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Carrûn · 10-27-2003, 07:31 PM

Awyrgan - Rangers

Rain. Awyrgan awoke from an unsteady nap to find himself soaked thoroughly. Kicking off the tunic he had covered himself with he watched lazily as the water pored off the garmet in rivers. Rain had always fascinated him. The smell of it, the look of it, and the taste of it. Beyond these, an old man had once told him that events that often changed many lives happened during the rain. The blessings and curses of the gods.

He rolled the tunic up, placing it in his pack. Shaking the water out of his hair to the best of his ability he pulled his hood over his head and lit his pipe. Most of the townsfolk were avoiding the outdoors as best as the could. Making his way to a small grove of trees he settled down on a semi-dry patch of moss and smoked. Something was bothering him. Rain poured down for a time and he sat up with a start that would have surprised those around him if they had seen it.

The rain was cold. Not a pleasent chill but an unnerving icey patter that rain down ones spine like a bad dream; as if Nature was enjoying in the discomfort of its many residents. His parents had told the man that he had an unnaturally close affinity with nature for a human, but he brushed it off as much as he could. He often feared what he might interpret. He thought back to the tracks that had been found the day before. Coughing, he pulled the cloak tighter around him. Lighting hit a ridge nearby him and he stood up. Crossing the edge of the settlement he entered the forest.

Thorgil had left earlier, looking for the owner of the strange tracks. Searching the paths Awyrgan cursed the skill of the older man, his footprints were all but invisible even to the skilled. Making his best guess he set off in what he hoped was the correct direction.

He had traveled for sometime when he noticed a large vulture circling overhead. The rain had stopped. The muscles in the man's body tensed as if involuntarily sensing the sudden change in Nature's song. He followed the bird towards a clearing. As he neared he stepped on a branch. Somehow it had remained dry and it gave off a resounding crack. Awyrgan threw himself to the ground, drawing two of his knives. He crawled through brush until he could see the clearing.

Coming up the path was the man Calumdril. Draped over his slight frame was the limp body of Thorgil. Awyrgan opened his mouth to shout a greeting and received a taste of death's breath in his mouth. Gagging, he placed one knive back in his belt. Gripping the other tigher he waited as the man shuffled closer.

The carried man was dead. The reality that it was Thorgil did not register immediately with the Ranger. He studied the body as if it was any other man. The scavangers had already been at work. Strips of flesh were ripped and judging by the cloth wrapped around the head the eyes and surrounding tissue were all but gone. Finally accepting the fact that the leader of the Rangers was dead Awyrgan's jaw tightened and he focused again on Calumdril. He was sweating heavily. Tied to his waist was a broken sword blade. Thorgil's.

All tact gone Awyrgan stood up and sheathing his knife strode towards the pair, green eyes ablaze.

[ October 28, 2003: Message edited by: Carrûn ]

10-27-2003, 07:31 PM	#49
Carrûn Wight Join Date: Dec 2002 Location: Behind you, counting to 3 Posts: 234	Awyrgan - Rangers Rain. Awyrgan awoke from an unsteady nap to find himself soaked thoroughly. Kicking off the tunic he had covered himself with he watched lazily as the water pored off the garmet in rivers. Rain had always fascinated him. The smell of it, the look of it, and the taste of it. Beyond these, an old man had once told him that events that often changed many lives happened during the rain. The blessings and curses of the gods. He rolled the tunic up, placing it in his pack. Shaking the water out of his hair to the best of his ability he pulled his hood over his head and lit his pipe. Most of the townsfolk were avoiding the outdoors as best as the could. Making his way to a small grove of trees he settled down on a semi-dry patch of moss and smoked. Something was bothering him. Rain poured down for a time and he sat up with a start that would have surprised those around him if they had seen it. The rain was cold. Not a pleasent chill but an unnerving icey patter that rain down ones spine like a bad dream; as if Nature was enjoying in the discomfort of its many residents. His parents had told the man that he had an unnaturally close affinity with nature for a human, but he brushed it off as much as he could. He often feared what he might interpret. He thought back to the tracks that had been found the day before. Coughing, he pulled the cloak tighter around him. Lighting hit a ridge nearby him and he stood up. Crossing the edge of the settlement he entered the forest. Thorgil had left earlier, looking for the owner of the strange tracks. Searching the paths Awyrgan cursed the skill of the older man, his footprints were all but invisible even to the skilled. Making his best guess he set off in what he hoped was the correct direction. He had traveled for sometime when he noticed a large vulture circling overhead. The rain had stopped. The muscles in the man's body tensed as if involuntarily sensing the sudden change in Nature's song. He followed the bird towards a clearing. As he neared he stepped on a branch. Somehow it had remained dry and it gave off a resounding crack. Awyrgan threw himself to the ground, drawing two of his knives. He crawled through brush until he could see the clearing. Coming up the path was the man Calumdril. Draped over his slight frame was the limp body of Thorgil. Awyrgan opened his mouth to shout a greeting and received a taste of death's breath in his mouth. Gagging, he placed one knive back in his belt. Gripping the other tigher he waited as the man shuffled closer. The carried man was dead. The reality that it was Thorgil did not register immediately with the Ranger. He studied the body as if it was any other man. The scavangers had already been at work. Strips of flesh were ripped and judging by the cloth wrapped around the head the eyes and surrounding tissue were all but gone. Finally accepting the fact that the leader of the Rangers was dead Awyrgan's jaw tightened and he focused again on Calumdril. He was sweating heavily. Tied to his waist was a broken sword blade. Thorgil's. All tact gone Awyrgan stood up and sheathing his knife strode towards the pair, green eyes ablaze. [ October 28, 2003: Message edited by: Carrûn ] __________________ "Dic, hospes, Spartae, nos te hic vidisse iacentes dum sanctis patriae legibus obsequimur."