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Almira sighed, sitting and taking a bottle from her bag. She uncorked it and took a long drink. The tea was room temperature now, not cold enough or hot enough to be attractive. However, it did quence her thirst.
She closed her eyes, leaning back and wondering what exactly to do next. She was lonely. But she didn't think much could help her with that.
[Ate/Drank 1 portions of Iced Tea] |
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Heading down to the district, he managed to catch a glimpse of a wandering woman. Simply drinking as though it were common in the garden to do. His eyes narrowed down to the blade she carried, perhasp she was a fighter. Maybe she was just watchful and careful; paranoid maybe? She seemed nice, as though too layed back to be anything other than a gentle creature. But such were the illusions of most warriors. He clenched his blade, not sure how sterdy it would hold against her own.
he left the issue up for grabs; placing his sword in a relaxed position; posing for a moment hoping that she would strike such a conversation. He was surely not well with social skills.
He hesistated, forming barriers in his mind of what would happen if such eliquent conversation turned into an overcharm, and he was ill ridden from his much desired alone time. Even though he desired conversation, he doubted he ever wanted too much of the oversweet thing in life. |
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he clasped both hands against his sword, taking a swing or two at the air. Both slices were procise. This to which he was trained to do, born to do. Thoguh at birth he was a justice filled youth, having a heart of one who wished to be free, removing evil from his sight, he was born into thr wretched curse. His hands were made into blades themsleves, weaving destruction and war ever so heavily wherever he went.
Cremating these thoughts was his task that would never be reached, he only had to accept who he was. Nothing more than a cold-hearted killer, born for war, trained for more.
In an instance, he gave the problem up of striking conversation. he simply settled up against the tree, both shoulder blades resting on the trunk with an invision of his homeland, a more or less place like Al'Thania, but more centered around war and the way ofn the sword. This horrible image of "peace" was his chapel, his dome of peace and rest, the way of the sword became his closest friend, his ally.
The mother and father of his world, his companion. his true identity rested in the hilt of the blade. |
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