Black Thunder
Knight
That Queer Fellow
http://www.rpring.com/hybrid-stories-screenshots/6266-queer-fellow.html#post48125
A young woodsman stepped out of his small workshop in Yew. His dark leather armour stretched and contracted repeatedly as he walked briskly over to a nearby field to freely grab some vegetables for his first small meal of the day. Taking casual bites from a large turnip as if it were an apple or pear, he walked back towards the front of his house and eventually further past into the nearby woods. Reaching a clearing he frequently spent time in, he looked around to his many palettes of stretched hides, nearly a dozen, and began removing them to take back to his lair. As he neared his house, the hot rain of Yew began without warning as it often did. He put the thick stretches of hide over his head as he waddled into his stony shelter, the humidity seemingly disappearing after reaching the second floor.
Setting aside the fairly soaked hides to the corner of the room, he sat back in his chair near his reading desk. Looking to his bookshelf, as if to beg for some sort of entertainment in this short time without doable work, he quickly reminded himself he had exhausted every book, encyclopedia, essay, manual, novel, text, tome, treatise and every other work of writing he kept in that accursed piece of furniture. Sighing and lazily sitting back, he simply started thinking. Thinking of what, you ask? Nothing in particular did he muse upon, but simply upon the idea of thinking itself. It occupied him sufficiently before it was time for him to go back out and tend to his business.
This man is Halian Murray, a rather reclusive but well mannered fellow, who simply tended to his own matters, and apparently had a liking for long journeys. Despite his seemingly young age, he is said to be the estranged son of "Old Man Murray", the now disceased propreitor of a niche tavern in the northeast outskirts of Yew- the type of place that usually housed oldtimers and war veterans, some of the former legends of Yew, now living out their golden years telling the stories of past battles, and the "good ol' days", before this mysterious and deadly thing called magic became such a common profession.
Halian, to those who took the time to notice, seemed to suddenly return from his long journey when the old man passed away. Although he frequently left for relatively short trips, one would generally find him out and about, around his house or visiting the local library or mages' guild, usually seeking more books to add to his extensive collection. To most, this fellow seemed an average Yewian man, although there are rumours that he is some sort of ex-soldier or mercenary, skilled with a mysterious style of spear fencing. Every so often, a passerby who was familiar or even acquainted with him would give a wave to him as he returned a casual salute with a slight smile. But as both focused on each other for that brief moment, Hal's cloudy, blue eyes gave a stare that seemed out of place, as if this simple man was still in some sort of war, one invisible to all but himself. Perhaps, even in his own mind- the unhealed scars of combat? The memories of rape and pillaging? One could only guess, without ever reaching a comfortable conclusion. And then they continued walking. Life went on normally and the world remained simple and peaceful, as most knew it.
http://www.rpring.com/hybrid-stories-screenshots/6266-queer-fellow.html#post48125
A young woodsman stepped out of his small workshop in Yew. His dark leather armour stretched and contracted repeatedly as he walked briskly over to a nearby field to freely grab some vegetables for his first small meal of the day. Taking casual bites from a large turnip as if it were an apple or pear, he walked back towards the front of his house and eventually further past into the nearby woods. Reaching a clearing he frequently spent time in, he looked around to his many palettes of stretched hides, nearly a dozen, and began removing them to take back to his lair. As he neared his house, the hot rain of Yew began without warning as it often did. He put the thick stretches of hide over his head as he waddled into his stony shelter, the humidity seemingly disappearing after reaching the second floor.
Setting aside the fairly soaked hides to the corner of the room, he sat back in his chair near his reading desk. Looking to his bookshelf, as if to beg for some sort of entertainment in this short time without doable work, he quickly reminded himself he had exhausted every book, encyclopedia, essay, manual, novel, text, tome, treatise and every other work of writing he kept in that accursed piece of furniture. Sighing and lazily sitting back, he simply started thinking. Thinking of what, you ask? Nothing in particular did he muse upon, but simply upon the idea of thinking itself. It occupied him sufficiently before it was time for him to go back out and tend to his business.
This man is Halian Murray, a rather reclusive but well mannered fellow, who simply tended to his own matters, and apparently had a liking for long journeys. Despite his seemingly young age, he is said to be the estranged son of "Old Man Murray", the now disceased propreitor of a niche tavern in the northeast outskirts of Yew- the type of place that usually housed oldtimers and war veterans, some of the former legends of Yew, now living out their golden years telling the stories of past battles, and the "good ol' days", before this mysterious and deadly thing called magic became such a common profession.
Halian, to those who took the time to notice, seemed to suddenly return from his long journey when the old man passed away. Although he frequently left for relatively short trips, one would generally find him out and about, around his house or visiting the local library or mages' guild, usually seeking more books to add to his extensive collection. To most, this fellow seemed an average Yewian man, although there are rumours that he is some sort of ex-soldier or mercenary, skilled with a mysterious style of spear fencing. Every so often, a passerby who was familiar or even acquainted with him would give a wave to him as he returned a casual salute with a slight smile. But as both focused on each other for that brief moment, Hal's cloudy, blue eyes gave a stare that seemed out of place, as if this simple man was still in some sort of war, one invisible to all but himself. Perhaps, even in his own mind- the unhealed scars of combat? The memories of rape and pillaging? One could only guess, without ever reaching a comfortable conclusion. And then they continued walking. Life went on normally and the world remained simple and peaceful, as most knew it.