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12-19-2014, 07:43 PM
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Torleik
The beard of glory... So much time in the Threshold, so much time given to those who couldn't even appreciate it. Time spent worrying, doubting, fearing, regretting, mourning. Was he not a man? Did a man not make himself known by his actions and deeds? He was not like his cousin, not like Ulrik who was consumed with thought, with genius, with brilliance that could not be ignored and pushed aside. Torleik was a man of action; the brawny shoulders upon which the world sat its progress and drove forward, for better or for ill. The rabicano was no scholar, no academic mind, and his ancestors would be ashamed of his pathetic and ineffectual flailing about like a fish caught in a net. Was he not his father's son? Was he not a Bloodskald, a man of great valor, honor and skill? Was he not worthy of the tales his bloodline demanded be sung about his deeds in this mortal life? Right now, all he was worthy of was a swift kick in the ass. The thought was sour and lumpy, like rancid fish or spoiled milk, sitting heavy in his gut and swirling as unsteadily as the fog that wove a ghastly loom over the forest floor beneath him. The delicate fingers of dawn knit soft threads of pink and hearthfire orange between the girders of wood firmly entrenched in the soil, suffusing the undulating eddies with color. This was where one of the murder victims had been found, yes? In this murky and somber tree-studded swatch of land south of the Threshold. The rabicano knew he'd wandered here somehow, sometime, but he couldn't quite recall when, recall what time had passed - how much or how he'd spent it. But was that not all he did? Give time? Worry about time? If he was wasting it, spending it correctly, maximizing it? Torleik's brows knit together. Too many thoughts crippled a man if not tempered by the cleansing praxis of action! He would not turn to stone, crippled and fettered by his overactive mind any longer! This was a terrible place for a fight - the ground was wet with the melting morning frost that still clung to life in shadowy areas such as this, dead leaves littered the forest floor and made the already wet ground even more treacherous, and the trees stifled movement. No matter - he'd spent enough time considering over and over before acting. Today, he would simply be and do. Lifting a muscular neck, Torleik let out an echoing bray, summoning anyone nearby that would answer his challenge. Let them come and stand before the power of a being who embraced what it meant to live. "talk talk talk" @[Ghost] ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ WC (448) | (0/3) | Setting: Dark Forest, at dawn. Fog covers the early morning ground, and combined with the springtime morning thaw/dew, the leafy, mossy ground is slick and slippery. Light filters through the trees and visibility is good. Weather is cool to biting, but not cold enough to impair movement. Regular spar. No time extensions. |
![[Image: 531c0b471919e]](http://images.helovia.net/index.php/view/531c0b471919e)
No man is an island.
Pixel by: Tamme :D
Pixel by: Tamme :D
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