Clear Across the Fens

Outside the city of Drache lies a number of cities, towns and provinces of varying size and populace. Most of the people living outside Drache are natives who speak Arangothian and observe the native customs and rituals. Click here for a list Arangoth's locales, and here to view a map.
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EoinCross
Posts: 1
Joined: Tue Feb 05, 2013 4:23 am
Preferred Title: John
Characters: Eoin Cross
Location: New Brunswick, Canada

Clear Across the Fens

Post by EoinCross »

Eoin couldn't recall the last time he'd held water for anyone but himself. Just a simple basin, held around a friend's shoulder in a time of thirst, easily done. No constant concern for his own skin. The sun fed on him. It beat him around the ears to tenderize the harder meat there before blistering it from his skull and devouring it. The sun wanted his mind, then his throat, then his soul, then his feet. It would take his hands first...that couldn't happen. By the crushing hells, they were after him, the "Orrrc filth!" he slurred and spat. "That soundsded strange..."
A long, agonizing moment was allowed to pass. If you saw him standing there you would think you knew him. So moderate was his entire being. Simple and lean, muscles packed in only where they were trained. An otherwise thin frame founded on staples and never allowed to stray far from the eggs, beans and rice of his mother. His face was supposed to be handsome; it lost all its softness to thinness, warmth to wickedness, and colour to lack of sleep. Hair brown as earth like you recall, eyes blue as you remember. Outward he wore leather and wool, a rough striping of brown and black, blackened brass loops and pins where everything attached. Dark wool pants fell from beneath a thickly padded gambeson sown permanently to the inside of his black horsehide tunic. His right arm bore complete leather plate; pauldron, gardbrace, rerebrace, besagew, and vambrace were all two layers of hardened cowhide. It set flat against the padding beneath, and kept his silhouette in check. His left arm was naught but tunic sleeve. Black gloves clutched at the grip and pommel of his war sword, its hollow-ground blade wavering under odd stress. He hated himself for driving the dulled tip of his weapon into the earth as a cane. He hated the way he was getting words wrong. He stared at his feet and remembered. His words...blood loss...he had to walk. Drache. Walk now.
Walk or die!...
"Wauk...."
The outlying lights of building in the periphery of town barely brushed him as he heard the first sounds of dawn voices.
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