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Date Posted: 18:09:22 03/25/02 Mon
"Well, it is not home," a voice says wistfully to itself, "but it will have to suffice for now, won't it?"
The man looks down the path at the small village approaching in the distance. He is not an old man, but he is no boy. Though his hair, cropped shorter than most, is a wispy grey, as is the stuble rugged on his face, he has an air of youth about him. His eyes, a cloudy, light grey-blue, are both seasoned and yet alight with youth. His face, chizzled from long-ago battles, is handsome, only seeming ever so slightly grizzled. But he does not seem old, quite, and his age is perhaps indeciepherable.
He smiles, letting one hand fall to his side to ruffle the fur of an animal kept there. In a linen sling, carried on the shoulder of the man, is an orange furred cat. She is still half-ill, though not nearly so as the man had found her. And, perhaps, she is not ill at all. Her green eyes, like maple leaves behind the sun, look up at the man, and she mews softly. The man shakes his head, chuckling. "You are not so transparant as that, my dear," he says to her, and withdraws his hand back to the tall staff he uses as his walking-stick. His wrists, it can be seen, are tattooed with the images of Celtic serpents, though the blue colour has faded in the years since their placement in his flesh.
He begins to head down to the village, a very slight limp to his right leg. A battle wound from younger days. His horse, a huge beast, fitted for a knight, follows behind him with heave "clip clops".
"Good marrow, friend," the man says aimiably as he comes closer to the town, nodding his head to Tarkin.
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