- Messages
- 74
- Character Biography
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Crisp autumn leaves cracked underhoof in the knights' wake as they rode the Valen's length. Leagues out from Svapna, still in the shadow of the Spine and within range of the tributaries trickling down, they made some haste across the Wilds. The hours blurred together as fog burned to afternoon, as the sun trailed a lazy line to its crest and beyond. Caution gripped them, making sure to maintain the horses at no more than a canter. There was no sense in killing the beasts, not when the journey promised many passings of Pneria to come.
Isander among them held himself loose in the saddle; an arm at the reigns, spear aloft in the stirrup with a ready ease. Fixed in the accoutrements of combat, he wore well the linking maille and padded leathers that denoted his profession. They echoed the grim cast of his lips, the severity that held his gaze in taut survey of the sloping woods.
Reports of bandit activity lay folded in his pack, copies distributed around the others as deigned necessary: a score of armsmen taken by greed, deserters by every color of the word. They had made merry of their casual brutalities these past weeks, putting hamlets to the torch and raiding travelers on the road. Scraps of parchment did poor justice to their work. Kidnapping, larceny, murder, all pale reflections that but touched upon this sort. Butchers, the lot of them, deserving little more than the death riding forth on steel and hoof.
Under such determination did Isander purse.
Casting a nod to his companions, he said, "Not an hour more to Seymoor's Fife. What chance this lot's mayor will lend an ear? Two farmsteads already, and not a one but boarded their doors at the sight of us."
Castor Vega Solon Raye
Isander among them held himself loose in the saddle; an arm at the reigns, spear aloft in the stirrup with a ready ease. Fixed in the accoutrements of combat, he wore well the linking maille and padded leathers that denoted his profession. They echoed the grim cast of his lips, the severity that held his gaze in taut survey of the sloping woods.
Reports of bandit activity lay folded in his pack, copies distributed around the others as deigned necessary: a score of armsmen taken by greed, deserters by every color of the word. They had made merry of their casual brutalities these past weeks, putting hamlets to the torch and raiding travelers on the road. Scraps of parchment did poor justice to their work. Kidnapping, larceny, murder, all pale reflections that but touched upon this sort. Butchers, the lot of them, deserving little more than the death riding forth on steel and hoof.
Under such determination did Isander purse.
Casting a nod to his companions, he said, "Not an hour more to Seymoor's Fife. What chance this lot's mayor will lend an ear? Two farmsteads already, and not a one but boarded their doors at the sight of us."
Castor Vega Solon Raye