01-03-2008, 07:56 PM
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| Bleeding Souls. Land of the homeless man with a home. Other experiences Tamerlane had had with packs would not meander near independence; Storm, on the other hand, was free — its rambling, forested world was thick with liberty. It was close-knit, comfortable, and yet utterly refreshing all at the same time. Yet Tamerlane was reclusive, a loner to the core, and he sat at his usual spot by the river, his back against a tree and his head leaning against it too; his gaze was faced up towards the canopy, distant and reflective. It was not as if he was not a sociable beast. Often it would be others that would initiate the conversation, but Tamerlane would envelop himself in it with charming interest and gracious charisma; he was a gentle sort, and respectful, but still prone to occasionally sharp-tongued sarcasm; articulacy used as a verbal defence in a harsh traveller's lifestyle. He had made friends here, and lovers, though none with whom he was truly intertwined. If the tall rogue had found a reason to avoid being solitary, he would not have been here, now. Contently alone. |