| Subject: I change this poor girl's appearance every time I introduce her anywhere. |
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Date Posted: 20:34:41 02/16/02 Sat
Clip clop. Clip clop.
The dull, faded grey horse plods down the dusty road to a monotonous beat. Its rider is hunched over, her hooded head bent over, her wool, green-grey cloaked wrapped around her small frame. Her horse, ladden with blankets, a heavy saddle, and various bags (can't think of a better word ^^;) and such give her the appearance of just any old-dusty traveler. And the wolf-dog, its fur rich tones of brown and gold, trotting along side of her appears merely as a four-legged traveling companion. Very non-dramatic, dull, even mundane.
The wolf-dog runs ahead a bit, and the rider stops her horse. She leans against it, waiting for her companion to return. She sighs to herself. So much has changed. In a blink of the eye, it seemed, her life had turned up-side-down. The thought of her 'Uncle' Dirk being dead still leaves her with a cold, numb feeling. She wants to go back, to see what happened to all the others. But she can't and she knows it. Dirk Rengar's sword is hidden now beneath the horse's blankets. The dried blood of his murderer still caked on it. She had never bothered to clean it off, she's still too bitter. What she's supposed to do now she has no clue. All her life she'd been raised with Rengar's mercanary band. Ever since her mother died, at any rate. She had only been four or five at the time, and her 'uncle'—an old friend of her mother's—had taken her in. She never rememberd very much of her mother, and the only token she still has of her is also hidden beneath the blankets of her horse. An elegant, silver-hilted rapier, with some inscription in Latin on it. She had never learned to read it. Growing up, she had learned more sword-play and cursing than Latin. Being raised almsot strictly by a ramble of male mercinaries, assasins, and rogues, she'd actually learned how to handle most every weapon out there. She'd also learned how to use her femenine influcences to get her way. Of course, that had only been with the younger, newer guys in the croud. And braver ones. Rengar would have personally killed anyone who he had thought so much as touched her. Thinking back to all of it now makes the pain of being away even harsher. But what else is she to do? Not even knowing if the others are alive, and undoubtedly having more than one person wanting her head, she couldn't go back. Not any time soon. She's running a bit of a risk as it is.
"A bit," she mutters to herself. Drawing back her hood, she looks up to the sky, as if watching for something. Her features are fair, if not petite. And she cannot be any older than nineteen, perhaps even younger. Her high cheek bones and delicate jaw give her an almost fragile look. Her dark, forest-green and golden-brown hazel eyes watch the sky. Kinky and thick, her hair is a dark auburn, falling heavily almost to the small of her back, but not quite. Around her neck, on a thin chain, is a small, simple cross. Nothing elaborate. Just a simple statement of her religion, and a quiet focal point of her faith.
Her supple lips smile as she sees a hawk appear overhead. It swoops down, landing on the shoulders of the horse. As it does, it reappears as a cat. It has long fur, and a rich brown tabby-coat, abundant with gold. Its amber eyes look up intellegently at the girl.
"I saw a town a good ways south of here," it tells her, "but it'll be nearly a weeks travel there. And it seems safe enough. Simple farming community. No one you need to worry about, but you can never be too safe." The cat looks intently up at the girl, swishing its tail. Her pained mood affecting him. "I think we should rest, Aut—"
"Don't cal me that," she snaps. She frowns when she seems how he winces. "I'm sorry, Dem. I'm just... tense," she gives an appologetic look to her daemon, Demetrios. "We might as well start heading down there. We're running low on supplies."
The cat nuzzles the girl soothingly. He curls up against her as the horse starts to plod along again.
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