Post by Deleted on Aug 19, 2012 17:23:50 GMT -5
The winter was raging on in Avaleur. On the outskirts of the city smoke gently puffed from the chimney of a small cottage nestled within a scattering of snow-covered trees. The thatched roof was not visible for a thick covering of snow.
Inside the cottage, Syrlt Azeurid sat in a leather armchair with his leg extended and his foot resting on a footstool. Some time had passed since he had arrived in Avaleur and become mixed up with that stranger in the pub. He had to fight his way out of a locked cellar and severely damaged his foot in the process. During his respite, the skies had turned from rain to snow and the air became bitterly cold. He had bought the cottage some days after leaving the infirmary, using some of the coin he had inherited from his parents. It wasn't much but it was home and it was warm, and that was what mattered. And more importantly, the hole in his foot was beginning to heal.
He had paid a few extra coin to have a local elf install a small glass lean-to on the side of the house that held a few crops. Potatoes, leeks, carrots - the produce wasn't vast but it was enough for one, especially at a time when the harsh winter meant nothing would grow in uncovered soils. And Azeurid's injured foot was well enough to allow him to potter about the cottage, albeit with a wooden cane, doing odd jobs to keep himself busy.
He stared into the crackling logs in the fire and watched as white ash swirled and became sucked into the chimney. His dark eyes were transfixed as the flames danced about like figurines in an exquisite painting. I used to move like that, he sighed. But not any more. Not with this damn limp and walking cane.
Suddenly, his eyes darted up from the fire. A knock at the door.
"Just a minute!" he shouted, grabbing his stick and clambering to his feet.
Inside the cottage, Syrlt Azeurid sat in a leather armchair with his leg extended and his foot resting on a footstool. Some time had passed since he had arrived in Avaleur and become mixed up with that stranger in the pub. He had to fight his way out of a locked cellar and severely damaged his foot in the process. During his respite, the skies had turned from rain to snow and the air became bitterly cold. He had bought the cottage some days after leaving the infirmary, using some of the coin he had inherited from his parents. It wasn't much but it was home and it was warm, and that was what mattered. And more importantly, the hole in his foot was beginning to heal.
He had paid a few extra coin to have a local elf install a small glass lean-to on the side of the house that held a few crops. Potatoes, leeks, carrots - the produce wasn't vast but it was enough for one, especially at a time when the harsh winter meant nothing would grow in uncovered soils. And Azeurid's injured foot was well enough to allow him to potter about the cottage, albeit with a wooden cane, doing odd jobs to keep himself busy.
He stared into the crackling logs in the fire and watched as white ash swirled and became sucked into the chimney. His dark eyes were transfixed as the flames danced about like figurines in an exquisite painting. I used to move like that, he sighed. But not any more. Not with this damn limp and walking cane.
Suddenly, his eyes darted up from the fire. A knock at the door.
"Just a minute!" he shouted, grabbing his stick and clambering to his feet.
