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Roleplaying (Communitive Storywriting) / The Nine Fingered Father
« on: May 29, 2015, 02:15:38 pm »
The elven man pushed him self out of bed with no small amount of difficulty. Forcing his weakened legs to bear his weight, silently he cursed himself for remaining in bed this long, for allowing people to tell him he was not fit to be mobile. It was killing him to remain in one place, He felt as if he was at wits end with the same four walls day after day. His rate of respiration spiked as he fell into his own mind. Giving his head a firm shake to try and bring him back to the present his legs nearly collapsed under him. His hand shot out to grasp the bedpost to prevent himself from tumbling to the floor.
His gaze drifted over the mangled hand and his eyes turned to disgust at the missing finger. How could he have let himself be taken, he was better than this, more skilled than most of the people he knew, and yet he had grown dull and unaware something inside of him had shifted and let his mind grow complacent. Reaching down to the foot of the bed he lifted a almost harmless looking patchwork sack, except for the myriad collection of pommels that protrude from the sides of the bag almost circling the edge of the bag. The man almost seems calmed by the feel of the hidden harness affixed to his back his breathing slowly steadying.
Pushing himself away from the bed to stand up right the man started to take shaking steps to the door that lead him out into the hall of the fourth floor of the inn, glancing around to make sure no one was about. Breathing out a few words to himself "Stay sharp or die" almost as if accusing himself. Pressing forward on his shaking legs he started to walk his voice finding purchase in reality again "Perhaps it is time to get my armor"
(Going to try and do this story in short segments, and give everyone a peak as to what is going on off stage as it were
)
His gaze drifted over the mangled hand and his eyes turned to disgust at the missing finger. How could he have let himself be taken, he was better than this, more skilled than most of the people he knew, and yet he had grown dull and unaware something inside of him had shifted and let his mind grow complacent. Reaching down to the foot of the bed he lifted a almost harmless looking patchwork sack, except for the myriad collection of pommels that protrude from the sides of the bag almost circling the edge of the bag. The man almost seems calmed by the feel of the hidden harness affixed to his back his breathing slowly steadying.
Pushing himself away from the bed to stand up right the man started to take shaking steps to the door that lead him out into the hall of the fourth floor of the inn, glancing around to make sure no one was about. Breathing out a few words to himself "Stay sharp or die" almost as if accusing himself. Pressing forward on his shaking legs he started to walk his voice finding purchase in reality again "Perhaps it is time to get my armor"
(Going to try and do this story in short segments, and give everyone a peak as to what is going on off stage as it were
)