Flint was having a terrible day.
He'd been travelling towards Alliria for an upcoming festival, having borrowed a capable steed to make the journey. It had started out as a fine day, with the sun occasionally creeping out from between a myriad of fluffy clouds. The wind swept the barber's hair behind his ears as he clipped along the cobbles.
He was expecting a pleasant trip. He'd traversed the road a few dozen times before, and had never run into any trouble. Fate would have it, however, that today was a day of misfortune for Flint. An hour into his journey, a young lady called to him from the side of the road, a distressed look strewn across her face. Flint slowed his steed to check on her.
A word hadn't escaped his lips when he was pulled from his horse, back slamming against the cobbles before a filthy book found the bridge of his nose. He looked up, dazed as two men hopped over his body to take hold of his horse. Pain shot through the barber's head as he tried to gather his bearings.
As Flint went to sit up, another pair of horses thundered past his side. Had he sat an inch or two to his left, a pair of hooves would have shattered his body. Flint swore as the gang of thieves took off, the woman he'd hoped to help sitting at the back of one of the horses, cackling with laughter as she waved goodbye to him.
Flint swore, pushing backwards to a lying position once more. His horse was borrowed from a client, who'd lent it to him in lieu of payment. Flint held his trade to a high standard, but didn't feel a haircut and the stitching of a petty wound equaled the price of a lost horse.
There was also the bags secured to the steed. His travelling tools were kept in those, as was a small amount of currency and a bottle of booze. The thieves would be delighted to take hold of those items. Bastards.
Flint lay there for a moment, perhaps wallowing in his own misfortune and misery. It was then that the first of a long series of raindrops landed atop his head. The rain started faintly, to the point where Flint felt he was imagining the drops. Before long, it was consistently drizzling, irritating little droplets slowly soaking his clothes. Flint swore before he rolled upwards, pulling himself to a stance.
No good moaning about it now, Flint. Better start walking.
The barber began his trek, knowing that Alliria was a long way off. The rain splattered on, increasing in intensity as he made progress. The barber removed his waistcoat, wrapping it over his head in an attempt to keep his head dry.
Bloody bandits
He'd been travelling towards Alliria for an upcoming festival, having borrowed a capable steed to make the journey. It had started out as a fine day, with the sun occasionally creeping out from between a myriad of fluffy clouds. The wind swept the barber's hair behind his ears as he clipped along the cobbles.
He was expecting a pleasant trip. He'd traversed the road a few dozen times before, and had never run into any trouble. Fate would have it, however, that today was a day of misfortune for Flint. An hour into his journey, a young lady called to him from the side of the road, a distressed look strewn across her face. Flint slowed his steed to check on her.
A word hadn't escaped his lips when he was pulled from his horse, back slamming against the cobbles before a filthy book found the bridge of his nose. He looked up, dazed as two men hopped over his body to take hold of his horse. Pain shot through the barber's head as he tried to gather his bearings.
As Flint went to sit up, another pair of horses thundered past his side. Had he sat an inch or two to his left, a pair of hooves would have shattered his body. Flint swore as the gang of thieves took off, the woman he'd hoped to help sitting at the back of one of the horses, cackling with laughter as she waved goodbye to him.
Flint swore, pushing backwards to a lying position once more. His horse was borrowed from a client, who'd lent it to him in lieu of payment. Flint held his trade to a high standard, but didn't feel a haircut and the stitching of a petty wound equaled the price of a lost horse.
There was also the bags secured to the steed. His travelling tools were kept in those, as was a small amount of currency and a bottle of booze. The thieves would be delighted to take hold of those items. Bastards.
Flint lay there for a moment, perhaps wallowing in his own misfortune and misery. It was then that the first of a long series of raindrops landed atop his head. The rain started faintly, to the point where Flint felt he was imagining the drops. Before long, it was consistently drizzling, irritating little droplets slowly soaking his clothes. Flint swore before he rolled upwards, pulling himself to a stance.
No good moaning about it now, Flint. Better start walking.
The barber began his trek, knowing that Alliria was a long way off. The rain splattered on, increasing in intensity as he made progress. The barber removed his waistcoat, wrapping it over his head in an attempt to keep his head dry.
Bloody bandits
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