[color=f26522]Paro[/color]

Two weeks of travel had caught Paro utterly unprepared. He had packed enough food, if only just -- his stomach was a cruel master and asked far too much of him. More pressing: the walk did nothing but make him realize how out of shape he was.

...Perhaps 'nothing' was too harsh; the exercise thickened the muscles in his once-loose boots to the point where the shield hanging from his belt chafed and bruised his calf with every step. He'd struggled in vain to adjust the strap, but urgency kept him from spending too long at it. When he last took off his boots three days ago, he'd found the insides caked in viscous blood. The soles of his socks were nowhere to be found, so he'd thrown them out. His young joints ached and his blistered skin was numb from friction. His lungs protested in his chest and his neck, just below his short, golden hair, was dyed blood-red by the sun.

Yet as he gazed up at the highest spires of the Phoenician castle, he could only smile, starstruck.

[color=f26522]I made it.[/color] The thought echoed in his mind. His chapped lips cracked in every sense of the word -- from a smile into a full, toothy grin. [color=f26522]"I made it!"[/color] he panted, this time aloud. [color=f26522]"Right on time...!"[/color] He straightened his back, aligning his armored left shoulder with its lighter companion. The creak of the restraints broadened his grin. Armor just made life feel [i]right.[/i]

He dropped the heel of one foot directly in front of his toes, walking as if on a tight-rope to compensate for his mismanaged equipment -- with an unrecognized air of pride. On the hip opposite his shield bounced a pair of swords: the first was some three and a half feet long, curved, with a pronounced crossguard and side ring. The second, simpler blade was a foot shorter, straight, with more subdued features save for the wide pommel.

Eerily, the sword on his back remained undisturbed by each step, gliding along behind him. Unlike the silver sheen of his other gear, this blade's golden hilt shone in the Phoenician sun. Four feet of brown scabbard swept and swerved with intricate knotwork that sprang out from the sides of the thin sheet.

The presence and motion of all these armaments felt like a friend's embrace after a long day's hike, a hand on his shoulder encouraging him deeper into the grand, foreign architecture of a diplomat's castle. His adrenaline-charged body felt justified and confident, and a new spring in his step carried him disarmingly quickly to the familiar scents of Leonian steaks. Cruel though his stomach may be, Paro felt suddenly proud to serve -- it, Leonias, and perhaps Entei Himself.

For once -- finally, for once -- somebody was willing to talk about this conflict. The people were finally coming together, airing their grievances, telling their stories, discussing solutions -- and it all made him want to stuff his gob and swallow [i]hard[/i] in appreciation of good cooking and camaraderie.

His nose led him directly towards a home-town favorite: juicy, with a thick grain and a spice rub that came to life when served with the right berry sauce. He reached an over-eager hand past the shoulder of a black-haired girl in green and white, and only realized his rudeness at the point of no return.

[color=f26522]"Uh, pardon,"[/color] he offered sheepishly, serving himself a slice of meat that smelled so good, his nostrils flared. Too close to back off, he spied the same cut of meat on the girl's plate and flashed his patient teeth at her. [color=f26522]"There's a dark purple sauce over there,"[/color] he began, pointing at a small bowl with a ladle. [color=f26522]"A bit of that with this steak and I promise, you'll be in a good mood for hours."[/color] Too awkward to commit to reaching past her or asking for her help, he just held her gaze as best he could.

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