Member
Nallore
Antlers
Pyrogue
Fish of Oblivion
Not a Sayan
Neziul The sky was clear, the morning sun bright, the wind warm. The quiet town of Greensreach was just beginning to awaken as the sun streamed down over the mountain range to the north. Just inside the square, walled perimeter of the city, lush fields of grains rustled in the wind. Beyond that, the wooden fence marked the town proper, full of little houses, businesses, and a few inns.
In a handful of these inns, new guests slept, soon to awaken. An excessively large bird stood in the center of one room, staring down at a lump in the blankets. A rather shabby looking Tocadre in the same inn, however, was having far less peaceful sleep.
A stout Muspelheimr was having a familiar dream. The sound of thunder. Flashing eyes. The face of a white dragon. The vision then shifted, fading into blackness. From this darkness, a tree came into view. Beside the tree, an ax floated, drifting as if to chop down the tree, with none to wield it. However, the ax froze, everything going grey, before the dream turned to a flash of silver.
Within the walls of an expansive offwhite mansion, a rather stately man, dull blonde hair slicked back over his shoulders, sat at a desk, quill in hand, glaring down with slate grey eyes. Before him, various expense reports, ledgers of income, and crop yields were written on various sheets of parchment, in the middle of which was the well of dark ink, into which he broke his quill. He noted the current stock of crop stakes- far too few for the next planting season. A writ had been sent from the Macer Manor Home to purchase said items more than three days ago, but no reply had been given. The Brauchstehen man adjusted the light grey tunic against his shoulders, before standing. His posture was straight, his shoulders tall. He was the retainer of the house, after all.
Stopping at a simple door, the man knocked with the curled side of his fisted hand, "Curruid!"
In a handful of these inns, new guests slept, soon to awaken. An excessively large bird stood in the center of one room, staring down at a lump in the blankets. A rather shabby looking Tocadre in the same inn, however, was having far less peaceful sleep.
A stout Muspelheimr was having a familiar dream. The sound of thunder. Flashing eyes. The face of a white dragon. The vision then shifted, fading into blackness. From this darkness, a tree came into view. Beside the tree, an ax floated, drifting as if to chop down the tree, with none to wield it. However, the ax froze, everything going grey, before the dream turned to a flash of silver.
Within the walls of an expansive offwhite mansion, a rather stately man, dull blonde hair slicked back over his shoulders, sat at a desk, quill in hand, glaring down with slate grey eyes. Before him, various expense reports, ledgers of income, and crop yields were written on various sheets of parchment, in the middle of which was the well of dark ink, into which he broke his quill. He noted the current stock of crop stakes- far too few for the next planting season. A writ had been sent from the Macer Manor Home to purchase said items more than three days ago, but no reply had been given. The Brauchstehen man adjusted the light grey tunic against his shoulders, before standing. His posture was straight, his shoulders tall. He was the retainer of the house, after all.
Stopping at a simple door, the man knocked with the curled side of his fisted hand, "Curruid!"