- Messages
- 182
- Character Biography
- Link
Fields spanned for miles, drawing Alistair further into the embrace of the farmers who maintained them. The hems of his robes brushed the grass, their stems swaying back and forward beneath the caress of the wind. A big, string bag around his shoulder, he raised a hand to his forehead and squinted, his eyes drawn to the creaking of a sign in the middle of the field. The grass was the colour of a dead rabbit. Pale yellow, flecked with stems of brown, it rushed back and forward, tickling Alistair's knees as he walked towards the sign. He was still on the search for an amulet which could break the curse Vereshin had cast on the faculty and had uncovered only a single lead which revealed a name.
Anton.
An Elven trader who bartered across the land.
Top lip turned up, Alistair shoved his hand inside his hood and scratched his head, hoping Anton wouldn't expect payment in exchange for information. Alistair couldn't hunt, so he had spent all his gold on meat and new boots. He had nothing to trade with, so he hoped that Anton would accept work instead. Huffing, the young mage trudged through the grass and walked past the sign. Once he reached the top of the hill, he saw the inn nestled at its foot. Hills, barren as the corpse of a deer and stripped of the lively hue they once had entombed the building, the sun hidden by clouds. Alistair jogged down the hill and ran up to the front door, his chest heaving with all the strength his lanky frame could muster.
Straightening his robes, Alistair took a breath and walked up to the door. He knocked, but nobody answered, so he shoved it and found it was ajar. A bard played a flute in the tavern inside, it's smooth notes lifting the breeze from the dry grass. Dark and warm, there were no candles and the mood of the men sitting around the bar was as lively as the farmers suffering the losses of the drought in the area. Alistair withdrew. He was depressed just from looking at them. The wind thrust through the door and blew up his robes, slamming it shut behind him. Startled, he jolted up and darted towards the bar, where a woman was serving ale.
"Ahem, hello milday," he stammered, his voice monotonous and quiet as a ghost, "I'm looking for a man named Anton, is he here?" Blushing, Alistair smiled, his cheeks dented with dimples.
"In the back, love," the woman nodded in a thick, lower-class accent, "I'll sort you out with a room," tugging at the laces of her bodice, she gave it a yanked and turned away.
"Thank you," Alistair smiled. Slugging his bag over his shoulder, he turned around and walked down a narrow corridor, where all the doors were open, save for the very last one. A single candle flicked, brightening Alistair's peachy complexion. He stopped in front of the door and breathed in, then knocked.
"Erm, hello?" He called.
Anton
Anton.
An Elven trader who bartered across the land.
Top lip turned up, Alistair shoved his hand inside his hood and scratched his head, hoping Anton wouldn't expect payment in exchange for information. Alistair couldn't hunt, so he had spent all his gold on meat and new boots. He had nothing to trade with, so he hoped that Anton would accept work instead. Huffing, the young mage trudged through the grass and walked past the sign. Once he reached the top of the hill, he saw the inn nestled at its foot. Hills, barren as the corpse of a deer and stripped of the lively hue they once had entombed the building, the sun hidden by clouds. Alistair jogged down the hill and ran up to the front door, his chest heaving with all the strength his lanky frame could muster.
Straightening his robes, Alistair took a breath and walked up to the door. He knocked, but nobody answered, so he shoved it and found it was ajar. A bard played a flute in the tavern inside, it's smooth notes lifting the breeze from the dry grass. Dark and warm, there were no candles and the mood of the men sitting around the bar was as lively as the farmers suffering the losses of the drought in the area. Alistair withdrew. He was depressed just from looking at them. The wind thrust through the door and blew up his robes, slamming it shut behind him. Startled, he jolted up and darted towards the bar, where a woman was serving ale.
"Ahem, hello milday," he stammered, his voice monotonous and quiet as a ghost, "I'm looking for a man named Anton, is he here?" Blushing, Alistair smiled, his cheeks dented with dimples.
"In the back, love," the woman nodded in a thick, lower-class accent, "I'll sort you out with a room," tugging at the laces of her bodice, she gave it a yanked and turned away.
"Thank you," Alistair smiled. Slugging his bag over his shoulder, he turned around and walked down a narrow corridor, where all the doors were open, save for the very last one. A single candle flicked, brightening Alistair's peachy complexion. He stopped in front of the door and breathed in, then knocked.
"Erm, hello?" He called.
Anton