a battered wanderer

Sithin ran, legs afire, pumping like a mad bellows. Beads of sweat coalesced upon his olive skin and streamed under his tunic in salty runnels. He glanced back, abandoning stealth, crunching over leaves, into bushes, and whipping past trees. Roots and branches accosted him in a barrage of leafy cudgel strikes, high then low, high again, and then a pause. Sithan did his best at avoiding them, even so, when he paused, lacerations scored his cheeks and the bare flesh of his arms.

Panting, he took what cover he could behind a sapling and strung his bow. With a quivering arm, he took aim at the empty trees through which he had just run.

Nothing.

He waited, calming himself and discipling his scrutiny.

Still nothing.

He lowered the bow and moved more slowly for the buildings ahead. He'd only barely noticed them, for the architecture seemed almost an indigenous oddity, rather than a building. Within eyeshot of the occupants, he lowered his bow and called:

"Please! Tua amin! Amin does not speak your tongue well." He waited, watching behind him again for signs of pursuit.

"The walking dead follow amin!"

Nothing.

He wandered until he found something inviting. He house was reminiscent of the homes he left when he was pushed into the indigo vortex that sucked him from his home. The place was still silent, so he took forth a sheaf of pachment and the broken stub of charcoal nestled in the creases of his pack.

He wrote:

"Please, amin am a stranger; I know no one, do not know which tongue you speak, and am in trouble. Amin is hunted by the walking dead from north of your home. Please, send amin word on the wind when amin can come out of the trees, out of hiding, for the walking dead hunt me still. Amin will be in your debt.

Sithan Whindinye"

A slight click resounded like thunder in Sithan's ears. He picked up his bow, tossed the parchment upon the porch and fled for the trees that would cradle him.

[OOC: I have perused you website and visited your Glade. When next you have an event, or some socializing, that is open to the public, please send me a q (word on the wind) at 15663921; I would enjoy meeting with some of your company.

Regards,
PO Sithan]

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> Sithin ran, legs afire, pumping like a mad bellows. Beads of sweat coalesced upon his olive skin and streamed under his tunic in salty runnels. He glanced back, abandoning stealth, crunching over leaves, into bushes, and whipping past trees. Roots and branches accosted him in a barrage of leafy cudgel strikes, high then low, high again, and then a pause. Sithan did his best at avoiding them, even so, when he paused, lacerations scored his cheeks and the bare flesh of his arms. > Panting, he took what cover he could behind a sapling and strung his bow. With a quivering arm, he took aim at the empty trees through which he had just run. > Nothing. > He waited, calming himself and discipling his scrutiny. > Still nothing. > He lowered the bow and moved more slowly for the buildings ahead. He'd only barely noticed them, for the architecture seemed almost an indigenous oddity, rather than a building. Within eyeshot of the occupants, he lowered his bow and called: > "Please! Tua amin! Amin does not speak your tongue well." He waited, watching behind him again for signs of pursuit. > "The walking dead follow amin!" > Nothing. > He wandered until he found something inviting. He house was reminiscent of the homes he left when he was pushed into the indigo vortex that sucked him from his home. The place was still silent, so he took forth a sheaf of pachment and the broken stub of charcoal nestled in the creases of his pack. > He wrote: > "Please, amin am a stranger; I know no one, do not know which tongue you speak, and am in trouble. Amin is hunted by the walking dead from north of your home. Please, send amin word on the wind when amin can come out of the trees, out of hiding, for the walking dead hunt me still. Amin will be in your debt. > Sithan Whindinye" > A slight click resounded like thunder in Sithan's ears. He picked up his bow, tossed the parchment upon the porch and fled for the trees that would cradle him. > [OOC: I have perused you website and visited your Glade. When next you have an event, or some socializing, that is open to the public, please send me a q (word on the wind) at 15663921; I would enjoy meeting with some of your company. > Regards, > PO Sithan]
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