Post by Armand de Romanus on Nov 11, 2010 1:22:06 GMT -5
The seasons had changed rather quickly, changing from the warm summer to the chilly fall. With this change came the shorter days and with shorter days the nameless man felt more comfortable to wander around more, dare to leave the tiny house of his keeper. Draconius, his newly founded friend and keeper of knowledge. As much as he valued Dracon, he knew that he would never get all the information he needed from his friend. Dracon was all about books, such a habit with a scholar. What he wanted couldn’t be found in books. After all, not everyone wrote about their past for others to read. No, he wanted to go out and watch others in hopes of gaining more about himself, even steal a name from someone.
Well, as for stealing a name he had already succeeded, Henry. Along with the name he stole clothing and lives. What he stole was rather rich and finely made. The clothing he wore was a white long sleeve shirt with ruffles at the ends of the sleeves and at the neck with a ruby clasp holding the ruffles at the neck together. He wore an off red waist coat with golden thread embroidered along the hem and bright black buttons clasping a blood red outer jacket to the waist coat. He also wore charcoal black pants and shined his leather boots. Everything he wore except for the black ribbon that tied his hair back and his black leather boots was stolen from this Henry. Along Henry’s side lay his three servants, all left stripped in the main entrance of the cozy house. Of course he had prayed after his kill, begging for repentance. Somewhere in his mind he knew he would do it again and would have to repeat his repent once more. Alas, such was his life.
After he had dropped the servants clothing off back at Draconius’s house, he had sauntered on over to the pub known as The Anchor. One of the low-lives he had talked to said it was the greatest place to go to. Good beer and the informatives loved to drink their whisky there. At least he could get some information about this time he was living in, such as what bloody year it was. His ignorance was showing yet he laid it down as pride. Proud of what he had yet to decide.
And so there he was, sitting at the bar on a hard stool with a whisky in one of his hands. Hell he wasn’t even sure if he could keep the drink down. Inside he was smiling as he took a rather large gulp of the alcohol, feeling the burn the entire way down. Somehow this burning feeling made him feel alive, even when his body wanted to reject the liquid. Still he drank, keeping an eye out for anyone whom would be trustworthy enough to get information out of.
Well, as for stealing a name he had already succeeded, Henry. Along with the name he stole clothing and lives. What he stole was rather rich and finely made. The clothing he wore was a white long sleeve shirt with ruffles at the ends of the sleeves and at the neck with a ruby clasp holding the ruffles at the neck together. He wore an off red waist coat with golden thread embroidered along the hem and bright black buttons clasping a blood red outer jacket to the waist coat. He also wore charcoal black pants and shined his leather boots. Everything he wore except for the black ribbon that tied his hair back and his black leather boots was stolen from this Henry. Along Henry’s side lay his three servants, all left stripped in the main entrance of the cozy house. Of course he had prayed after his kill, begging for repentance. Somewhere in his mind he knew he would do it again and would have to repeat his repent once more. Alas, such was his life.
After he had dropped the servants clothing off back at Draconius’s house, he had sauntered on over to the pub known as The Anchor. One of the low-lives he had talked to said it was the greatest place to go to. Good beer and the informatives loved to drink their whisky there. At least he could get some information about this time he was living in, such as what bloody year it was. His ignorance was showing yet he laid it down as pride. Proud of what he had yet to decide.
And so there he was, sitting at the bar on a hard stool with a whisky in one of his hands. Hell he wasn’t even sure if he could keep the drink down. Inside he was smiling as he took a rather large gulp of the alcohol, feeling the burn the entire way down. Somehow this burning feeling made him feel alive, even when his body wanted to reject the liquid. Still he drank, keeping an eye out for anyone whom would be trustworthy enough to get information out of.