Post by Ránëwén Lossëhelin on Aug 26, 2011 22:08:45 GMT -5
The Stranger walked.
He walked and he walked. In his hand a staff borne of oak wood and carved in shape of dead dragon's mouth. Cloaked from head to toe his face was only chin and two gleaming yellow orbs; his eyes they were. They gleamed; they glowed a sinister glow.
Upon staff, steps were leaned and cloak dragged dirt and sand and swept them along behind him. Off to his sides they parted, scuttled and tossed off the beaten path. How worn it was, he couldn’t tell. Countless prints, opposite directions and prints within prints, they were endless. Travelers sought what laid ahead. A town. A hovel of a town. Twas' Wistvale, a city of intrepid fools.
Above, a starry night sky lit the path; dull and yellow light from the moon and the speckled orbs that touched the heavens. Cloudless it was and he smirked at it. Quite the welcome; the clear sky only beckons never rescinds, he thought. From his side he retrieved a jug. He brought it to his lips and let the water pass upon their cracks and down his dry throat. He lowered it and wiped his mouth. It was latched once more upon his belt.
Path parted only unto more of the same. Farmland was still farmland; that hadn't changed in centuries. The fork in the rode did not even give him pause. He walked on passing the outskirts and turning up a bend less traveled. Odd that there would be prints even still, prints that led to the graveyard, his destination.
“A priest, why yes I am. Will thou not let me pass and give grievance to the hallowed? What is it you fear? Can you tell me, I think not. Thee but a scarecrow I see before me. A guardian of the dead, how noble.” He chuckled and for what it was worth he had met its eyes. Yet it was only a facile interest. There was more pressing matters he had to attend to: the grave he knelt before; the grave he brushed the dust and cobwebs off of with a gloved hand. It was blank.
[Skul's Adventure]
He walked and he walked. In his hand a staff borne of oak wood and carved in shape of dead dragon's mouth. Cloaked from head to toe his face was only chin and two gleaming yellow orbs; his eyes they were. They gleamed; they glowed a sinister glow.
Upon staff, steps were leaned and cloak dragged dirt and sand and swept them along behind him. Off to his sides they parted, scuttled and tossed off the beaten path. How worn it was, he couldn’t tell. Countless prints, opposite directions and prints within prints, they were endless. Travelers sought what laid ahead. A town. A hovel of a town. Twas' Wistvale, a city of intrepid fools.
Above, a starry night sky lit the path; dull and yellow light from the moon and the speckled orbs that touched the heavens. Cloudless it was and he smirked at it. Quite the welcome; the clear sky only beckons never rescinds, he thought. From his side he retrieved a jug. He brought it to his lips and let the water pass upon their cracks and down his dry throat. He lowered it and wiped his mouth. It was latched once more upon his belt.
Path parted only unto more of the same. Farmland was still farmland; that hadn't changed in centuries. The fork in the rode did not even give him pause. He walked on passing the outskirts and turning up a bend less traveled. Odd that there would be prints even still, prints that led to the graveyard, his destination.
“A priest, why yes I am. Will thou not let me pass and give grievance to the hallowed? What is it you fear? Can you tell me, I think not. Thee but a scarecrow I see before me. A guardian of the dead, how noble.” He chuckled and for what it was worth he had met its eyes. Yet it was only a facile interest. There was more pressing matters he had to attend to: the grave he knelt before; the grave he brushed the dust and cobwebs off of with a gloved hand. It was blank.
[Skul's Adventure]
