Post by thorik on Jun 7, 2008 19:48:42 GMT -5
The bard stood, hands on his waist, staring with slight arrogance at his creation. Night had stolen away the sun long ago and it was only when he stumbled upon a small river, almost a stream, that he allowed himself to set up camp. The bard's instruments, bow and other equipment lay securely tucked away in a rough brown wool-bag beside his bedroll at the top of the riverbank. Farther down near the water he stood staring wonderingly into the blaze he had created.
A little bit of luck had permitted him to find driftwood that had been dragged downstream from the east by the water's current. Thorik, the wanderer was named, walked away from the fire with a piece of flint and approached his bedroll. Bending down, he hid the flint away in his bag and pulled out some cheese purchased before he left the nearby city of Quoa. A dreadful place where nature was made victim to tyrants who called themselves wise. Still, he was a bard and money always flowed in a tavern, no matter how ignorant or disgraceful the people were.
With the cheese was gone and his thirst satisfied with cool river-water; Thorik retrieved his harp, carefully covered with a wool-covering of its own, from his bag. The stars shone brightly in the open night sky. His fingers wrapped along the side the harp and started to pluck the strings. Sending sweet music vibrating through the air. Soon, alone in the plains, he began to sing.
A little bit of luck had permitted him to find driftwood that had been dragged downstream from the east by the water's current. Thorik, the wanderer was named, walked away from the fire with a piece of flint and approached his bedroll. Bending down, he hid the flint away in his bag and pulled out some cheese purchased before he left the nearby city of Quoa. A dreadful place where nature was made victim to tyrants who called themselves wise. Still, he was a bard and money always flowed in a tavern, no matter how ignorant or disgraceful the people were.
With the cheese was gone and his thirst satisfied with cool river-water; Thorik retrieved his harp, carefully covered with a wool-covering of its own, from his bag. The stars shone brightly in the open night sky. His fingers wrapped along the side the harp and started to pluck the strings. Sending sweet music vibrating through the air. Soon, alone in the plains, he began to sing.