Elric

The cool air of the night was refreshing as Elric approached the bar, smelling the alcohol and meat coming from within. Almost against his will, he could feel the saliva building in his mouth - how many years had it been since he had eaten anything other than the basic grime of the monastery? He had stood idly by as travelers and guests spoke of the food and drink of the outside world, which he had never had the chance to partake of. He only hoped that the few pieces of gold he had brought with him would be enough to pay.

His parents would be ashamed of him, he was sure. They had given him willingly to the monastery so that he might train as a monk, and give himself to the gods whom they had believed had given them purpose and meaning in life. He had appreciated, truly, many of the lessons which he had learned in the monastery, but after several hundred years, he had begun to doubt some of the more vague and holy of their teachings. He agreed that one should strive for physical and mental perfection, to purify one's self of impurities in all things and to constantly work to improve. He did not agree that one should do so to satisfy some almighty being that didn't deign to reveal itself to him, much less speak or reward his work.

It was these disagreements that had led him to be banished from the monastery, though by the time that decision had been made, he was well ready to leave. He didn't have much to take with him, but by then, there wasn't much that he needed. One of his few concerns was food - both because he needed it, but because he felt that if he was to truly act in his own interest as he wished to do, he should treat himself with these earthly pleasures, rather than restrain them as he had done for so long.

He had never tasted something so delicious in his life as the food that was placed in front of him in the tavern. It didn't take much mead to make his head dizzy, to make the room dance around him and the lights blur. In the back of his mind, he couldn't decide if he enjoyed this or not - but in the present, he couldn't deny the flavor of the liquid pouring down his throat.

To hell with the gods who had tried to dictate his life without purpose or reward. His mind and his body were his own, and he would do with them as he pleased. Without doubt, that was the true power of being alive - to control one's own destiny and carve their own path. And his fists were all the tools he needed to do that.