Nothing mattered to him any more, except for the calming, numbing relief bestowed upon him by mead. He wanted to die, but refused to die by his own hand. Suicide was the coward’s way out and he was certainly no coward.
He would rather die in a vicious street fight or a tavern brawl and he would often seek them out, sometimes instigating them himself just to get slashed by a knife blade or broken bottle. He didn’t care how he died, although deep down he harboured a secret desire to die honourably on the battlefield, where long after his death minstrels would regale their bardic tales of victory and glory. There was no greater honour for a warrior - even a luckless, rundown one like him - than to die fighting alongside his comrade-in-arms, fighting for something more worthy than a vagabond’s life.
For anyone interested in reading the full sample, it can be found on its official site.
