x_king

Cycladese was a Hopolite - a heavy infantryman. In one hand, he bore a long spear with a iron tip and in the other, he brandished a shield that sported numerous decorative engravings and glittering gems. A billowing jade-coloured cape hung from his shoulders upto his leather-shod feet, while a glistening breastplate of steel was strapped tightly to his chest. He wore a metal skirt around his waist. A sheathed Gladius dangled precariously from his hip. Cycladese was heavily built, and had only a smattering of facial hair on his chin and above his lips. His hair was dark and curly, and his complexion fair.

((Imagine a Spartan, basically))

He ambled down the avenue, spear slung across his back. The pedestrians would often veer and give him queer looks, but Cycladese did not care. He disliked the Elven City and its towering marble edifices. He prefered the stone hovels of his own township to the brilliant white plazas and palaces of Green Grass Avenue. He was many miles from home, but the fire in his sinews had not yet been doused. A long scar ran along the length of his arm, a faded souvenir from a war that was now mere antiquity. His eyes looked like painted glass - they remained dull and emotionless - as he walked along the cobbled thoroughfare. He saw a man reposing beneath the far reaching boughs of a giant fig tree (After all, the plant drew its nutrition and water from the enchanted lake and was blessed with preternatural robustness).

"Figs are deemed sacred in my land." said Cycladese, trying to initiate a conversation. "But even there, with wanton care and provisioning, they do not grow to such monstrous proportions."

He smacked the rugged bark of the tree with his palm, as though demonstrating the sturdiness of its trunk.