strength and honor, d'artagnan, open to plague

strength and honor, d'artagnan, open to plague

Déodat Posts: 174

Absent Abyss atk: 3.5 | def: 10 | dam: 7

Stallion :: Unicorn :: 17 hands :: 12 HP: 67.5 | Buff: NOVICE

Odette :: White German Shepherd :: None Minx

12-03-2012, 03:44 PM (This post was last modified: 12-04-2012, 01:41 AM by Déodat.)

He did not expect company so soon, but he did not mind it. He had been alone for more than a season as he had traveled in the dead, frozen grip of Frostfall—a most unfortunate season to be traveling such a distance. As a result, he was weak and much thinner than he should be. But there had been no choice in the matter—more fell dead every day. Some from wounds far too rancid and decayed for the healers to save, and some stolen by the cold. It had been the coldest Frostfall in many lifespans, as some elders said. And Déodat did not question them, for he harbored the utmost respect for the wizened old warriors of the Clans who had been wise and battle-hardy enough in their youth to survive decades of war.

Many did not see past their third year.

She was a sweet-faced mare, with bold blue eyes and pale skin like the dawn sunlight he had seen some hours ago. His expression rendered blank, as usual, but he dipped his ruby-glass horn in a silent greeting while those deep eyes silently evaluated her. It was instinct natural as breathing—you assess your enemy and you survive, or you die quickly. She was a couple hands smaller than he, but that was understandable, he was not a small stallion by any means. There was something delicate about her, something fragile, but there was also something rather dangerous about her and he couldn't place his horn on it. However, he had learned long ago not to underestimate anyone.

She welcomed him to Helovia, her voice full of quiet warmth. "Thank you," he said simply. He hesitated as he considered her next question. "It is undecided, for the time being. I will need time to...recover." The last word from his mouth is laced with bitterness—to express his sudden state of weakness was a vulnerable thing to do, but anyone with half a brain could tell he was not as well as he held himself out to be. "My manners are appalling, I'm afraid. I am Déodat."

Born of a Noble clan, he was well-bred and well-learned in formalities, but he was a General's son first and foremost, and the distinguishing trait of a General's son encompassed action rather than words.

déodat,