Ginead the Green
Feb 24, 2019 15:52:21 GMT
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Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar, Daisy, and 4 more like this
Post by ScottWolfgang on Feb 24, 2019 15:52:21 GMT
"Verily!"
A friendly voice bellows as you near. A thick, metal-clad arm is held expectantly in the air, politely awaiting your acknowledgement. Like a pleased dog expecting a pat.
Ginead Gladhand the Green is a broad, stocky fellow with a big, easy smile. His shaven-shorn hair cropped close to his big ol' skull, and a portcullis square beard, chestnut brown, juts out from his square jawline, matching it perfectly. On closer inspection you can see it has wooden togs and rings plaited into it (along with all the flecks of beer froth).
As he earnestly inquires what he can help you with, any wrongs that righting, or maybe just some shelves putting up, you see that the armour that clads this solid oak of a man is dappled green at the edges, as if someone had rubbed it with moss or spent too long sleeping off a hangover on the grass.
The hands in fingerlerless gauntlets are either patting you heavily on the shoulder or tapping out the bowl of a large wooden pipe, restocking it, lighting it, proffering it to you. Ginead is wreathed in smoke most of the time he doesn't have his warhammer drawn (a warhammer decorated with what looks like curled goat horns) and in the afternoon sunlight you can just make out his emerald eyes glittering through his self-created haze.
He listens to you with nods, happy puffs of smoke and the odd well-meaning laugh (a deep, rich bassy rumble). He compares your story with that of his own, interjects with comparisons of when he - apparantly - became protector of a group of troubled satyrs and nymphs, near a waterfall in a glade in a magical forest. As Ginead smiles beatifically and recalls his tale, you realise the pipe smoke has an odd...tingle to it as it hits the back of your throat. Magical forest indeed.
Glassy and twinkling eyes now regard you earnestly as you wind down. The smoke has not dulled Gineads desire to help. He accepts, without question, or talk of pay. He wants to help. He beats the embossed device on his lawn-coloured shield under the table by way of contract.
Satisfied that the job will get done - and done in an earnest, well meaning and very thorough manner - you leave the smiling Ginead to his pipe and his beer. With one last glance back you catch his thick brows twist into an expression of hapless wonder as the local bard strums her lyre and warbles the first few chords of her song.
"Verily..."
You hear his fervent hushed utterance as the doors open and the warm sunlight blesses your face.
A friendly voice bellows as you near. A thick, metal-clad arm is held expectantly in the air, politely awaiting your acknowledgement. Like a pleased dog expecting a pat.
Ginead Gladhand the Green is a broad, stocky fellow with a big, easy smile. His shaven-shorn hair cropped close to his big ol' skull, and a portcullis square beard, chestnut brown, juts out from his square jawline, matching it perfectly. On closer inspection you can see it has wooden togs and rings plaited into it (along with all the flecks of beer froth).
As he earnestly inquires what he can help you with, any wrongs that righting, or maybe just some shelves putting up, you see that the armour that clads this solid oak of a man is dappled green at the edges, as if someone had rubbed it with moss or spent too long sleeping off a hangover on the grass.
The hands in fingerlerless gauntlets are either patting you heavily on the shoulder or tapping out the bowl of a large wooden pipe, restocking it, lighting it, proffering it to you. Ginead is wreathed in smoke most of the time he doesn't have his warhammer drawn (a warhammer decorated with what looks like curled goat horns) and in the afternoon sunlight you can just make out his emerald eyes glittering through his self-created haze.
He listens to you with nods, happy puffs of smoke and the odd well-meaning laugh (a deep, rich bassy rumble). He compares your story with that of his own, interjects with comparisons of when he - apparantly - became protector of a group of troubled satyrs and nymphs, near a waterfall in a glade in a magical forest. As Ginead smiles beatifically and recalls his tale, you realise the pipe smoke has an odd...tingle to it as it hits the back of your throat. Magical forest indeed.
Glassy and twinkling eyes now regard you earnestly as you wind down. The smoke has not dulled Gineads desire to help. He accepts, without question, or talk of pay. He wants to help. He beats the embossed device on his lawn-coloured shield under the table by way of contract.
Satisfied that the job will get done - and done in an earnest, well meaning and very thorough manner - you leave the smiling Ginead to his pipe and his beer. With one last glance back you catch his thick brows twist into an expression of hapless wonder as the local bard strums her lyre and warbles the first few chords of her song.
"Verily..."
You hear his fervent hushed utterance as the doors open and the warm sunlight blesses your face.
- Level 
