Post by Nuno (Rholor) on May 11, 2018 13:19:18 GMT
During the weeks following the battle, while all the denizens of Daring that wished to return were coming through with Aurelia’s aid, for those who have an eye keener than average, it was possible to spot something rather curious in the midst of all the chaos. Ruin, poverty and soot was a common sight in the first days of a re-blossoming Daring… but there were several differences, here and there that made one individual stand out from the rest. Be it a strange inflection to his accent, be it a strange choice in fashion, be it the smile on his face, for those who would pay attention, this figure stood out while at the same time blending in perfectly with the tumultuous roiling of the returning people.
He was a man, a very simple man.
Sharper features, slightly longer eyes and yet he was one of them.
Wearing worn down rags of shades of brown and green that evidently needed a wash and yet, he was one of them.
Walking with a slouched or even clumsy gait and yet, he was one of them.
One of them. One of the several people that lost everything and had nothing to return to in Faerun, and yet… he smiled.
These people, the outcasts, the homeless, the rootless, the living dead would spread themselves through the busiest parts of town, often begging, often offering their service to those who would take it. By nightfall all coin gathered would go towards buying food for a communal meal. The rootless would converge towards the southeastern part of the ruined town, underneath one of the few ruined buildings who still had a roof and the man, the foreigner that was one of them would get ready to cook.
He would place the straw hat he would so religiously wear to the side, as to not weaken the straws with the vapours from the broth he was cooking, and a happy, bearded face with long disheveled, curly, gray hair was fully visible. The smile would intensify as people would bring the ingredients he had requested earlier in the day and would hug anyone who would bring any amount of liquor. As he cooked he muttered an old song in a foreign dialect that no one seemed to fully understand and that seemed to bring him joy.
After the meal was consumed, they would gather around a fire, ignited from the half charred remains of many wooden buildings and the man would play his funny looking instrument. No words were needed, everyone just stood there and listened while the man played in silence.
As Daring started to recover, the rootless fell in numbers, some had gotten a permanent job in town, some had left for port Ffirst in the hopes of a better life style near the sea. But the man stayed, with the few that had nowhere to go and he would beg and work for a few coins and spend them during the night at the newly rebuilt Ettin, muttering a half-forgotten song in a shaded corner of the tavern, consuming copious amount of hard liquor (never beer or ale) until he passed out and Coll had to carry him out.
During that year, the man was blending in… and slowly, without a question, he was part of Daring Heights, because he stood out so much, and yet… he was one of them.
He was a man, a very simple man.
Sharper features, slightly longer eyes and yet he was one of them.
Wearing worn down rags of shades of brown and green that evidently needed a wash and yet, he was one of them.
Walking with a slouched or even clumsy gait and yet, he was one of them.
One of them. One of the several people that lost everything and had nothing to return to in Faerun, and yet… he smiled.
These people, the outcasts, the homeless, the rootless, the living dead would spread themselves through the busiest parts of town, often begging, often offering their service to those who would take it. By nightfall all coin gathered would go towards buying food for a communal meal. The rootless would converge towards the southeastern part of the ruined town, underneath one of the few ruined buildings who still had a roof and the man, the foreigner that was one of them would get ready to cook.
He would place the straw hat he would so religiously wear to the side, as to not weaken the straws with the vapours from the broth he was cooking, and a happy, bearded face with long disheveled, curly, gray hair was fully visible. The smile would intensify as people would bring the ingredients he had requested earlier in the day and would hug anyone who would bring any amount of liquor. As he cooked he muttered an old song in a foreign dialect that no one seemed to fully understand and that seemed to bring him joy.
After the meal was consumed, they would gather around a fire, ignited from the half charred remains of many wooden buildings and the man would play his funny looking instrument. No words were needed, everyone just stood there and listened while the man played in silence.
As Daring started to recover, the rootless fell in numbers, some had gotten a permanent job in town, some had left for port Ffirst in the hopes of a better life style near the sea. But the man stayed, with the few that had nowhere to go and he would beg and work for a few coins and spend them during the night at the newly rebuilt Ettin, muttering a half-forgotten song in a shaded corner of the tavern, consuming copious amount of hard liquor (never beer or ale) until he passed out and Coll had to carry him out.
During that year, the man was blending in… and slowly, without a question, he was part of Daring Heights, because he stood out so much, and yet… he was one of them.
