Combe(#27918Rnto)
The village of Combe is nestled in a deep, stream-cut valley. The stream cuts
through the center of town, dividing it not quite cleanly in two. The stream
flows down from the west into the valley and continues eastward. On this side,
the southern, are most of the houses of the Big Folk, and the Common House as
well. A wooden bridge leads over the stream to the northern bank, and two paths
lead away into the waiting trees of the Chetwood- one west along the stream
toward Staddle and one east toward Archet. Surrounding the village is a wooded
country, whose trees grow strong and tall.
Contents:
Anscombe
Obvious exits:
South leads to The Chetwood.
Bridge leads to Combe.
Combe Common House leads to Combe Common House.
East leads to Combe Stream: South Bank.
West leads to Hollow.
================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Tue Sep 07 02:41:07 2004
Bree time: Early Afternoon <1:03 PM> on Trewsday of Winter - February 15,1433
Moon Phase: New Moon
Breelands Weather
The early afternoon winter air is cold and dry around you. Moist snow, perfect
for snowballs, falls down from the sky.
===============================================================================
It's just after lunchtime, and Combe is still silent beneath its blanket of
falling snow, for the most part. Twinkling lights in all the windows, and
threads of smoke rising from every chimney indicate that most of the village's
inhabitants are probably still inside enjoying their midday repast. Not all,
though - from one house at the end of the village, set amidst white-bedecked
fields, no smoke rises.
It's from this house that two young boys emerge, dragging behind them a simple
wooden sled - it is empty. "Ooh, it's snowing!" one calls eagerly to his
companion as he tugs eagerly at the sled. And a moment later, "Bet you can't
throw a snowball as far as the Common House." From behind them comes a creaky
voice: "That's it, lads. Now, don't you go rushing off into them woods!
Remember to wait for yer old granda ..." Finally old Hugh Bramblefleece himself
steps out to greet the world.
[Anscombe(#20501)] Between the snowy houses Anscombe Spinney comes trudging
doggedly, arms folded tightly to his chest, head inclined, glaring quietly at
the sprays of snow kicked up by his feet. He hears the voices before him and
raises his head, slowing slightly. Recognising the old man, Anscombe
straightens and calls out, "Hi there!", a bemused expression on his face.
"Can, too!" The smaller of the two boys with the sledge drops his rope and
scoops up a handful of snow, taking careful aim at the Common House. It's left
to his companion to try and slow the sled before he ploughs down the
newly-appeared Anscombe ...
"Whoa there! Watch yerself, lads! This is no time for tomfoolery," Hugh shouts
irritably, and then focuses on Anscombe's bemused face before offering him a
grudging, "Good day to ye. The lads here are just off to get some more firewood
- got to go with them, o'course. A man's got to keep an eye on the young folks,
ye know." He nods his head sagely.
[Anscombe(#20501)] Panting heavily, Anscombe unfolds his arms and stops in
front of Hugh, leaning forward and pressing his hands against his knees. He
eyes the young men warily as the man speaks, and after a substantial pause to
catch his breath, straightens back up, folding his arms once again.
"Certainly," he replies carelessly. "I'm hoping you can help me, I'm trying to
find a young woman who lives about here, somewhere," he begins, without a hint
of introduction. "Chelsea Honeybell?"
The sled slows to a halt just proud of Anscombe's feet. "Mind yerself, mister,"
pants the lad tugging at its rope, without much real concern. Taking advantage
of his grandfather's distraction, the boy scoops up a handful of snow of his
own, aiming it not at the Common House but at his companion. Chaos seems about
to ensue ...
"I said WATCH it!" Hugh's creaky voice rises in a bellow, and both boys halt in
their tracks. "Now, we'd best get going - need to get that wood back before
your Ma freezes, eh? So off ye go." He points with his staff eastward, into the
woods, and the two lads obediently start pulling the sledge along the rutted
track that leads into the trees. Only then does the somewhat distracted old man
look back at Anscombe. "Miss Honeybell?" His voice sounds vaguely disapproving,
and there's a speculative glint in his eye. But then he goes on, "Why, the
Honeybells live right the other side of Combe - up yonder, cross the stream,
take the second track on the right then the third left ... tell ye what, lad.
I'll show ye the way myself. Come on, don't dawdle ..." He sets off, hobbling
briskly after the departing sled and leaving it to Anscombe to follow.
[Anscombe(#20501)] Anscombe watches the man step a fair distance away before
struggling after him with a heavy tread, still slightly out of breath.
You travel east, away from Combe.
Combe Stream: South Bank(#27923Rnto)
Combe Stream winds and weaves its way through The Chetwood in a relatively
straight east-west direction. A path that runs along the southern bank of the
stream turns and slopes down to meet the stream next to a large oak tree. It
appears that a smaller track branches off from the main path and heads away
East into the forest. Whether or not this smaller path is just an animal track,
is difficult to say without further investigation.
Obvious exits:
North leads to Combe Stream: North Bank.
West leads to Combe.
It's afternoon - not long after lunch, and you'd think that most sensible
Breefolk would be staying cosy inside after a good dinner. But through the
woods from Combe village come the sound of voices ... there's the scraping of
sled runners, interspersed every now and then with the crack and rustle of
branches as the two lads pulling the sled halt to collect a piece of firewood -
or to throw snowballs at each other when their minder's back is turned.
Which it is right now: hobbling along just behind the sled is old Hugh
Bramblefleece, muttering to himself. "Third track on the left ... or was it the
second. Looks different today it does - funny that." Rounding suddenly on his
companion, a youth of about twenty summers or so, he demands suddenly, "Why was
it ye wanted to see Miss Honeybell anyway? Sweet on her, are ye?" Hot on the
scent of gossip, Hugh's attention is only on Anscombe.
+os youth of 20 summers=Anscombe. Hope that works
[Iavasuial(#26974)]
There is something odd sheltered by the darker patches of shadows. Not
sheltered, exactly, but better concealed there beneath the snow-covered trees.
Nearby, in an area close to stream and path is squashed snow; broken branches;
a dash of red, a small pile of fur and half-snow-hidden bones. Not a gruesome
sight exactly, though one unusual in these parts. Giant tracks- not of deer,
nor hog or bear or any other land-animal leads to the shadow-stalking figure-
hunched over at the stream. No. These tracks should belong to a bird- a
predatory bird.. but those tracks are much too large.
Perhaps not so large when the owner of the tracks could be spied-
drinking from a hole made through the stream-ice from which the autumn-hued
figure now drinks. She could be nine feet tall, clad in feathers of gold and
ruby, partially darkened by the tree-shadow, but no less stark against the
white surrounds. An Eagle, she is, and drinking until she hears voices.
Alert and tense she rises, and water drips from a hooked beak. The
sharp gaze that misses no movement seeks out the source.
[Anscombe(#20501)] A face already scarlet from the effort of the exercise masks
a sudden blush on Anscombe's face, but he looks away just the same, feigning an
interest in the beautifully contrasted surroundings, black trunks perched
between a snowy earth and sky. Speaking between pants, he answers Hugh. "I ...
not at all. It's a ... business matter. My father ..." His eyes catch on
something through the trees ahead, and he suddenly missteps, catching a wayward
log with his foot, dropping heavily to his hands and knees.
Old Hugh, of course, is far too busy watching Anscombe to notice anything odd
about his surroundings. "I see," he mutters, cackling in amusement as the young
man looks away from him. Then, as Anscombe stumbles, he cautions, "Steady
there! Don't want to go breakin' an ankle out here, it's a fair way back ...
now, where /was/ that path?"
The two boys (who already have something of the characteristic Bramblefleece
bushy brows) have meanwhile let go the sled-ropes and wandered off to collect
some more firewood. Suddenly there comes a piercing yell, and a moment one lad
stumbles back through the trees, face ashen. "There's b-blood on the snow," he
pants out, shuddering. "A b-body or summat. I dunno, I dursn't look."
"Scaredy-cat," taunts his companion, but a moment later he too is white-faced -
maybe the glimpse of something large and moving behind the partial screen of
the trees has something to do with that.
[Iavasuial(#26974)]
A quiet and careful click of that beak, a hiss: little more than the
expulsion of air. The head tilts at a familiar voice, feathers ruffle.
Quickly again the form stoops to drink; sifting water through the
opening of her beak, and then she straightens to stand tense and watchful.
Momentarily the gaze shifts to the pile of hazel-coloured fur; the bloodied
scuffle on the snow.. the tracks that lead to her location and finally, the
trees that cover her path to freedom. Well, that make her escape (should it
come to that) relitively difficult, at least.
[Anscombe(#20501)] Hauling himself quickly onto his knees, Anscombe listens to
the words of the two lads with wide-open eyes and mouth agape, a hand clutching
absently at his chest. Worming himself suddenly to his feet, he looks back
toward toward the shifting creature obscured up ahead, and unwittingly takes
several steps backward, ending up a few feet behind Hugh. His lips press
together several times as he struggles to form a word, eventually repeating
quietly, "Blood?"
"Blood?" Hugh doesn't exactly look happy about that word either, and swivels
his head round to follow the others in peering through the trees. Yet, as
chance would have it, the old man's glance coincides with Iavasuial's dipping
her head to drink. Nothing to see, nothing to worry about ... "Eh, lads, stop
foolin' around," he chides the two boys.
"I ain't fooling!" the first, shorter lad declares defensively, daring to add
after a moment, "and I ain't scared, either." As though to prove it he takes a
deep breath and a faltering step in the direction of the 'body'. And another
... and another ...
*ahhhh*
Whatever the boy glimpses now, the sight proves too much - quick as a flash,
the youngster has taken to his heels and is fleeing into the woods, a crash
sounding every now and then as he stumbles into a tree. The taller one
hesitates, looking from Hugh to Anscombe to the stream and back again, and
biting his lip. "I'd best go after him, 'case he gets lost," he volunteers
quaveringly, and starts fitting deed to word, calling out as he goes, "Wait,
Gerry. Wait for me!"
Leaving Anscombe, sled and a rather worried-looking Hugh behind. "Blood?" Hugh
repeats, more quietly now, and finally sounding scared. "They say there's
wolves been seen this winter ..." Staff held in his shaking hand, he, like
Anscombe before him, takes a step back - only Hugh's step places his foot on
that same log that had tripped Anscombe earlier. The old man totters ...
[Iavasuial(#26974)]
Another click, and then an off sound, perhaps something that could be
mistaken for-- well, there's not much that could be comparable to it, it's a
rather odd noise, though any who know her, or know her kind and their
mannerisms, would perhaps understand the noise to be laughter- snickering, if
you will. There is amusement in amber and green eyes as the nervous
conversations carry to hidden ears. Something of curiosity alights in that
gaze, even as she shifts to move into a more open-aired section of the woods.
Perhaps something odd could be noted about the forest at this time:
all is silent. Still and silent save for the crashing of the boys through the
forest, and then fall of snow as it topples from the branches. There is no
bird-song, no scuffling of animals; it seems even the wind makes an effort to
be quiet... A flash of red, a dash of gold through the shroud of trees...
[Anscombe(#20501)] Anscombe steps forward, placing his hands on Hugh's
shoulders to steady him, simultaneously stepping sideways a little, placing the
old man between himself and the creature. He crouches instinctively, cursing
the cacophony created by the retreating youngsters. He extends a shakey arm
past Hugh and points to the shadowed creature moving before them, his eyes
peering over the man's shoulders. "/Look/," he hisses quietly.
The sun sets in the west, and what little light it gave to the Chetwood is
replaced by the dark of night.
Hugh, steadied by Anscombe's hand, must perforce crouch too. His staff is still
clutched tight (as much for comfort as anything else), and as the youth's arm
extends past his head he follows the direction of the pointing finger ... Hugh
looks. And blinks, and looks again, and eventually raises a trembling arm to
draw a dirty sleeve across his eyes. "What is it?" he ventures at last, his own
breathy whisper no louder than Anscombe's. "These old eyes don't see so good
..." And then, some of the fear in his voice oddly replaced by a more
thoughtful tone, "So ... big."
The sounds of crashing and yells that follow the youngsters' flight are already
getting more distant - at least they do seem to be swinging back toward the
village now.
[Iavasuial(#26974)]
"Donot worry, Bramblefleece," Finally there drifts a voice; distorted
by a strange accent and twisted more by the very shaping of the words, the
voice is low and gravelly. "It is no sheep, but a deer. They have been called
Kiern elsewhere, but not called Kiern..." A hint of puzzlement becomes apparent
in her voice even as she speaks these words, and momentarily she falls silent
and thoughtful.
"But it is no sheep- I donot need to pay... But you donot need to be
feared: I am finished my meal here, though sorry that I did not leave some, if
you and your companion are hungry also." Obviously nervous, or not so nervous
as she is cautious, the words in westron are stumbled and hurried and thus,
imperfect.
[Anscombe(#20501)] Anscombe shrinks visibly at the voice, coming so improbably
(as he would have thought) from the obviously non-human creature. He withdraws
his other hand from Hugh's shoulder and sinks into a crouch, gaping. Eventually
his shock at the voice subsides, and realizes the apparent familiarity between
the two, man and half-hidden beast. He lifts his head up to Hugh, hoping for an
explanation, remaining himself utterly silent.
Hugh is still screwing up his eyes in attempt to see the nature of the beast
that confronts him, when his question is answered by words, words in the Common
Speech. And recognition dawns .... Slowly Hugh rises to his feet. "Don't ye
worry, lad," he murmurs to Anscombe in what's probably meant as reassurance.
"If that there is the same critter that et one o' my sheep last year, then I
reckon it owes me one. I'll get us out o' here, just let me take care o'
things." Not that one frail old man looks like he can 'take care' of anything
or anyone.
His voice rises now to fill with rather false-sounding bravado as he addresses
the red-gold shape. "Good day to ye, Mister Bird. There ain't no sheep out
here. It's winter, and they've gotta be penned up, safe from wolves an' bears
an' ... an' suchlike." And Eagles? A worried look crosses the old man's face,
then a gleam comes into his eye. "And I ain't heard o' any keerns, not in these
part. Must be some outlandish critter. Maybe ye'd best look out beyond the
Marshes, Mister Bird?" At that suggestion the tip of the staff Hugh's holding
lifts a little, to point shakily eastwards.
[Iavasuial(#26974)]
"Mister?" There is a definite frown in the voice of the Eagle, even as
she steps better into view. Tall and proud she stands, and definetly no
'mister'- even by the sound of her voice, the shine in her eye, she is no
mister. Perhaps it's not such a good idea to offend a Great Eagle? "I know
there are no sheep." Finally, more speech comes, slow and thoughtful, "This is
why I donot eat the sheep, and I donot pay, unless this deer belongs to
someone- or they say so anyway. There is nothing in the marshes, and Kiern was
not there. Was south, as I recall." Feathers again ruffle- a tantalizing flash
of gold and red, and she clicks her beak.
That gaze remains for a moment on the man, and then slides to the
quiet-one. The Eagle takes a step forward, almost unsteady on her
snow-covered..feet. She seems to regard him critically a moment, but says
nothing to him directly, for the moment.
[Anscombe(#20501)] Thinking it prudent to reduce his silhouette as much as
possible, Anscombe remains crouched as he listens to the words exchanged
between the two, his face frozen in a peculiar arragement of fear mingled with
disbelief, eyebrows arched. He starts suddenly as the creature moves forward,
the Eagle, as it now appears, and gasps inaudibly at her now apparent
splendour. Swallowing hastily and shutting his mouth as the Eagle deigns to
notice him, he nods his head abruptly at the creature, still not comfortable
enough to speak.
Hugh's staff clatters hastily back to earth as the eagle moves forward - the
old man is clearly discomfited. "Uh .. whatever ye say, Mist- bird," he mumbles
lamely. Somehow the title sounds even worse without the offending 'mister' in
front of it. "I was just wanting' to ... wantin' to help, was all." Well, that
sounds a little better. Fervently Hugh nods his head. "Didn't mean to disturb
ye - we'll just be on our way, then?" He glances nervously in Anscombe's
direction as though to say 'help me out' - so much for Hugh taking care of
things.
[Iavasuial(#26974)]
Quickly that gaze- so used to watching the movements of animals and
people from way above- snaps to the fallen staff. The head tilts to the side,
as if she were considering its meal, or danger potential. Having sized it up,
Iavasuial looks once more to Hugh. "Calm down!" There is a certain tone of
impatience in her voice now, eyes narrow briefly, and then soften again. "I
donot hurt. Iavasuial- no 'bird' no 'mister bird'. We have many names except
those, but maybe Iavasuial is best." Of course, even she has begun to chatter
now, and perhaps her name would be lost within the jumble of words so distorted
by her accent, especially to the untrained ear.
"I thankyou for your help, but I donot need it- I have ate here, and
drank and I have finished. I am always disturbed; it is no matter. Does he not
speak?" A sudden change in the direction of conversation, she's talking about
the silent-one, but makes no move to look or gesture to him.. not particularly
helpful in trying to understand where her thought-path has taken her..
[Anscombe(#20501)] Trying to appear as though he missed the look from Hugh,
Anscombe's gaze is attached fearfully to the gigantic talons supporting the
Eagle before him, and he opts to remain silent for as long as possible, until
suddenly finding himself referred to by the creature itself. His eyes snap
upward to the Eagle's eyes, and then suddenly away, terrified at the prospect
of eye contact. Quietly drawing himself to his feet, Anscombe clutches his
hands together at his stomach, and offers: "I ... how do you do?" Shifting his
head, he speaks at the back of Hugh's neck: "Do they ... eat ... people?"
Calm down? Hugh's whole body twitches as the eagle barks that command at him,
and the poor old fellow's probably never looked less calm in his life. Taking
the time to draw breath, Hugh eventually mumbles in the Eagle's direction,
"It's just ... well, we don't see the likes of yerself very often, a-vassal."
Despite himself, his eyebrows raise at the mighty bird's preferred designation,
it just doesn't seem ... proper, somehow. "This is Mister - eh, what was yer
right name, lad? Don't think Miss Shepherd ever introduced you proper." Or else
Hugh's forgotten Anscombe's name, like so many other things these days ...
Under cover of the question, he hisses in Anscombe's ear, "Don't know, and
don't want to find out neither. Don't let it see yer afraid!"
[Iavasuial(#26974)]
Perhaps Iavasuial hears the question, watches the lips move and pieces
together the puzzle. "I do fine," Formalities over, and there follows that
strange sound again- that laughing, snickering sound. "I have said already; "I
donot hurt." Therefore: I donot eat. I only hurt those bad things; the orcs and
the trolls and those black things that we are not friends of. With. But for me,
you donot need to be feared; it is well when I come to visit! We keep things
safe." A sharp nod of her head follows, and then a quiet correction,
"Iavasuial. Iavas-uial. I-a-v.. You know it now? But we donot usually come this
far north, or this far west but I have come to find news, and quickly for I
must fly again-- is there news in Bree? Or is all well. And news that I should
know! Not the news of Breeman and baking!" Poor Iavasuial; she sounds to be
stumbling over nearly every word now and comes to a grinding halt with the
click of her beak.
[Anscombe(#20501)] Lost in muddlement for a moment, Anscombe finds his name and
speaks: "I ... I'm Anscombe. Spinney," sheepishly offering it to Hugh, unsure
if the Eagle is still interested, or in fact waiting for an answer. Apparently
only somewhat reassurred by her words, Anscombe keeps his head lowered humbly,
kneading his knuckles fretfully with his fingers. The explanation from the
Eagle seems to go completely over his head, and he turns to Hugh. "News?"
"Spinney. O'course, that was it." Hugh, gesturing to Anscombe and then the
eagle, tries to look as though he'd known his fellow Breeman's name all along.
And speaking of names ... oh dear. Prompted by the eagle's grinding tones, Hugh
tries the strange sounding name again. "I-a-va-shell," he manages to get out at
last - likely in a day or two it'll be back to 'a vassal' in his memory.
"News?" He furrows his brow. "Well, there was a pie fair a while back, an' that
young Mister Heatherseed took the honours, him an' the Shepherd girl, an'
they're going to bake ... eh, ye said ye didn't want to hear about all that."
The old man looks a little abashed. "Mrs Bywater over in Staddle fell an' broke
her leg, they reckon it was all them hobbit-childer usin' the Hill for sledgin'
..." He screws up his brows in thought as he tries to dredge up anything more.
"Oh, an' yesterday some feller came in from Archet, said there's trouble up
that way. But they're queer-like, Archet folks, that's nothing new." He shrugs,
his fount of 'news' apparently at an end. "Ye know of anythin' more, Mister
Spinney?" the old man queries Anscombe, the strain of standing here with his
staff at his feet making polite conversation with an eagle showing in the
trembling of his limbs.
[Iavasuial(#26974)]
"Ans-com," Iavasuial repeats, leaving no room for argument. After all,
she's right. "No, no baking! This is not important for me, neither is the
falling over.. but trouble- this is interesting of me. Is there only trouble
with Breemen? Not with outside-men, or.." Iavasuial pauses; if she had lips,
she would frown. "Hrm. I donot think I linger here now. I am sorry for making
your worries and for stopping your walk." Massive wings spread in a fan of ruby
and gold. "I shall watch the roads for you while I am nearby to Bree,
Bramblefleexe and Ash-com. I shall noteat the sheep. Farewell and fair winds-
until your eyries recieve you!"
A might downstroke pushes her first into the air- snow tumbling from
the trees and blowing all about from the force of the wind created by her
wings. Another beat and she is higher- pushing through the small opening and
snapping sticks and branches on her ascent. Soon she is clear of the forest and
away- higher and circling slowly overhead.
[Anscombe(#20501)] Following the Eagle's ascent with his eyes, Anscombe lifts
his head up and takes several steps backward, butting directly into a trunk
behind him. He watches the creature in flight as it rises higher into the sky,
his jaw dropping open once again. Eventually he blinks several times and lowers
his eyes to Hugh, a look of absolute incredulity on his face. "How on /earth/,
did you come to meet with ... /that/?"
The buffeting of the air by mighty wings knocks Hugh to the ground, and he
remains there, mouth agape, as Iavasuial wends her way up through the trees. He
closes it a moment later, spitting out a small fragment of twig, and gropes
hastily for his staff. "Well ..."
By the time he's got back to his feet, he's regaining a little of his former
confidence. "It was like this, see. I was out checkin' on the flocks, when that
... that critter landed in me field an' tried to make off with one o' my sheep.
An' I was just so angry that I marched right up and waved me staff at it, told
it to stop right there. The critter backed down at once, of course." Hugh beams
proudly at his little fabrication, then goes on knowledgeably, "It's like dogs,
see. You've got to face 'em down, make sure they know who's boss." Hugh nods
sagely at this piece of imparted wisdom, even if it's ludicrous to think he or
anyone else in Bree would 'face down' a creature the size of Iavasuial.
A moment later he clears his throat and suggests, "Maybe we should be gettin'
back, see what's happened to those good-fer-nothin' grandsons of mine." The
wood-piled sled is left where it lies, for collection later on. Hugh takes a
few steps, then thinks of something else. "Just one thing, Mister Spinney. If
ye breath a word to anyone about me talkin' to birds ..." The threat is left
hanging.
[Anscombe(#20501)] Anscombe receives the speech with his bewildered facial
expression unaffected, and nods vacantly. He doesn't appear to hear the threat,
and is instead hastily surveying the surrounding forest for any other possibly
suspicious forms. Finding himself facing Hugh, he replies, "Yes, let's get out
of here." Neglecting to wait for the man, he hurriedly starts off down the path
from whence he came.
=== Hugh's DESC ==============================================================
A first glance at this man reveals that he's broad of shoulder and girth, and
perhaps an inch or two shorter than average for a Bree man - though that could
simply be the burden of age, for his shoulders are slightly stooped, and his
gnarled hands are most often curled about a stout crooked wooden staff. Despite
that, his movements are sprightly, and the twinkle in his brown eyes bespeaks a
lively mind. His face, what little of it can be seen, is seamed and weathered
like an old oak from time spent outdoors ... the remainder being hidden by a
bushy beard. This, like his hair, is snowy white, and tangled as a bird's nest.
He's clad in simple homespun garments - dirty linen shirt tucked into a pair of
oily brown trews, in turn tucked into strong leather boots. A fleece rests
across his shoulders for added warmth in all but the warmest weather.
==============================================================================
=== Anscombe's DESC ==========================================================
Composed before you is the figure of a young man who looks to have weathered
some twenty years, and a glance at his slender, slouching frame suggests that
each one was spent for the most part indoors. A creature of seeming poor
proportion, his slender, over-long arms are drawn about his chest defensively,
indicating a self-consciousness toward a burgeoning pot belly. Close-cropped
brown hair sits atop a thin, somewhat crudely featured clean-shaven face,
defined by a high forehead and a heavy set of lips. Dark eyebrows crest a pair
of wide, retiring green eyes, the coolness of which convey an aloofness born of
inveterate diffidence.
He is dressed in neat clothes of fabrics neither simple nor expensive, a light
leather jerkin, stiff breeches, and a rough white cotton shirt with the sleeves
drawn back to the elbows. A black cloak is draped across his shoulders. Wound
loosely about the length of his left forearm is a thin leather cord, attached
to which is a small green pendant, fashioned in the shape of an ellipse. It
hangs heavily at his wrist, caught up absently in a pale fist.
==============================================================================