Post by pendragon1 on May 21, 2007 8:15:46 GMT -5
A recent shipment of goods to the frontier town of Isinhold brought with it more than just some ingots of iron ore for the forge. Hopping of the back of one wagon and gathering a worn leather backpack laden with gear is a tall, broad shouldered figure. He stands at attention as he relays gratitude to the wagon teamsters, shaking their hands in turn and bidding them a safe journey home.
"I will keep you in my prayers, men. Fare thee well." The voice is deep and gruff, as if the man was either parched or had grown hoarse from yelling.
He turns around, taking a long gaze about the town before him. The sun gleams off his polished suit of steel bands layered over with oiled leather underneath and sparkling rivets of brass; the attention to its maintenance is obvious, and its previous usage is noted by the many creases left from hammering out previous damage. He slings his pack over his right shoulder and marches into town with a measured step.
The citizens who pass this shoulder give curt greetings, but as they look upon his face, they let out astonished gasps and look away. Many avoid eye contact altogether. The soldier keeps walking, giving short nods and polite greetings even to those who make there revulsion obvious. His face is stoic, portraying a wizened, even-tempered demeanor. The man never turns to address the adolescent farm boys who snicker at his passing; their jests seem not to phase him.
It is hard to look at this armored fellow without being drawn immediately to the left side of his face. An apparent injury of some sorts has left a circular indentation just above his left eye, about two inches wide, leaving a sick crater in his skull. The injury must have broken the bones above the eye, which now are pushed downward, shading much of his left eye. Several small puncture scars dot the are of the wound. Those who do look him in the face often try to focus on his right side, which by itself would suggest he was once a handsome man. The cleanly shave face and short cropped hair are both trademarks of his former military life.
As eyes attempt to avoid his malfigured face, many are drawn to the large symbol hanging around his neck: a set of scales standing atop a hammer. For those familiar with the Maimed God, Tyr, it seems all too fitting; the man carries the burden of his injury with a grace befitting the god he worships.
"I will keep you in my prayers, men. Fare thee well." The voice is deep and gruff, as if the man was either parched or had grown hoarse from yelling.
He turns around, taking a long gaze about the town before him. The sun gleams off his polished suit of steel bands layered over with oiled leather underneath and sparkling rivets of brass; the attention to its maintenance is obvious, and its previous usage is noted by the many creases left from hammering out previous damage. He slings his pack over his right shoulder and marches into town with a measured step.
The citizens who pass this shoulder give curt greetings, but as they look upon his face, they let out astonished gasps and look away. Many avoid eye contact altogether. The soldier keeps walking, giving short nods and polite greetings even to those who make there revulsion obvious. His face is stoic, portraying a wizened, even-tempered demeanor. The man never turns to address the adolescent farm boys who snicker at his passing; their jests seem not to phase him.
It is hard to look at this armored fellow without being drawn immediately to the left side of his face. An apparent injury of some sorts has left a circular indentation just above his left eye, about two inches wide, leaving a sick crater in his skull. The injury must have broken the bones above the eye, which now are pushed downward, shading much of his left eye. Several small puncture scars dot the are of the wound. Those who do look him in the face often try to focus on his right side, which by itself would suggest he was once a handsome man. The cleanly shave face and short cropped hair are both trademarks of his former military life.
As eyes attempt to avoid his malfigured face, many are drawn to the large symbol hanging around his neck: a set of scales standing atop a hammer. For those familiar with the Maimed God, Tyr, it seems all too fitting; the man carries the burden of his injury with a grace befitting the god he worships.