| Subject: Yes and No. I just restarted it, though. I didn't touch it for about three weeks after mid-terms ended. That's when I had been reading it before. But now I'm reading it again? |
Author:
Sarsar
|
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Date Posted: 07:52:30 02/17/02 Sun
In reply to:
...
's message, "I change this poor girl's appearance every time I introduce her anywhere." on 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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