10-15-2012, 04:33 PM
Thread Info: X'yro in Optime Very wet and yucky out, night. Near Amherst. If you're trying to envision him, until I get an avvy just imagine a big, man version of X'yrin
WC: 577
***
If this was not a lesson handed to him by the Ancestors himself, X’yro didn’t know what was. Turned out into unfamiliar territory just days after a hurricane devastated the landscape, the burnished man trekked on, fueled only by his own hubris. With such a turn of events any other man would have turned back, returned to the fold and waited for the world to repair itself from some of the damage before embarking upon a quest such as his, but X’yro was no other man. He was an Exultare, he was of the warrior caste of Nomads, and he would not let a little storm turn him around now. Not when he had something oh, so dear to prove…
A wet, slurping sound erupted in the forest as one of his foot-paws slid in the mud, not nearly as surefooted as he would like to be. He stabbed the butt of his staff into the ground to keep from toppling into the waste completely – that was where the idea for the staff had come from, in fact. X’yro was traveling with only tooth and claw as his weapons, for he could move swifter this way and he did not lack for brute force, but one face plant in the algae a few nights ago taught him the benefits of a walking stick; it saved him from a repeat dose, this time.
The mud, the wetness, the flaw of the frail waning sun by day, the chilly fangs of frost at night… it all served to irritate the warrior even more. He was sloshing through this muck every morn and every eve, and strangers could not tell if the dark stockings on his arms and legs were the patterns of his fur or stains of mud – he couldn’t even tell the difference anymore, either. Truly, he would never let himself become so disgracefully filthy, but he knew a futile task when he was met with one, and after trying to keep tidy for days to no avail, he gave up completely on cleansing the mire from his fur.
The hurricane rendered the woods into nothing but a miserable swamp. There was running water everywhere, making a raucous noise and severely cutting out the usefulness of his ears, and it would wipe out the game trails and signs of other predators in the area. These were perilous conditions, indeed. At least he had the stars – he did his best to stick to the clearings and meadows, for when he could see the stars he could navigate far better than he would by any brook or tree moss. It was a little border of tree and clearing that he now crossed, leaving the accursed forest to once again plod through the open expanse of what once was a meadow now turned marshland.
He turned his gaze skyward, eyes flashing in the light of the half-hidden moon. “Just as I feared,” he sighed to himself. His own voice had been his closest companion as of late. “Off course, again…”
At least he had not drifted too far. Before, when he found he had gone several kilometers out of his way and would have to loop back, he had grown angry. Now it was such a regular occurrence that a day didn’t feel like a day without a slip. At least he was checking more frequently, now, and his backtracking was far shorter each time.
“Curse your storm…” he grumbled irritably.
WC: 577
***
If this was not a lesson handed to him by the Ancestors himself, X’yro didn’t know what was. Turned out into unfamiliar territory just days after a hurricane devastated the landscape, the burnished man trekked on, fueled only by his own hubris. With such a turn of events any other man would have turned back, returned to the fold and waited for the world to repair itself from some of the damage before embarking upon a quest such as his, but X’yro was no other man. He was an Exultare, he was of the warrior caste of Nomads, and he would not let a little storm turn him around now. Not when he had something oh, so dear to prove…
A wet, slurping sound erupted in the forest as one of his foot-paws slid in the mud, not nearly as surefooted as he would like to be. He stabbed the butt of his staff into the ground to keep from toppling into the waste completely – that was where the idea for the staff had come from, in fact. X’yro was traveling with only tooth and claw as his weapons, for he could move swifter this way and he did not lack for brute force, but one face plant in the algae a few nights ago taught him the benefits of a walking stick; it saved him from a repeat dose, this time.
The mud, the wetness, the flaw of the frail waning sun by day, the chilly fangs of frost at night… it all served to irritate the warrior even more. He was sloshing through this muck every morn and every eve, and strangers could not tell if the dark stockings on his arms and legs were the patterns of his fur or stains of mud – he couldn’t even tell the difference anymore, either. Truly, he would never let himself become so disgracefully filthy, but he knew a futile task when he was met with one, and after trying to keep tidy for days to no avail, he gave up completely on cleansing the mire from his fur.
The hurricane rendered the woods into nothing but a miserable swamp. There was running water everywhere, making a raucous noise and severely cutting out the usefulness of his ears, and it would wipe out the game trails and signs of other predators in the area. These were perilous conditions, indeed. At least he had the stars – he did his best to stick to the clearings and meadows, for when he could see the stars he could navigate far better than he would by any brook or tree moss. It was a little border of tree and clearing that he now crossed, leaving the accursed forest to once again plod through the open expanse of what once was a meadow now turned marshland.
He turned his gaze skyward, eyes flashing in the light of the half-hidden moon. “Just as I feared,” he sighed to himself. His own voice had been his closest companion as of late. “Off course, again…”
At least he had not drifted too far. Before, when he found he had gone several kilometers out of his way and would have to loop back, he had grown angry. Now it was such a regular occurrence that a day didn’t feel like a day without a slip. At least he was checking more frequently, now, and his backtracking was far shorter each time.
“Curse your storm…” he grumbled irritably.