Richor can't say he's exceedingly pleased to be in the predicament he's in. Between descendants of mer, changelings, and the undead, Richor had his hands full back home and he still has much to do back there in Dyrne. The last thing he remembers is walking out to the ocean to meet the foremothers of his companion, so close to to his goal, to the city where there's documents hidden, guarded, about Richor's special circumstances.
Ah, well. The path to self-discovery is momentarily blocked and so is his link with the rain. He wishes he could hear it still, the way it chimed in his ear when attacks were about to come and its constant companionship during long, hard nights. He could spend hours talking to the rain, his closest love, but here? Here the rain is gone. It's nothing. He hopes its alright back in Dyrne. In the moment, Richor has more pressing matters to attend to, matters of arming himself and running away from these who seem to be determined to lop off his neck with nary more than a seconds thought. Richor has never been one for excess violence, more the peacekeeper now than he was when he was younger, but there's something in the air that tells Richor that violence and blood is going to be unavoidable.
There's no need for the rain to tell him that. Richor isn't stupid-- in fact, he's built his life around being smart. A sellsword, a vagabond. You can't do either of those if you're too dumb to avoid deep waters and deep forests.
Richor has his eyes on a pretty little blade up by the cornucopia but rationally he knows he'll need the supplies more. He's given a cursory glance around the arena only to find he's unfamiliar with seemingly every plant around him, every tree. There's no doubt about it: he'll need everything besides the sword first. The-- what looks like to be-- medical supplies and a bedroll. Just one. Richor can do that. Laying down knuckle has never been something Richor shied away from and while he'll avoid using his fists if he can, Richor knows what he needs. He'll take the risk of death to get it.
The dangerous animals? Those just add to the fun. He's never missed the rain and its warnings more.
Richor | OC | OTA
Ah, well. The path to self-discovery is momentarily blocked and so is his link with the rain. He wishes he could hear it still, the way it chimed in his ear when attacks were about to come and its constant companionship during long, hard nights. He could spend hours talking to the rain, his closest love, but here? Here the rain is gone. It's nothing. He hopes its alright back in Dyrne. In the moment, Richor has more pressing matters to attend to, matters of arming himself and running away from these who seem to be determined to lop off his neck with nary more than a seconds thought. Richor has never been one for excess violence, more the peacekeeper now than he was when he was younger, but there's something in the air that tells Richor that violence and blood is going to be unavoidable.
There's no need for the rain to tell him that. Richor isn't stupid-- in fact, he's built his life around being smart. A sellsword, a vagabond. You can't do either of those if you're too dumb to avoid deep waters and deep forests.
Richor has his eyes on a pretty little blade up by the cornucopia but rationally he knows he'll need the supplies more. He's given a cursory glance around the arena only to find he's unfamiliar with seemingly every plant around him, every tree. There's no doubt about it: he'll need everything besides the sword first. The-- what looks like to be-- medical supplies and a bedroll. Just one. Richor can do that. Laying down knuckle has never been something Richor shied away from and while he'll avoid using his fists if he can, Richor knows what he needs. He'll take the risk of death to get it.
The dangerous animals? Those just add to the fun. He's never missed the rain and its warnings more.