Herevion looked about him as he packed, noting everything with a cold feeling of not caring, smiling very rarely. He rolled up his needed belongings in a sack, tying it to the back ot his horse, Thoron. His sword dropped from his belt suddenly, banging on his knife and on somebody’s bow. He picked it up gracefully, and put it back in, but paused before doing the same with his knife. He stopped for a moment, led his hand dreamily along the design of silver, then sighed and stuck it into its sheath, transfering his hand to his scar, running down the length of it.
Raising a pair of bright green eyes under brows too arched to let him be handsome, Herevion looked around the room, at those he should travel with. He saw perhaps seven, perhaps eight men, all packing for their journey, almost all of them older than him. He had slightly met most of them, but he did not venture out of his tent much, so not all. One man had a scar along the left of his face, just as he did, he noted. Ironic, he thought, how we all even get injured in the same way. He didn’t want to be like the others, for sure, though he had no particular dislike for any of them. He barely did do anything much like them. He even drank differently, and certainly far less, a few drops being enough for him. This wasn’t the life for him, yet, but perhaps, when they started out...
[ May 28, 2003: Message edited by: GaladrieloftheOlden ]
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"Glue... very powerful stuff."
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