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piosenniel · 05-26-2003, 11:13 AM

GaladrieloftheOlden's post

Herevion lay in a tent near the campfire, stroking his scar delicately with one hardened fingertip, thinking, the warmth coming from nearby almost lulling him into sleep. He could not even remember whether it was night or day, and they felt the same to him in his usual indifferent state. He was merely wondering whether he should leave the camp of Rangers or not, for he, though liking to learn new things, of which there were a-plenty here, wanted to test some of them in action again, for he was young as Rangers go. He pulled his finger from his scar and begna to rub his fingers through the weaving design embossed upon his long silver knife.

Suddenly, he heard voices outside of his tent. He propped himself into a sitting position and then stood up, bending down to get out of the door, for the voices were unmistakably coming in his direction. The messenger outside waved him over. “You have been called to the house of Islist Scorn,” he said, and flicked his hand vaguely in the general direction of it, though Herevion knew very well where the tent lay. He looked at the messenger cooly. “Thank you,” he said, with no emotion showing in his voice but the barest amount of courtesy, and started off towards the larger tent, content not to wonder till he got there.

05-26-2003, 11:13 AM	#7
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	GaladrieloftheOlden's post Herevion lay in a tent near the campfire, stroking his scar delicately with one hardened fingertip, thinking, the warmth coming from nearby almost lulling him into sleep. He could not even remember whether it was night or day, and they felt the same to him in his usual indifferent state. He was merely wondering whether he should leave the camp of Rangers or not, for he, though liking to learn new things, of which there were a-plenty here, wanted to test some of them in action again, for he was young as Rangers go. He pulled his finger from his scar and begna to rub his fingers through the weaving design embossed upon his long silver knife. Suddenly, he heard voices outside of his tent. He propped himself into a sitting position and then stood up, bending down to get out of the door, for the voices were unmistakably coming in his direction. The messenger outside waved him over. “You have been called to the house of Islist Scorn,” he said, and flicked his hand vaguely in the general direction of it, though Herevion knew very well where the tent lay. He looked at the messenger cooly. “Thank you,” he said, with no emotion showing in his voice but the barest amount of courtesy, and started off towards the larger tent, content not to wonder till he got there. __________________ Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.