Herevion stood, watching the other men telling their stories to one another. He did not care for such amusements, as he did not care for many things the others thought enjoyable. He was simply waiting for the time to go, and if he waited alone, he waited alone.
He took out his knife again, wanting to test its sharpness, though he knew that it would slice almost anything. He pushed lightly with it against his fingertip, drawing blood. He did not suck his finger, but let it fall, watching the tiny drop of crimson liquid descend to the trampled grass he stood on. Nobody looked at him, as though he were not there. But Herevion was used to this. It was not that anybody tried to stay away from him- it just happened naturally. But he was used to it and could not imagine another life.
[ June 03, 2003: Message edited by: GaladrieloftheOlden ]
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"Glue... very powerful stuff."
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