowly made his way downstairs and into the kitchen. There was still a pot of warm porridge on the stove, thankfully, and half a pitcher of ale left. Fixing himself breakfast, he took it all to the table and began to eat.
He had just finished when Neikirk slipped inside, immaculate and precise and beautiful as ever. Cerant noted mournfully that Neikirk had trimmed his hair, cutting the dark blond strands so short that all hint of curl was gone. But the severe cut
