It's what's inside that counts.

[TheBrogueadier]

Some people like to be different, to stand out, to be unique.

Others stare into mirrors, try different clothes, hairstyles, and friends or spend their lives flitting from place to place franticly trying to find themselves.

“Personal Growth”

The customs official nodded and ticked the last part of the immigration documents before waving Sulfur off of the wharf and on into the thronging port town.

Sulfur would have had trouble standing out in an almost empty room, his looks verged on the good side of average, his mousy blonde hair had a slight curl to it and his chin was adorned with a slight stubbly beard, but overall the effect was one of almost total genericness. Amongst the multitude on the docks he was lost utterly, a pink smudge of forgettable humanity amongst an already faceless crowd.

He wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Life wasn’t about standing out or shouting about uniqueness, everyone is unique. As for finding yourself, you simply needed to accept that it was you that was looking, much like the great oaks of the forest you could change the colour of your clothes, a different outfit for each season, you would always be the same thing underneath.

The trick wasn’t finding yourself, but knowing that you’d never been lost to begin with.

[TheBrogueadier]

Sulfur glared around at the faces of the people around the Exigo camp fire.

Those who supported the great merchant companies attempts at despoiling the wild places.

Some of the people here he would have called friend; Kiira, the brave and sarcastic fighter, Vanessa, the innocent. But through apathy and inaction they supported his enemies, and for that they would be as liable for Exigo’s great debts as the companies founders.

As if sensing his thoughts the owner of the lap he was sitting in stirred, flattening his ears in a satisfying manner before stroking down his back, despite himself he purred and headbutted the hand happily.

Maybe he could wait a little longer..

[TheBrogueadier]

The dragon lounged across the rock it’s scales almost glowing in the warm morning light, a ruby bright stain spread across the dull grey of the stone. One lazy eye watched the meatlings as they fussed to and fro within the distant encampment preparing for the day.

Butchers hung braces of game on the front of their stalls, fresh rabbits, pheasants, and small deer set out to grab the eye and bring in the punters, below the flash meats the more mundane, beef, pork and poultry. The majority of the meats were peasant cuts; stomach in vinegar, hocks and knuckles, ground up leftovers and stale bread stuffed into intestine, blood sausage and black puddings, sweat meats, hearts and tongues.

A small army of fruit and vegetable sellers competed for the most eye catching display. Bulbous pumpkins and squashes were piled up to create bright walls of orange, gold, white, red and green. Marrows, carrots, potatoes, parsnips and mushrooms vied for space on countertops, while barrels of apples, pears and a dozen different types of berries filled out the remaining space.

Other sellers crowded around, baker’s assistants set out carts of fresh loaves and rolls while their masters argued prices with flour stained millers, coopers stood by carts loaded with barrels and boxes, weavers readied tight bundles of cloth and spun wool, smiths proudly displayed the product of their hard work and sweat.

Even this early in the morning the place was already teeming, by the time the sun was fully up the trading post would be a riot of traders and buyers with the blue uniformed guards struggling to watch over everyone.

The dragon watched the hubbub, committing where it could the faces and movements of certain people to memory – Those who arrived with carts of timber or smelted ingots, those who sold what they had stolen, not what they had made, those who took to much, those who would happily strip mine the country if that’s what made them money.

Money. Gold. The dragon stirred, stretching out its talons and wings. There would be a lot of money, a lot of gold and gems, trading hands down there today. Some of those people had no right to it; any profit they made would be from theft, true justice would be to take to the wing and swoop down on that trading post vomiting fire on all those who’d wronged the land, then it could soar on the thermals until the unworthy brought it more gold as tribute, perhaps a maiden or two.

The dragon stretched its wings wide, feeling the wind catch and stretch at the leathery flesh between the wings fingers. A thousand generations of this shape called at it, the racial memory of soaring through plumes of smoke, of dancing in the thermals generated by burning foes, of being worshiped and feared, of having sacrifices laid at its feet.

A mental image of the Keepers face crossed Sammal’s mind, the prospect of explaining why he’d set fire to a lot of innocents to that gently smiling face did a lot to dampen his desire to see Exigo burn.

The creature tensed for a moment, torn between its instincts and its mind. There would be time later for gold, time later for hunting and consuming the despised merchants. For now it settled for something that both the draconic instincts and the druidic mind found soothing. Sammal relaxed down onto the rock again, resuming his watch on the distant trading post, content enough for now to bask in the glory of a new day.

[TheBrogueadier]

The Watcher.

The great bear paced slowly back and forth, its matted hide scared with the memories of a hundred battles, some were fresh and raw, pink puckered lips of healing flesh while others ran as jagged lines of tight dark skin. Across its shoulders twisted bony growths sprouted up from its skin, nicks and marks crossed this natural amour, the occasional burnished metal glimmer of long since shot arrows shone amongst the thick bone.

The Watcher.

If it had known then what it knew now. If it had known that the figure who’d dared to steal into the sacred places of the Grove and spout such obvious lies and mistruths been harassing and stalking the Glades protectors for some time. The looks on Arawen, The Witch and Daeulus had said it all.

The one who’d claim to speak for the land, this spreader of lies and falsehood, this charlatan, brigand, coward, thief, sneak and stalker. The Watcher.

The bear had his scent, if not his face, and would find him again. This time there would be no warnings, no conversation. The Watcher would pay for his lies and for his crimes against the Grove.