spagbog
Lord of Altera
He woke up.
His vision is blurry spun and his arms and legs tingle. He looks down, blinking, and sees nothing. He opens his mouth to scream but his voice is swept away with the wind, the ever growing wind. He tries to struggle, but there is nothing to struggle with. He eventually settles down, seeing his attempt is futile. So he lets himself be carried away, like a leaf in a hurricane. Noise fills his ears, and he opens his eyes.
Berrit Downfellow was in a tent. He was born a Pikey; that was probably one of the reasons for his recurring dream, the feeling of ever restlessness, always having to move from place to place. A rather young Halfling, his life has been a bumpy ride of twists and turns, never knowing who he really is, what his morals are, or who he relies on.
Raising a hand to his face, he realised his eyes were wet with tears. Music plays from outside, a lively joyful thing. He blinks, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. Hopefully no one notices how puffy they are.
All over the camp Halflings are either chatting, laughing, singing or dancing. Not a single soul was quiet, or asleep – not anymore in any case. Something crashes into the canvas of his small shelter.
“Sorry, Mr Downfellow!” Finwinn and Samwinn say in unison. Berrit forces a smile, something he has had years to practise.
“Not a problem, not a problem.” He replies. The boys scamper off, tripping over various different guy lines and tent pegs. Berrit almost chuckles, but catches himself. He pulls on a waistcoat and steps outside to the sound of drums and flutes. Kindly faces and cheery words meet him, the world buzzing around him. But Berrit is perplexed, his mind elsewhere. Each morning he is like this, but normally the morning is not such a special one as this. So, like each morning, he adopts a grin and enters the marquee where breakfast is being served.
His vision is blurry spun and his arms and legs tingle. He looks down, blinking, and sees nothing. He opens his mouth to scream but his voice is swept away with the wind, the ever growing wind. He tries to struggle, but there is nothing to struggle with. He eventually settles down, seeing his attempt is futile. So he lets himself be carried away, like a leaf in a hurricane. Noise fills his ears, and he opens his eyes.
Berrit Downfellow was in a tent. He was born a Pikey; that was probably one of the reasons for his recurring dream, the feeling of ever restlessness, always having to move from place to place. A rather young Halfling, his life has been a bumpy ride of twists and turns, never knowing who he really is, what his morals are, or who he relies on.
Raising a hand to his face, he realised his eyes were wet with tears. Music plays from outside, a lively joyful thing. He blinks, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. Hopefully no one notices how puffy they are.
All over the camp Halflings are either chatting, laughing, singing or dancing. Not a single soul was quiet, or asleep – not anymore in any case. Something crashes into the canvas of his small shelter.
“Sorry, Mr Downfellow!” Finwinn and Samwinn say in unison. Berrit forces a smile, something he has had years to practise.
“Not a problem, not a problem.” He replies. The boys scamper off, tripping over various different guy lines and tent pegs. Berrit almost chuckles, but catches himself. He pulls on a waistcoat and steps outside to the sound of drums and flutes. Kindly faces and cheery words meet him, the world buzzing around him. But Berrit is perplexed, his mind elsewhere. Each morning he is like this, but normally the morning is not such a special one as this. So, like each morning, he adopts a grin and enters the marquee where breakfast is being served.