SHORT STORIES

Feeling the Wind's swaddle loosen, the tylwyth lurches forward, his right gauntlet clasped firmly shut. Throwing himself flat to the stones beneath him, mail scraping and equipment clattering as he lands. Only allowing himself a moment to gasp at the air before shifting to the edge of safety. The shouting had scarcely quieted even from the height this perch offered. The cretin of Geb, now scarlet faced, blustering at a pair of more capable fellows of his race whilst thrashing a longbow clutched in a meaty claw of a hand. Their disdain at this man for dirtying the garb of a guardsman with spittle and from his manner clear from even here, as he continues to stab his digits angled above and around them. This sentiment seemingly shared by the rest of the denizens of the trade quarter amongst others, with looks and hubbub joining the mix. As the pair of men turn to leave the shouting reaches its peak, with the implement fruitlessly chasing after them. Still fuming, he turns to waddle toward another of his race, the man squatting low to the pave as he watches, bedecked in heavy furs with a quiver of bolts in one hand and an oddly similar tool in the other. With the approaching footfalls ringing off the cobbles beneath, the tylwyth withdraws from the lip of the roof. Clawing his way forward until finding shelter under the shadow of an adjoining building. Indigence threatening to spill from below with its incessance. Carefully propping himself up back first to this temporary sanctuary, he spares a final glance to these mites of Geb. A pang of regret striking out, stopping him as his grasp finally loosens from this culmination. Loosing a harsh sigh stolen from the wind, he stares down, the fabric of his shaded violet shroud sagging to reveal his hands, dulled mail rings covering them. His left thumb worrying at a strand of banded auburn material wrapped around his right wrist, contrasting its opposite of virt, both of them peeking from under simple metallic bracers. Squeezing his eyes shut, the tylwyth sets to tender thanks for this fleeting reprieve, only to stop, a zephyr tugging at him. Interrupted, he watches the hem of the cloth flitter momentarily. He lifts his empty hand above his head peering at it through both the slits of his helm and veil to see yet another source of distaste amongst many. The thread of the sleeve danced, never refusing the behest, a far-cry of its once regal self. Colour worn and thread frayed, barely traces left of a pattern. Surrendering the limb to the ludic force, his attention comes to rest on the pouch sat squarely in his palm, still waiting and bulging at the seams. Pulling at the string with a finger before tipping it into a tepid grasp. Thumbing through the gold pieces, the count barely reaching two dozen until a weariness returns them back to their vessel and is tucked away into a secreted pocket within the tattered shawl. It soon would be time to set out from this place. The few craftsmen here had nothing left to give up, nor were there tales left to chase, but just maybe the continuing clamour from below was an excuse to chance at what passes for rest. Drawing the wrappings in neatly as they allowed over his exposed limbs, half lidded eyes peering up at the open sky. The colour eliciting the most foul aspect of this plane, if however, its depths betraying a kaleidoscope of ambrosias. Perhaps he'd gather some modest comfort with this bounty before parting. Nuzzling against the collar of his garb, any remote interest of these lands was fading as well as the prodding of the Wind. Vestiges of strength left and vision refuting all urging. The summons to sleep beyond a compulsion.