I'm game! Turned it into a little snippet of Averill's time in and around Gridania (My words were Campire, Gauntlet, Water, and Spirit(s)).
The soft orange flames licked Averill's gloves. He pulled back with a sigh. "What kind of archer brings mitts to a hunt?"
He tore them off. His supplier had shown the utmost confidence in the product; not the slightest bit obstructive, suitable for a man of the bow. Promises that he could scoff at with a surety that rivalled the merchant.
Turning his attention away from mercantile mistrust, Averill checked the meat cooking slowly over the campfire, tutting as he counted at least four rips and punctures from poor shots. Any sort of livelihood that could be eked from this kind of hunting was no livelihood at all, and he certainly wouldn't be boasting to Naoh upon his return. He kicked back, half-tempted to toss the useless armour into the blaze.
Content to let his meal cook a little longer, he lay back on the lush, Shroud grass that would serve as his mattress for the night. "Should'a gone with the gauntlets," he grumbled. Heat from the campfire brought a weight to his eyes. How long had it been since he arrived? Several weeks, at the very least. For the first time in many moons, Averill found his feet pining for the hardwood floor of the Roost. Soft beds and a warm hearth might earn him some of Oschon's scorn, but he could not deny himself those pleasures.
A gentle rustling nearby found the Hyur reaching lazily for his longbow. A water spirit ambled ponderously towards the fire, no doubt curious to find the presence of its rival element so close to home. Averill watched the sentient bubbles for some time, trying to picture the puzzlement on an imagined face. He sat and smiled.Â
The Roost had its pleasures, he thought, but nothing quite beat the wilds.
I hope you enjoyed! My suggestion for the list is arcane.
The soft orange flames licked Averill's gloves. He pulled back with a sigh. "What kind of archer brings mitts to a hunt?"
He tore them off. His supplier had shown the utmost confidence in the product; not the slightest bit obstructive, suitable for a man of the bow. Promises that he could scoff at with a surety that rivalled the merchant.
Turning his attention away from mercantile mistrust, Averill checked the meat cooking slowly over the campfire, tutting as he counted at least four rips and punctures from poor shots. Any sort of livelihood that could be eked from this kind of hunting was no livelihood at all, and he certainly wouldn't be boasting to Naoh upon his return. He kicked back, half-tempted to toss the useless armour into the blaze.
Content to let his meal cook a little longer, he lay back on the lush, Shroud grass that would serve as his mattress for the night. "Should'a gone with the gauntlets," he grumbled. Heat from the campfire brought a weight to his eyes. How long had it been since he arrived? Several weeks, at the very least. For the first time in many moons, Averill found his feet pining for the hardwood floor of the Roost. Soft beds and a warm hearth might earn him some of Oschon's scorn, but he could not deny himself those pleasures.
A gentle rustling nearby found the Hyur reaching lazily for his longbow. A water spirit ambled ponderously towards the fire, no doubt curious to find the presence of its rival element so close to home. Averill watched the sentient bubbles for some time, trying to picture the puzzlement on an imagined face. He sat and smiled.Â
The Roost had its pleasures, he thought, but nothing quite beat the wilds.
I hope you enjoyed! My suggestion for the list is arcane.
