Post by ~Zahir~ on Dec 3, 2004 9:59:14 GMT -5
The door to the Regal Griffon Inn opened quickly, as a tall, dark-skinned stranger stepped in out of the rainy, dark Cormyrian night. He took off his drenched travelers robe as he carefully wiped his bare feet, respectful of the Inn's welcoming warmth on this wet night. His head was clean-shaven, and marked with ornate tattoos, as was all of his body that was visible above his loose-fitting linen breeches. His dark brown skin spoke of sun filled days, and his voice as he asked for a pint of milk was marked with a thick Calimshan accent. *(apparently Calish**e is a censored word...go figure)
He carried no weapons, nor did he bear any armor, but his physique did not seem that of a practitioner of magic. He carried himself with a practiced warriors careful stride, but his manner was quiet and humble. He walked up to the bar, exchanging his coin for a draught of milk with a hand, noticeably wrapped about the wrist with a beaded red cord. Bowing gratefully to the barkeep, he made his way to the fires edge where he layed out his simple travelers robe to dry. Gazing into the fire, his gentle eyes withdrew into his thoughts.
It had been many days since he had set out on his Pilgrimage, away from the routine and practiced regiment of the monastery where he had served the blessed clerics and holy workers of Ilmater. It was at their side he had been since he was first saved from the streets of Calimport as a child. Many were the miles he had journeyed as an initiate of the Order of the Broken Ones, monks in the service of the Crying God who serve as protectors of the faithful and the churches temples, as well as defenders of those who suffer. Sadly, this land was full of suffering. He had come, as many of the faithful did, when the city of Arabel first fell. Many were the wounded and dispossessed after that great siege. He had tended to the refugees during the aftermath, using what little he knew of the healing arts to ease their pain, using what he knew of the fighting arts to protect them in their weakened state. He had traveled with the people of Arabel, and those from other burnt-out villages and towns as they made their way to neighboring cities, seeking a new start, trying to hold onto hope despite the threats that now dogged the great Kingdom of Cormyr.
Thus, did the Monk Zahir, Brother of the Broken Ones, Servant to Ilmater the Crying God, find his way here...to Isinhold. The roads were inhabited by fierce bandits and Zhent soldiers, the countryside was home to roving bands of humanoids. The people of these lands suffered greatly, and the tide of darkness rising threatened even more cruelty and pain. The people needed hope, the people needed help. Zahir would strive to end their torment and punish those who threatened the weak. He was willing to give his life for it if need be. All this and more flowed thru the troubled thoughts of this tired monk as he settled into yet another new town. As he finished the last of his milk, he whispered a silent prayer in his native tongue of Alzhedo, "May the Crying Gods Tears Bless us all."
*edit note: corrected typos*
He carried no weapons, nor did he bear any armor, but his physique did not seem that of a practitioner of magic. He carried himself with a practiced warriors careful stride, but his manner was quiet and humble. He walked up to the bar, exchanging his coin for a draught of milk with a hand, noticeably wrapped about the wrist with a beaded red cord. Bowing gratefully to the barkeep, he made his way to the fires edge where he layed out his simple travelers robe to dry. Gazing into the fire, his gentle eyes withdrew into his thoughts.
It had been many days since he had set out on his Pilgrimage, away from the routine and practiced regiment of the monastery where he had served the blessed clerics and holy workers of Ilmater. It was at their side he had been since he was first saved from the streets of Calimport as a child. Many were the miles he had journeyed as an initiate of the Order of the Broken Ones, monks in the service of the Crying God who serve as protectors of the faithful and the churches temples, as well as defenders of those who suffer. Sadly, this land was full of suffering. He had come, as many of the faithful did, when the city of Arabel first fell. Many were the wounded and dispossessed after that great siege. He had tended to the refugees during the aftermath, using what little he knew of the healing arts to ease their pain, using what he knew of the fighting arts to protect them in their weakened state. He had traveled with the people of Arabel, and those from other burnt-out villages and towns as they made their way to neighboring cities, seeking a new start, trying to hold onto hope despite the threats that now dogged the great Kingdom of Cormyr.
Thus, did the Monk Zahir, Brother of the Broken Ones, Servant to Ilmater the Crying God, find his way here...to Isinhold. The roads were inhabited by fierce bandits and Zhent soldiers, the countryside was home to roving bands of humanoids. The people of these lands suffered greatly, and the tide of darkness rising threatened even more cruelty and pain. The people needed hope, the people needed help. Zahir would strive to end their torment and punish those who threatened the weak. He was willing to give his life for it if need be. All this and more flowed thru the troubled thoughts of this tired monk as he settled into yet another new town. As he finished the last of his milk, he whispered a silent prayer in his native tongue of Alzhedo, "May the Crying Gods Tears Bless us all."
*edit note: corrected typos*