fashion is a statement

Strelein von Rosnete · 11-12-2011, 02:50 AM

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It was patrol, it was always patrol. What was he doing daily other than this tedious chore? He complained often, and often quite loud. Noss bore the brunt of his annoyance and whining. All the other man did was give a silent, sympathetic ear. The advice, however, was always the same. He had to bear it; it was his duty. The son of the moon, raised as a warrior with nothing but duty hanging over his head, told him to bear it. And Noss was the one who left his family tribe for him. Noss left his duty to be with the redheaded tailor. He had been the son of the chief, and thereby chief to be. The whining stopped, but the Dauphin was more often ferocious in the confines of their suite.

So, Strel walked the borders, wanting to be back in his studio, but biting his tongue to stay silent. Anyone he met found him full of smiles and pleasantries as he continued on his way. But the moment someone was out of sight, he frowned and pouted. And then he could smell the stranger. It smelled like an Infernian. Curious, and concerned, the redheaded man moved toward the source. Whoever they were, they did not trespass past the borders. Regardless, Strel headed toward the smell, it getting stronger the further he went.

It was a small woman. Strel cocked his head as he called out, "Do you seek something?"

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