Post by dirk on Feb 5, 2005 15:37:44 GMT
The old man sat back in his chair calmly, observing the small group of rowdies who had just entered the tavern. They looked around, obviously searching for someone to beat up.
"Lads, I'll tell ye a story." The man called softly across to them, and, though his voice was no louder than a whisper, they all heard him.
They stalked over to his table and seated themselves, sneering at this brave old codger who challenged them. He could tell they were only putting up with him becouse they found him amusing.
"I will tell ye a story of one of the most black-hearted men to walk these lands." He said, glaring hard at the men arrayed in front of him. "It all began on one frigid winter morning...
"He strode along the roads with haste, his feet carrying him onwards towards his quarry. He knew his job, and he would carry it out as well as he could. The group who had attacked the house of his parents would die soon, those who had slaughtered those of his flesh would soon themselves be sent to the afterworld, but he knew enough to bide patience, for he knew the truthfulness of the saying: 'Fools rush in where daemons fear to tread.' His eyes burned with an inner hatred and pain as the frost-bitten ground crackled beneath his leather-shod feet."
The man paused to take a draught from the tankard of ale in front of him.
"This man had hunted men before, oh yes, but he had never killed yet. I shall describe him to you: He was tall, a good head above most I have seen, and he had shoulder-length black hair, lank and greasy. At his right temple there was a small braid, tied at the end with a strip of red leather. He wore a long greatcoat of black leather, the bottom ragged with use and covered in dust from the road. It was hooded, and when the hood was pulled up ye could see naught but the gleam of the man's eyes, even if ye were to shine the light of the sun upon it. He wore baggy cotton trousers, and they too were black, the ends tucked into his boots of sturdy leather. His shirt was a shade of grey, and had no ties or buttons. He had a sword belted on either side of him, each one of sturdy Tilean steel. In his boot there was a dagger, a skull carved into the pommel. Two manacles were clipped to his belt, and they jangled eerily as he walked. by his right side hung a crossbow, suspended on a leather harness that came diagonally across his chest from his left shoulder. His lips were pale, almost white, befitting the colouring of his face, which was as blanched as a linen shroud. His eyes were his worst aspect, the thing he prided himself on the most, a cold grey colour, as of burnished steel. This was no light blue, but a true grey, as lifeless as a blade, and as compassionate. The name of this man was Melcanton Galanis..."
The old man looked at the younger men, who were spellbound by his story, and took another draught of his drink.
"Lads, I'll tell ye a story." The man called softly across to them, and, though his voice was no louder than a whisper, they all heard him.
They stalked over to his table and seated themselves, sneering at this brave old codger who challenged them. He could tell they were only putting up with him becouse they found him amusing.
"I will tell ye a story of one of the most black-hearted men to walk these lands." He said, glaring hard at the men arrayed in front of him. "It all began on one frigid winter morning...
"He strode along the roads with haste, his feet carrying him onwards towards his quarry. He knew his job, and he would carry it out as well as he could. The group who had attacked the house of his parents would die soon, those who had slaughtered those of his flesh would soon themselves be sent to the afterworld, but he knew enough to bide patience, for he knew the truthfulness of the saying: 'Fools rush in where daemons fear to tread.' His eyes burned with an inner hatred and pain as the frost-bitten ground crackled beneath his leather-shod feet."
The man paused to take a draught from the tankard of ale in front of him.
"This man had hunted men before, oh yes, but he had never killed yet. I shall describe him to you: He was tall, a good head above most I have seen, and he had shoulder-length black hair, lank and greasy. At his right temple there was a small braid, tied at the end with a strip of red leather. He wore a long greatcoat of black leather, the bottom ragged with use and covered in dust from the road. It was hooded, and when the hood was pulled up ye could see naught but the gleam of the man's eyes, even if ye were to shine the light of the sun upon it. He wore baggy cotton trousers, and they too were black, the ends tucked into his boots of sturdy leather. His shirt was a shade of grey, and had no ties or buttons. He had a sword belted on either side of him, each one of sturdy Tilean steel. In his boot there was a dagger, a skull carved into the pommel. Two manacles were clipped to his belt, and they jangled eerily as he walked. by his right side hung a crossbow, suspended on a leather harness that came diagonally across his chest from his left shoulder. His lips were pale, almost white, befitting the colouring of his face, which was as blanched as a linen shroud. His eyes were his worst aspect, the thing he prided himself on the most, a cold grey colour, as of burnished steel. This was no light blue, but a true grey, as lifeless as a blade, and as compassionate. The name of this man was Melcanton Galanis..."
The old man looked at the younger men, who were spellbound by his story, and took another draught of his drink.