Erroneous
06-07-2008, 07:07 AM
A lone wooden shack amid a desolate field of brush; weeds swallowing the meagre home. The sun has passed its peak before our lodger greets the light of day. His tall, slouched frame slowly walks toward one of many mounds of plants surrounding, eyes squinted. Reaching his destination, he exhales a disheartened breath and sets to his labor. The ground he tends may once have been ordered, but now it lies in chaos, a heterogenous mix of herbs and vines, flowers and vegetables. Despite the disorder and the animal's lethargy, his hands move nimbly through the garden, quickly collecting an assortment of plant material in a small basket. A moment later he is risen to full height and headed back home, seemingly awakened by the pungent herbs or midday sun.
He sets down the basket on a cot, occupying a third of his tiny home. Even at its greatest height the slightly slanted roof barely contains the mahirim. But it fits his needs. A limited cache of belongings lies untidily in a corner, crouching he collects the mortar and pestle. He takes a seat beside the basket and carefully prunes the collected plants, dropping only the elements he needs into the mortar. Between his forepaws he grasps the pestle and grinds the contents into a thin dry paste, which he scrapes into an opaque vial. Brackish water is poured into the vial and with a slight grimace the elixir is downed.
There is a newfound brightness in his grey eyes, barely visible through an abundance of ill-kept fur and pursed eyelids. The beast follows the sun, barely advanced in its pursuit of the sea, yet far enough along to cast a shadow on an ill-formed frame. Four limbs lacking the typical definition of his race and a protruding belly are the only noticable characteristics amid the mess of hair. His only adornments a bulb neckalce and a frayed loincloth. Upon closer inspection his skin tells the tale of many forgotten skirmishes, momentos of pain and sacrifice are the only treasure he retains. Slighlty limping he continue on his course, the gray of his mane shimmering in the setting sun. His appearance overstates his age, yet he has seen a great many seasons.
It is a short walk to his destination, a dockside tavern in a small rundown town. Inside he makes his way to the bar and with only a nod the barkeep serves a tall glass of ale to the familiar guest. He finds a seat at one of a dozen small tables, alone. The other patrons are very familiar to the apothecary, together they have drank away the last few years in the same fashion. Amid the still his grey, squinted eyes focus on his slowly diminishing glass, intermittently rising to scan the premises. Devoid of sound, faces tell the tales. Every nick and scratch a trial, a story the mahirim has heard a dozen times or perhaps was party to. Many among this crowd had sailed together under a plundering flag and earned a small fortune from the merchants travelling between the dwarven stonghold and elven lands. That forune had long ago been spent and those tales told, now they sit quietly, knowingly and drink away their days.
Andes called Deepbreather would have it no other way. He asks nothing of others and expects nothing from them, a self-reliant streak not always understood among his tribe. It was clear from an early age he had the gift. With Neth's guidance he learned of the land's bounty and how to harness its power. The red moon endowed him with an ability to manipulate the fabric of the skies, call the ether to his bidding. As a youth his speed was unequaled. During the festival races he left others in his wake harnessing the wind to speed his passage. Later he learned to summon a strong gust from seemingly nowhere, able to cast back even the most steadfast of his tribe. But it was in his 16th year after commanding the breath of life back into a fallen soldier that he was called to the priesthood. A proud family released him to their tutelage. Despite his natural talents Andes was not well received. Those who knew him well saw that he could not accept the elder's dogma and prescription of civilization. Those who knew him very well (had there been any) knew that Andes simply lacked motivation. He did not dream of civilizing the tribelands or expanding mahirim influence. He wished only to be left alone; to go as the wind led him.
Late one night under the full moon and a howling wind he left to find his way in the world...
*Not a normal RPer, but I like to have context for my characters. Anyone who can shed some light on who the wind god a mahirim might worship is would be appreciated. This will be the outer frame for my characters played life. I might add some more back story as soon advances.
He sets down the basket on a cot, occupying a third of his tiny home. Even at its greatest height the slightly slanted roof barely contains the mahirim. But it fits his needs. A limited cache of belongings lies untidily in a corner, crouching he collects the mortar and pestle. He takes a seat beside the basket and carefully prunes the collected plants, dropping only the elements he needs into the mortar. Between his forepaws he grasps the pestle and grinds the contents into a thin dry paste, which he scrapes into an opaque vial. Brackish water is poured into the vial and with a slight grimace the elixir is downed.
There is a newfound brightness in his grey eyes, barely visible through an abundance of ill-kept fur and pursed eyelids. The beast follows the sun, barely advanced in its pursuit of the sea, yet far enough along to cast a shadow on an ill-formed frame. Four limbs lacking the typical definition of his race and a protruding belly are the only noticable characteristics amid the mess of hair. His only adornments a bulb neckalce and a frayed loincloth. Upon closer inspection his skin tells the tale of many forgotten skirmishes, momentos of pain and sacrifice are the only treasure he retains. Slighlty limping he continue on his course, the gray of his mane shimmering in the setting sun. His appearance overstates his age, yet he has seen a great many seasons.
It is a short walk to his destination, a dockside tavern in a small rundown town. Inside he makes his way to the bar and with only a nod the barkeep serves a tall glass of ale to the familiar guest. He finds a seat at one of a dozen small tables, alone. The other patrons are very familiar to the apothecary, together they have drank away the last few years in the same fashion. Amid the still his grey, squinted eyes focus on his slowly diminishing glass, intermittently rising to scan the premises. Devoid of sound, faces tell the tales. Every nick and scratch a trial, a story the mahirim has heard a dozen times or perhaps was party to. Many among this crowd had sailed together under a plundering flag and earned a small fortune from the merchants travelling between the dwarven stonghold and elven lands. That forune had long ago been spent and those tales told, now they sit quietly, knowingly and drink away their days.
Andes called Deepbreather would have it no other way. He asks nothing of others and expects nothing from them, a self-reliant streak not always understood among his tribe. It was clear from an early age he had the gift. With Neth's guidance he learned of the land's bounty and how to harness its power. The red moon endowed him with an ability to manipulate the fabric of the skies, call the ether to his bidding. As a youth his speed was unequaled. During the festival races he left others in his wake harnessing the wind to speed his passage. Later he learned to summon a strong gust from seemingly nowhere, able to cast back even the most steadfast of his tribe. But it was in his 16th year after commanding the breath of life back into a fallen soldier that he was called to the priesthood. A proud family released him to their tutelage. Despite his natural talents Andes was not well received. Those who knew him well saw that he could not accept the elder's dogma and prescription of civilization. Those who knew him very well (had there been any) knew that Andes simply lacked motivation. He did not dream of civilizing the tribelands or expanding mahirim influence. He wished only to be left alone; to go as the wind led him.
Late one night under the full moon and a howling wind he left to find his way in the world...
*Not a normal RPer, but I like to have context for my characters. Anyone who can shed some light on who the wind god a mahirim might worship is would be appreciated. This will be the outer frame for my characters played life. I might add some more back story as soon advances.