Stories are just words without meaning.
#3
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OOC: Where exactly is Skoll from? And sorry for the delay >_>




In this form, Lubomir was still not as impressive as Skoll. In fact, it made him feel a bit inferior, though he was sure that the other male had no intention to make him feel that way. Standing only at seven feet six inches, he bore none of the marks that Skoll did. In fact, his body was skinny and his fur matted in places. It wasn't hygiene, it was more the fact that Lubomir had been stressed. Now he could finally unwind. He grinned at Skoll, surprised to see that someone had found his messages. He had no idea that Skoll couldn't read and if he had known, he would have offered to help.




'Hello, Skoll. I trust you have found my attempts at poetry.' His grin widened and it didn't look at all frightening. In fact, it was as friendly as it had been in weeks. 'I do tell stories. As you might have heard, I used to be a Bard. I come from a place called by us Old Country. It is on the Old World, in the place the humans used to call Poland. We did not call it that. It was always Old Country to us. Tell me, Skoll, have you ever travelled that far?' This was the preamble to the story. Just to get his attention. To make him want to hear from. It was an old habit of his. Really, no one wants their audience to fall asleep during a story, do they?



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