Post by The Supreme Watcher on Nov 27, 2008 0:36:25 GMT -5
A blonde haired man, average in appearance, with an intelligence deep within his blue eyes, sat on the edge of a precipice overlooking the river as it meandered through Isinhold. He wore a tight-fitting leather jerkin, studded here and there with silver rivets, fashionably designed to heighten the effect of the dark tan and dark blue garment. Hanging over the edge, swaying carelessly in the chill, late-autumn air, his feet were encapsulated in a pair of perfectly, blisteringly white boots.
Garum Glandash leaned back on his palms, a small smile splayed on his face. The warm autumn sun bathed him in a warm glow, seeming nearly statuesque. His sword lay near him, its decadently jeweled scabbard glistening in the sunlight like the moon on water. The brisk wind, carrying the chill of winter from the Storm Horns, didn't bite into his flesh, reinforced by magicks both powerful and unique, stemming from the myriad of magical trinkets that heightened the regal appearance of his garb.
A thousand thoughts raced back and forth behind Garum's eyes as he took in the beauty of the Bramblewood in its reds, oranges, and yellows, which were slowly dying away to be replaced by the empty branches of winter. A million plans flooded his mind as he looked to the ghostly island in the lake just off the coast near Isinhold. It seemed so long since he'd visited that place, with its wacky eccentricities. He smiled wider, but it soon faded back to his contented smile, a smile of fulfillment.
It struck him then, what he must do. He had brought fulfillment to himself. It was time to give back. He sat upright, and put his elbows on his knees, drawing his feet up over the ledge. He dragged one hand through his thick blonde hair, and nodded to himself. Standing, he threw a loving look towards the land of Cormyr, the place that had become his home. He had sent money back to his former home, hoping that his father would well receive the gold and improve his life. He looked now to the place that had granted those blessings of wealth upon him, the Forest Kingdom. What could he do to thank her?
He looked down to his brown leather jerkin, emblazoned with blue highlights, and imagined it with a different color scheme, purple, and green, and gold. He winced, not liking any of the colors a particular amount. But it was only a metaphor, he thought. He snatched up his sword, then, and drew it from its scabbard. Looking down the length of the blade, a Cormyrian broadsword, fittingly, he thought of all he had done already for the country, and all he would do in the future.
With the beginnings of a letter already forming in his mind, he walked to the Regal Griffon and pushed open the door, weaving through the crowd of the usuals to the bar.
"A Turmish Stout, Kale, and keep them coming please." With a nod the bartender placed in front of him a glass, and Garum took a piece of parchment from a sheaf in his pack. With a sip from the tall, dark beer, and a dipping of a quill in ink, he began to pen.
He was a Mercenary. But that would not always be what he was to become.
Garum Glandash leaned back on his palms, a small smile splayed on his face. The warm autumn sun bathed him in a warm glow, seeming nearly statuesque. His sword lay near him, its decadently jeweled scabbard glistening in the sunlight like the moon on water. The brisk wind, carrying the chill of winter from the Storm Horns, didn't bite into his flesh, reinforced by magicks both powerful and unique, stemming from the myriad of magical trinkets that heightened the regal appearance of his garb.
A thousand thoughts raced back and forth behind Garum's eyes as he took in the beauty of the Bramblewood in its reds, oranges, and yellows, which were slowly dying away to be replaced by the empty branches of winter. A million plans flooded his mind as he looked to the ghostly island in the lake just off the coast near Isinhold. It seemed so long since he'd visited that place, with its wacky eccentricities. He smiled wider, but it soon faded back to his contented smile, a smile of fulfillment.
It struck him then, what he must do. He had brought fulfillment to himself. It was time to give back. He sat upright, and put his elbows on his knees, drawing his feet up over the ledge. He dragged one hand through his thick blonde hair, and nodded to himself. Standing, he threw a loving look towards the land of Cormyr, the place that had become his home. He had sent money back to his former home, hoping that his father would well receive the gold and improve his life. He looked now to the place that had granted those blessings of wealth upon him, the Forest Kingdom. What could he do to thank her?
He looked down to his brown leather jerkin, emblazoned with blue highlights, and imagined it with a different color scheme, purple, and green, and gold. He winced, not liking any of the colors a particular amount. But it was only a metaphor, he thought. He snatched up his sword, then, and drew it from its scabbard. Looking down the length of the blade, a Cormyrian broadsword, fittingly, he thought of all he had done already for the country, and all he would do in the future.
With the beginnings of a letter already forming in his mind, he walked to the Regal Griffon and pushed open the door, weaving through the crowd of the usuals to the bar.
"A Turmish Stout, Kale, and keep them coming please." With a nod the bartender placed in front of him a glass, and Garum took a piece of parchment from a sheaf in his pack. With a sip from the tall, dark beer, and a dipping of a quill in ink, he began to pen.
He was a Mercenary. But that would not always be what he was to become.
