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01-11-2015, 07:49 PM
ROLAND
One had to wonder what drew birds to the wintry north once the snow started to melt. If Roland had wings, if - a speculation that was not to be voiced aloud in the Basin, he would like to head south. Permanently. Of course, he liked his home. Over time it had grown on him like ice over water, a fragile appreciation that was known to crack or falter from time to time; but the Thief had his hooks sunk quite deeply into the permafrost now. If he'd ever entertained the idea of leaving, it was well in the past. Roland had never found the idea of settling down agreeable, but the thought of raising anchor and sailing off in search of greener pastures seemed impossible now. He often wondered how he'd been content with the life of a pilgrim for so many years. Now, he was happy. Or at least on the cusp of happiness. At times it seemed just barely out of reach, almost close enough to grasp but just a breath too far away. The Thief often felt he was waiting for something; another grand scheme to unfold, some nefarious plot to hatch before his eyes and that, before he knew it, he would be under fire and forced to flee again. It was on the knife's edge of restlessness that he balanced, and so he took to wandering. The Frostbreath Steppe was pleasant in the spring. The winds had settled, no longer rumbling across the flat planes with all the force of a battering ram. There were no snow storms to chase him off into the caves, and the ground underfoot was no longer polished with ice. Roland could find a decent footing at the best of times, and if he slipped, well, no one was around to see it. What few trees dotted the wasteland were crooked and fragile. They seemed only to acknowledge the changing of seasons with a lackadaisical wave of their branches, some barely sprouting any leaves before they shriveled up and fell at the beginning of Orangemoon. The steppe had fallen into a peaceful silence, broken only by the distant crash of waves as they rocked against the jagged cliffs. It was towards that edge that the Thief headed, inexplicably drawn to its brink time and time again. He had always known it as the best place to watch a sunrise. @[Nymeria] |
