JBRam2002 — Roleplayer Guild

Bobbin  Wiev

Venture forth, they said. Find your destiny, they promised. The kenku wandered through the forest slowly, listening to the sounds of nature all around. Maybe they should have been the ones walking instead. A silver flask was produced, and the cork pulled off with the kenku's beak before it was spat to the side, dangling from the rope that tied it to the flask. Up the container was turned, and the sound of glug glug echoed through the lonely paths. 

He had been walking much longer than he had any desire to do so, and where paths existed, there was promise of company. Sometimes the company was vicious, such as the bandits rumored to roam these woods, and sometimes it was deceptive, claiming friendship when it only wished to use you. When one found a companion worth traveling with, eventually circumstances would wretch them from your grasp. That's what the kenku had learned in his seclusion. What was really there worthy of his time? Why should he bother to find his destiny when it would eventually claim him, drunken, lying alone in a thatch hut?

The kenku staggered forward, mimicking the sounds of the crickets around him. Were they singing a song for him? Or did they mock his loneliness as they searched for a mate? It mattered little in the end; the crickets were no threat to him, and he was little threat in return. The beasts of this world were his only friends: the beasts and those who walked among them, at least. He had long lived with their mockery, and would survive much longer still. The cap to his flask was replaced with a practiced hand, wasting no effort.

The kenku muttered the sound of fire crackling on a warm hearth, and a flame was produced in his hand, dancing in the light breeze to provide illumination to his path as the shadows threatened his vision. The light it produced was minimal, but it would do to light his footsteps. A bend in the road revealed a signpost and a fork, as well as another traveler who had approached from a different path. The hand on her blade did not escape his glance, but the kenku continued traveling forth under the same pace, wobbling somewhat as the alcohol guided his feet. "The blade..." the kenku began, his voice low and gravelly. "Sheathe! It is not needed." With each phrase, it sounded as if his voice changed entirely: first a deep man's voice, then a woman's excited voice, then a quiet whisper.
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