Tragedy beckons... yet another Arthurian
He comes walking, limping, rather, covered in rags, tattered. His face is dark with soot and filth. His walking stick hits the ground with a thud, for every step he takes. Yet there is, in the eye of the leper, something cunning and melancholy that belies his apparently morbid state. He walks slowly, though he has no need to. His back is bent, but his shoulders are wide. His hair, red and curly, beautiful locks of copper, are marred with leaves and dirt, covered in something dark, defacing him.
There is, in the way he goes, a sort of nonchalance that is atypical for an indigent. Something which cannot be named otherwise than by words of strength radiates from him, though he stumbles on his way, maybe apurpose.
Suddenly, the scenery changes. The marshes he left behind, suddenly are replaced with a forest, different from the one he knows, mysterious and untold.
“Alas, I must have taken a wrong turn,” he murmurs to himself as he looks over his shoulder, for one last glimpse of her. “Ogrin’s home cannot be in such a place.”
He turns, and walks, a bit more hurriedly now, for his new beginning is on the rise, and he must not miss his chance. Upon seeing the large home, he stops, and sighs, though he resumes his pantomime, bends a little more, adjusts his tattered cloak so as to hide the hilt of his sword, his quiver and bow.
Truly, he must have gotten lost. In truth, it doesn’t really matter, but he maintains the mascarade for the sake of it. He just gave up all that was truly worth living a moment ago. He engages, hoping to find perhaps shelter for the night, until he starts on the road again.
So, we give you Tristan, of the Tristan and Isolde romance. He is taken from Béroul’s version of the tale, has thus never met any Arthurian knights save for Ywain and Arthur, and just gave Isolde over to Marc at the Mal Pas. In Béroul, the love potion’s effect just ended, but the love now lingers, as it has grown over the three years, naturally. Needless to say, this is one wretched knight we have here. Come say hello!
There is, in the way he goes, a sort of nonchalance that is atypical for an indigent. Something which cannot be named otherwise than by words of strength radiates from him, though he stumbles on his way, maybe apurpose.
Suddenly, the scenery changes. The marshes he left behind, suddenly are replaced with a forest, different from the one he knows, mysterious and untold.
“Alas, I must have taken a wrong turn,” he murmurs to himself as he looks over his shoulder, for one last glimpse of her. “Ogrin’s home cannot be in such a place.”
He turns, and walks, a bit more hurriedly now, for his new beginning is on the rise, and he must not miss his chance. Upon seeing the large home, he stops, and sighs, though he resumes his pantomime, bends a little more, adjusts his tattered cloak so as to hide the hilt of his sword, his quiver and bow.
Truly, he must have gotten lost. In truth, it doesn’t really matter, but he maintains the mascarade for the sake of it. He just gave up all that was truly worth living a moment ago. He engages, hoping to find perhaps shelter for the night, until he starts on the road again.
So, we give you Tristan, of the Tristan and Isolde romance. He is taken from Béroul’s version of the tale, has thus never met any Arthurian knights save for Ywain and Arthur, and just gave Isolde over to Marc at the Mal Pas. In Béroul, the love potion’s effect just ended, but the love now lingers, as it has grown over the three years, naturally. Needless to say, this is one wretched knight we have here. Come say hello!