Post by Willy Brannigan on Sept 30, 2016 14:08:17 GMT -5
Chapter One
Section One
Wyrm Amongst the Worms
Circa: Arcemba 4th, 1636 WD
The countryside, he had been warned of this landscape; told stories of bandits and other menacing tales that would drive a young child from exploration beyond the confines of their home village and to avoid exploration into anything unknown. An almost dangerous feeling of safety would be what parents wanted to instill into their children, ultimately this was successful in many generations, and yet Willy's perception had been so vastly changed on the day of the attack, with the slaughter of his very own father before his eyes... this was the condition, the trigger that started his path down the road he now walked. Crossing the countryside with lance in hand and no goal in tow... he knew not what he sought as he walked, rather letting his gut guide him to the path it chose. Would he find what he sought out this way he knew not, but he would need a way to sustain himself, a sort of means of money and perhaps this was the goal he sought, but why leave home if this was the case? Roads were not what this forlorn fisherman sought, but rather he wanted the safety of the true wilderness itself, as debatable as the safety of unmanned territory over developed land was, yet he felt more at home in the great unknown over that which had been tread on by man many times in the past.
Time would pass as he made his way across the countryside in an effort to find somewhere to rest for the night, but fatigue had over took he and he sat by a campfire, a small one with a tiny spit over it, heating a undeterminable meat without closer inspection or a fisherman himself seeing it cook. It appeared he was preparing to eat his meal, hoping not disturbances would arise and distract him from eating.
Section One
Wyrm Amongst the Worms
Circa: Arcemba 4th, 1636 WD
The countryside, he had been warned of this landscape; told stories of bandits and other menacing tales that would drive a young child from exploration beyond the confines of their home village and to avoid exploration into anything unknown. An almost dangerous feeling of safety would be what parents wanted to instill into their children, ultimately this was successful in many generations, and yet Willy's perception had been so vastly changed on the day of the attack, with the slaughter of his very own father before his eyes... this was the condition, the trigger that started his path down the road he now walked. Crossing the countryside with lance in hand and no goal in tow... he knew not what he sought as he walked, rather letting his gut guide him to the path it chose. Would he find what he sought out this way he knew not, but he would need a way to sustain himself, a sort of means of money and perhaps this was the goal he sought, but why leave home if this was the case? Roads were not what this forlorn fisherman sought, but rather he wanted the safety of the true wilderness itself, as debatable as the safety of unmanned territory over developed land was, yet he felt more at home in the great unknown over that which had been tread on by man many times in the past.
Time would pass as he made his way across the countryside in an effort to find somewhere to rest for the night, but fatigue had over took he and he sat by a campfire, a small one with a tiny spit over it, heating a undeterminable meat without closer inspection or a fisherman himself seeing it cook. It appeared he was preparing to eat his meal, hoping not disturbances would arise and distract him from eating.
