Post by Dragonslayer on Aug 10, 2015 8:44:41 GMT -5
“They were the men and the women of the sand, of the wind, of the light, of the night. They appeared as in a dream, at the crest of a dune, as if they were born of the cloudless sky.”
Name: Ayrad Al-Samara (disowned)
Race: Alfus Primus (identifies as Clamor Antiquos)
Height: 5'10
Hair Color: Sandy brown
Eye Color: Azure
Age: 30 years old
An ageless desert, infinite in its patience and cruelty, stretches out before the child like a sea of sand. The wind, harsh and burning, scorches his face and tousles his hair, brown and fine as the sand he traverses, as he stares out into the face of certain death. His face expressionless, he reaches into his satchel containing the barest essentials for survival in the desert. A shovel. A water skin. Three meters of muslin cloth, enough to wrap around his face and head. Three dates, enough to last for nine days. Eat the skins on the first three days. Eat the meat on the second three days. Suck on the pit for the last three days. And finally, a knife. Curved steel, patterns dance on it in the fashion of ancient elven weapons. It's only a copy, of course. Done by the tribe's smith, a skilled metalworker who seeks out the ways and techniques of his ancient people. Claiming that he is an ancestor of one of the great Magi, that he is nobility.
But all of this doesn't matter to the boy. All that matters to him is the impeding heat. The cool taste of moisture on his lips. And the endless freedom that stretches before him. He must find his way back to his tribe, but until then?
Until then he was free.
Race: Alfus Primus (identifies as Clamor Antiquos)
Height: 5'10
Hair Color: Sandy brown
Eye Color: Azure
Age: 30 years old
An ageless desert, infinite in its patience and cruelty, stretches out before the child like a sea of sand. The wind, harsh and burning, scorches his face and tousles his hair, brown and fine as the sand he traverses, as he stares out into the face of certain death. His face expressionless, he reaches into his satchel containing the barest essentials for survival in the desert. A shovel. A water skin. Three meters of muslin cloth, enough to wrap around his face and head. Three dates, enough to last for nine days. Eat the skins on the first three days. Eat the meat on the second three days. Suck on the pit for the last three days. And finally, a knife. Curved steel, patterns dance on it in the fashion of ancient elven weapons. It's only a copy, of course. Done by the tribe's smith, a skilled metalworker who seeks out the ways and techniques of his ancient people. Claiming that he is an ancestor of one of the great Magi, that he is nobility.
But all of this doesn't matter to the boy. All that matters to him is the impeding heat. The cool taste of moisture on his lips. And the endless freedom that stretches before him. He must find his way back to his tribe, but until then?
Until then he was free.