Return of the Ring

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Dec 23, 2009, 1:46am

Return of the Ring :: Rivendell :: Town Square :: Wanderer

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Topic: Wanderer (Read 158 times)

Gryffin
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The mystical Gryffin knows no anger... nor does he know fear... nor defeat, nor betrayal... nor love

Joined: Aug 2006
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Location: London. Europe. The world.
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Wanderer
« Thread Started on Oct 7, 2006, 3:22pm »

Gavin Greyson was having a rough night. He’d arrived on the outskirts of the prim and proper town a short time ago, thirsty and hungry. After taking several timid ventures as a beggar, a worthless scrap of a human being, he had headed towards the town square, where he knew he’d be able to sort this all out.

Hoisting his knapsack over his shoulder, he walked towards the center of the square, approaching the first person he laid eyes on—a disheveled man of questionable, possible sanity and a sweet tooth for rotten, half-eaten apple cores.

“Say, where can somebody find himself food in this town?” Gavin asked, eyeing the man strangely. He picked up one of the apple cores, tossing it from one hand to the next, trying to ease the boredom that continued to wash over him like a typhoon.

“What?” The man mumbled. Gavin rolled his eyes, sighing, more than just annoyed already.

“Food,” he replied curtly. “Edibles. Stew, rice, condiments, that sort of thing.” The man leaned towards him, squinting, his blue eyes narrowed into lizardly slits of concentration. Or lack of sight.

“What?” he repeated. Gavin flinched, backing away, wrinkling his nose as the man’s rancid, fetid-smelling breath assaulted his senses.

“Oh, never mind,” he muttered. “You’re obviously useless. Or out of your gourd. Probably both.” He shrugged, striding away.

“Psst! You there.”

Wheeling around, Gavin inspected the area where the man had been lying. Had he heard something?

“Psstt!”

He had!

“Monsieur,” Gavin began irritably, ignoring the voice. “I won’t indulge you, as I know full well that if I respond you will simply scream ‘what?’ in my ear and infiltrate my nostrils with your horrid, putrid odor. So, as the French say, au revoir.”

A firm hand suddenly clasped Gavin’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

“You looking for a bite, boy?” Slowly, Gavin turned around to face his pursuer. It turned out that it wasn’t the crazed old hermit he’d talked to before, but an elf, a bare dagger glimmering in the sunlight from his hip. “Try the pub. The bread is stale and the meat stringy and rotten, but it will suffice. The company is questionable, but it’s the only decent place with food around here.” He winked at Gavin, who, in return, gratefully gave him a sort of half-salute of thanks.

“Merci, monsieur,” he said, relieved. “Now if you can direct me…”

“First, I require payment.”

“Oh. Are you the innkeeper in question? What a novel way to solicit customers, sneaking up behind them and…”

“No! The payment is for advising you,” the elf growled, baring a row of yellow teeth.

“All I can offer you is my thanks, sir, I’m afraid. This bag is all I have here.” Somewhat uncertain with himself, Gavin gestured to his knapsack, but instantly watched as it disappeared.

“That’ll do!” the elf responded, tearing it open greedily. Gavin, shocked at the elf’s sudden reaction, tilted an eyebrow.

“Oh no you don’t,” he protested, lunging for the elf, who ducked quickly out of the way. But Gavin was quicker—in a flash, he managed to grab his bow, loading it with his trusty crimson-feathered arrow. He jumped up onto a pillar, balancing with perfected ease, aimed, and sent the arrow straight for the elven man…

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