61 Vhalar, 716
On occasion it behooved one to take a stroll. In recent days the city became stifling, perhaps all that construction made for worse concentration; so Solsarin did what he excelled at - he took to his lonesome. A clear, setting sky made for a peaceful backdrop, the twin suns making their final descent for the evening while the moon rose off the horizon, its form only half-visible. So close as he stayed to the city Sol made due with his usual dregs: a black, woolen cloak with its matching attire and an arming sword belted to his waist. Albeit, he wore a heater shield across his back, although he trusted in the patrols of the Rynmerian military the mage was nothing if not paranoid.
His boots trudged along one of the outer dirt roads, kick-stomping as they went, crunching to match the jingle of the various pouches that accompanied the hilt across his waist. In short, he made no effort to be quiet. A stiff breeze caught his cloak and the man lilted to the side, his silent reverie cast away by the sudden alteration of his course. Oh well, this way then. Sol altered his pacing as his boots took him from the road and into the fields, passing an array of scattered trees plastered about the calm farmlands of the rural regions. Oh nice. A smile spread out over his lips, for once, as the solitude sunk in, a mild feeling of peace uninterrupted by the rush of the city.
At least until someone screamed.
Damn it all. Loud, obnoxious farm girls. Sol rolled his eyes, his countenance soured with a steely gaze. An ear-rending screech rose above the breeze in the not-so-far distance, to where Sol brought his attentions. Three figures, dressed in a similar fashion to himself, poised themselves over another, much smaller individual - a woman, from the looks of it - whom sat before them, her arm stretched out over her face. Interesting.
Sol frowned. He looked to his left. No patrols. Then to his right. Nothing. Damn it. Thrice damn it. A heavy, labored sigh rolled his shoulders into a haunch and the man started up his trek once again, cresting a small hill that gave him a better vantage over the trio and whoever it was that lay before them. His hand came to rest on the hilt of his blade while he slung the shield around his shoulder, carrying it in his off hand in a steady, weary advance. Today seemed to be such a nice, uneventful one. How dull.
On occasion it behooved one to take a stroll. In recent days the city became stifling, perhaps all that construction made for worse concentration; so Solsarin did what he excelled at - he took to his lonesome. A clear, setting sky made for a peaceful backdrop, the twin suns making their final descent for the evening while the moon rose off the horizon, its form only half-visible. So close as he stayed to the city Sol made due with his usual dregs: a black, woolen cloak with its matching attire and an arming sword belted to his waist. Albeit, he wore a heater shield across his back, although he trusted in the patrols of the Rynmerian military the mage was nothing if not paranoid.
His boots trudged along one of the outer dirt roads, kick-stomping as they went, crunching to match the jingle of the various pouches that accompanied the hilt across his waist. In short, he made no effort to be quiet. A stiff breeze caught his cloak and the man lilted to the side, his silent reverie cast away by the sudden alteration of his course. Oh well, this way then. Sol altered his pacing as his boots took him from the road and into the fields, passing an array of scattered trees plastered about the calm farmlands of the rural regions. Oh nice. A smile spread out over his lips, for once, as the solitude sunk in, a mild feeling of peace uninterrupted by the rush of the city.
At least until someone screamed.
Damn it all. Loud, obnoxious farm girls. Sol rolled his eyes, his countenance soured with a steely gaze. An ear-rending screech rose above the breeze in the not-so-far distance, to where Sol brought his attentions. Three figures, dressed in a similar fashion to himself, poised themselves over another, much smaller individual - a woman, from the looks of it - whom sat before them, her arm stretched out over her face. Interesting.
Sol frowned. He looked to his left. No patrols. Then to his right. Nothing. Damn it. Thrice damn it. A heavy, labored sigh rolled his shoulders into a haunch and the man started up his trek once again, cresting a small hill that gave him a better vantage over the trio and whoever it was that lay before them. His hand came to rest on the hilt of his blade while he slung the shield around his shoulder, carrying it in his off hand in a steady, weary advance. Today seemed to be such a nice, uneventful one. How dull.
