Post by Goose on Jun 20, 2014 3:08:18 GMT -5
(Just some random RPing with Goose, but if a GM that's not me wants to do something with it you're free to do so. This thread is open to other players as well.)
It was a Summer's evening, the blanket of night being a welcome after the day's torturous heat. Goose set up his camp in a space between two trees in the forest on the outskirts of Wistvale, whose company he already enjoyed for a while before seeking refuge in the isolation of the wilderness.
Paul spent the better part of the evening drinking in the tavern, waxing poetic about his ranger days that were filled with exaggerated exploits and feats of marksmanship that he probably stole from someone else. He told the younger men at the bar how every morning he'd get up to shoot dragonflies by the pond with nothing but his bow and quiver on his back, explaining to the horrified patrons that feeling the wind on his skin helped him with his aim. If anything it only made them wish they got drunk faster.
Whether they believed him or not, these tales of high adventure coupled with gratuitous drinking reminded the old man of better days where he could go on a six hour trek without needing to stop to make sure he hadn't soiled his pantaloons.
Yet, Goose had to admit that slowing down ain' half bad once you get used to it. There wasn't a Sergeant or Captain yelling at you to move faster or to keep moving after breaking cover. There were days where he finally got to believing that if he did stop moving he'd die to a sword that he couldn't see. It was only safe when your superior said it was, otherwise you assume that an angry god is always up your arse.
The reality of his adventures stayed with him and never spilled out in the tavern. Though Wistvale wasn't exactly known for being the safest of places, at least there was peace in the land. For the time being. If there came a time Wistvale got pulled into conflict all those bright eye'd dreamers in the tavern, who looked up to Goose as some kind of hero (or insane), would end up sitting where the old man was doing nothing but staring at a crackling flame like it held your entire life in it.
"In rain or cold, through wind and fire, our swiftness shall never tire. Those who would dare harm our Sire, look to the skies our arrows dire!"
The oath of the rangers, now a quiet prayer he offered to his fallen comrades when their memory happened upon his mind. After he said it, Goose fetched a flask from his coat and drank from it to help ease his way into sleep. He hoped he would not see them in his dreams again tonight.
It was a Summer's evening, the blanket of night being a welcome after the day's torturous heat. Goose set up his camp in a space between two trees in the forest on the outskirts of Wistvale, whose company he already enjoyed for a while before seeking refuge in the isolation of the wilderness.
Paul spent the better part of the evening drinking in the tavern, waxing poetic about his ranger days that were filled with exaggerated exploits and feats of marksmanship that he probably stole from someone else. He told the younger men at the bar how every morning he'd get up to shoot dragonflies by the pond with nothing but his bow and quiver on his back, explaining to the horrified patrons that feeling the wind on his skin helped him with his aim. If anything it only made them wish they got drunk faster.
Whether they believed him or not, these tales of high adventure coupled with gratuitous drinking reminded the old man of better days where he could go on a six hour trek without needing to stop to make sure he hadn't soiled his pantaloons.
Yet, Goose had to admit that slowing down ain' half bad once you get used to it. There wasn't a Sergeant or Captain yelling at you to move faster or to keep moving after breaking cover. There were days where he finally got to believing that if he did stop moving he'd die to a sword that he couldn't see. It was only safe when your superior said it was, otherwise you assume that an angry god is always up your arse.
The reality of his adventures stayed with him and never spilled out in the tavern. Though Wistvale wasn't exactly known for being the safest of places, at least there was peace in the land. For the time being. If there came a time Wistvale got pulled into conflict all those bright eye'd dreamers in the tavern, who looked up to Goose as some kind of hero (or insane), would end up sitting where the old man was doing nothing but staring at a crackling flame like it held your entire life in it.
"In rain or cold, through wind and fire, our swiftness shall never tire. Those who would dare harm our Sire, look to the skies our arrows dire!"
The oath of the rangers, now a quiet prayer he offered to his fallen comrades when their memory happened upon his mind. After he said it, Goose fetched a flask from his coat and drank from it to help ease his way into sleep. He hoped he would not see them in his dreams again tonight.
