(( My god, there're so many Kaj's...
That's what I get for making a furry race. >.>'
*Ahem.*
Anyway, starting post! Those that're thinking of characters can still join during the early stages. ))
Bugger.
That was all that could run through the young prince's mind (Allthough he dbouted he could be classed as a prince anymore.) As he stumbled across the lush green fields of the midlands. His eye was throbbing like crazy - mercifully he had encountered a merchant who he bought an eyepatch on. He had yet to look at himself in a mirror, but he hoped that the eyepatch atleast made him look handsome in a rugged way.
He nearly burst into laughter as he tried to imagine himself as a rugged warrior, and shook his head.
Over the horizon, the slum-city of Qal stood: Billowing smoke from the more industrial-ized parts of the city rose into the sky, steam and coal-powered engines doing their work. He had allways had an odd fascination with the Northlander's grasp on technology, it was... Impressive, to say the least.
As he reached the town, he gripped his rapier by his side. Slightly weary about the stories he had heard. He hoped that the fact his eye was removed, and the state he was in physically after nearly dieing at the fate of many assassins and soldiers, would cover up the fact most people he met recognised him as a prince.
Kilav shook his head, stepping into a musky alleyway of the slums. He looked down to the gold pouch he had at his side. It hung looseley from his belt, and nearly bulged with it's contents. He subtley slipped it into his pocket to protect it from pick-pocketers. He supposed that would keep him going for a year or so, but what would he do then? Perhaps he could become a mercenary - or an assassin of sorts. The prince shook his head at the idea of killing for money, that wasn't the life he wanted. Allthough he had been forced to kill, he had never enjoyed it.
He blinked, becoming snapped from his thoughts as he bumped into a Northlander, who was obviously drunk. He was about 3 foot in size, but incredibly muscular. The Prince had heard more than enough stories of their mighty strength to know that he shoudln't mess with them.
"Oi! Whurr do y' think y' goin, lanky shit!" He bellowed at Kilav - his Slum-accent standing profoundly out. The Prince grimaced, before raising a hand defensiveley.
"I didn't mean no harm, I just wanted to p-" He then leapt over a swipe, the fist of the Northlander ending up in the wood - and through it, splinters flying everywhere. In a blurr of motion, Kilav drew his rapier, swerved behind the Northlander, and placed the side of the weapon to his throat. "I suggest you run. Quickly."
He seathed his weapon, and the Northlander grumbled - quickly embrarrased by the ease at which the Prince had put him in a life-or-death position, and decided to keep walking.
Eventually, he found a bar, deciding to rest his legs, he opened the door. The air was musky and old, thick with smoke from goodness knows where. Despite the dangerous air inside it - rugged adventurers, theives, murderers, and death-dealers, Kilav found the inn suprisingly warm. And reveled in the refuge that came with it. He sat at the bar, carefull to stick to the corners so that he wasn't noticed.
|