The city had once been a great and bustling place. Now it was mostly a ruins, with a few people here and there eeking out a miserable life on the rim of a crater where the town had once stood. A population of hundreds, possibly a thousand people was now a few dozen people at most.
Signs of fire damage and of general decay were everywhere. The town had been at the edge of a desert. It was now being devoured by it.
The damage was at least a decade old, possibly closer to two, and the few people remaining had a hard wary look about them.
They didn't seem to like strangers, and glared from behind windows in the few houses that were liveable. People who could afford to fix their homes generally chose to spend that money elsewhere. So he would have drawn attention very soon after arriving. Not that anyone would approach him.
But he wouldn't be the only stranger for long. Two - or depending how you counted it, three - people were walking into town from the direction of the not so distant ocean. Its salt was on the breeze, damp sand mixing with dry. Arid winds mingled with wet winds making the whole place feel unnatural and wrong.
But if this town was unnatural, the people approaching might be even more so.
The most immediately noticeable was an older man who carried his years with strength and pride. He was clearly aged, but he was just as clearly formidable. Not someone with whom one might wish to tangle. Especially once one noticed his eyes. They were sewn shut. They eyelids bulged as if there were still eyes behind them, but the stitches were old and long since healed over. Despite this, he moved as if sighted, and wasn't the one using the walking stick.
The one with the walking stick was a young woman, possibly in her early teens. She was in a dark blue dress with gold trim, a matching scarf around the lower half of her face to keep the sand out of her mouth. Where the old man was pale with white hair to his shoulders, she was dark skinned with brown hair that carried just a faint hint of red.
What made her stand out, though, with the man there to steal attention, was the walking stick she held. She didn't grip it by the rounded top, but by the shaft, keeping the bottom from striking the ground. The top of the cane had a man's face on it, the rounded part his bald head. He even had a long drooping white mustache, and of the three, it was the man-headed cane who seemed to have noticed the other stranger first. The edges of the mustache curled as he watched the new person carefully.
Re: PSL - A wandering Cepter (WARNING FOR VOLUME 5 SPOILERS!)
Signs of fire damage and of general decay were everywhere. The town had been at the edge of a desert. It was now being devoured by it.
The damage was at least a decade old, possibly closer to two, and the few people remaining had a hard wary look about them.
They didn't seem to like strangers, and glared from behind windows in the few houses that were liveable. People who could afford to fix their homes generally chose to spend that money elsewhere. So he would have drawn attention very soon after arriving. Not that anyone would approach him.
But he wouldn't be the only stranger for long. Two - or depending how you counted it, three - people were walking into town from the direction of the not so distant ocean. Its salt was on the breeze, damp sand mixing with dry. Arid winds mingled with wet winds making the whole place feel unnatural and wrong.
But if this town was unnatural, the people approaching might be even more so.
The most immediately noticeable was an older man who carried his years with strength and pride. He was clearly aged, but he was just as clearly formidable. Not someone with whom one might wish to tangle. Especially once one noticed his eyes. They were sewn shut. They eyelids bulged as if there were still eyes behind them, but the stitches were old and long since healed over. Despite this, he moved as if sighted, and wasn't the one using the walking stick.
The one with the walking stick was a young woman, possibly in her early teens. She was in a dark blue dress with gold trim, a matching scarf around the lower half of her face to keep the sand out of her mouth. Where the old man was pale with white hair to his shoulders, she was dark skinned with brown hair that carried just a faint hint of red.
What made her stand out, though, with the man there to steal attention, was the walking stick she held. She didn't grip it by the rounded top, but by the shaft, keeping the bottom from striking the ground. The top of the cane had a man's face on it, the rounded part his bald head. He even had a long drooping white mustache, and of the three, it was the man-headed cane who seemed to have noticed the other stranger first. The edges of the mustache curled as he watched the new person carefully.