Post by Derthaad on Aug 14, 2023 21:33:42 GMT
Derthaad gathers for what must be another routine run.
He packs some rope, standard-issue manacles and checks his component pouch.
The draining effort of a dual life, a balance between a city guard and an adventurer
The dragonborn mindlessly touches his left arm, as if checking if it's still there, tracing the lines.
Spoils earned, some he regrets, others cherishes
He quickly tidies up his room, aligning his shelves stacked with various trinkets: a cube of forms, a slice of luck, a pin of calling, and even a puff pastry.
Reminders of those who unquestioningly helped him in his times of need
He slides the bloodwell vial around his neck, ties the spellbook to his waist, and tucks an apple into his pack.
A memento from a comrade, a friend, and a... well...
He puts on his cloak, calms his mind, steels his heart and forces his body to move, for it is only a routing run.
The worry, the responsibility, the weight of it all; he's grow accustomed to it all. But now they feel heavier.
He locks his study, the front door and the main gate, then unceremoniously starts walking.
It will be just a routine run.
In a newly refurbished room, on a small desk, the rays of the setting sun reflect off the metal of a sergeant's badge, and touch a small neatly folded note slid carefully underneath it, as the leaves of the young apple tree whisper gently in the garden.
He packs some rope, standard-issue manacles and checks his component pouch.
The draining effort of a dual life, a balance between a city guard and an adventurer
The dragonborn mindlessly touches his left arm, as if checking if it's still there, tracing the lines.
Spoils earned, some he regrets, others cherishes
He quickly tidies up his room, aligning his shelves stacked with various trinkets: a cube of forms, a slice of luck, a pin of calling, and even a puff pastry.
Reminders of those who unquestioningly helped him in his times of need
He slides the bloodwell vial around his neck, ties the spellbook to his waist, and tucks an apple into his pack.
A memento from a comrade, a friend, and a... well...
He puts on his cloak, calms his mind, steels his heart and forces his body to move, for it is only a routing run.
The worry, the responsibility, the weight of it all; he's grow accustomed to it all. But now they feel heavier.
He locks his study, the front door and the main gate, then unceremoniously starts walking.
It will be just a routine run.
In a newly refurbished room, on a small desk, the rays of the setting sun reflect off the metal of a sergeant's badge, and touch a small neatly folded note slid carefully underneath it, as the leaves of the young apple tree whisper gently in the garden.