A stranger. (Sell him the postcards!)
From a fair distance, there is what appears to be some sort of poor, lost, injured boy making his way through town. On closer inspection this is hardly the case, because while the figure is limping, it's not from the long journey: he's limping because he does. And he's hunched over not from hunger, or a chill, but because he is. And he hasn't been a boy for years.
He's wearing a shirt that probably wasn't even white when he got it, but may have been made from shirts that were at one point white. It can now best be described as 'neutral'. His trousers, likewise, are 'dark' and held up by suspenders and cuffed. Whoever owned them previously was taller. He's wearing a Greek fisherman's cap over his wild black hair, and pulled down low over his wild dark eyes. The overall effect makes him look a bit like a chorus boy in the world's most goth production of Fiddler On The Roof. The skin all the way around his neck is a raw, angry red, as is the skin around his wrists. This may be why he's swearing to himself in German. Well, no. He's swearing to himself in German because German is an excellent language for swearing in. It has words like: dreigroschennutte. And: saupillermannarschloch. And: arbeitslos. That last one stings. Occupied as his thoughts are, the new arrival doesn't seem too concerned about where he is. Or for that matter: isn't. He has been walking for days, and a town is a town, and his shoulder feels off from wriggling out of his bonds to cut himself down from the noose.
And so the population of Haurvatat has increased by one walking dead man.
He's wearing a shirt that probably wasn't even white when he got it, but may have been made from shirts that were at one point white. It can now best be described as 'neutral'. His trousers, likewise, are 'dark' and held up by suspenders and cuffed. Whoever owned them previously was taller. He's wearing a Greek fisherman's cap over his wild black hair, and pulled down low over his wild dark eyes. The overall effect makes him look a bit like a chorus boy in the world's most goth production of Fiddler On The Roof. The skin all the way around his neck is a raw, angry red, as is the skin around his wrists. This may be why he's swearing to himself in German. Well, no. He's swearing to himself in German because German is an excellent language for swearing in. It has words like: dreigroschennutte. And: saupillermannarschloch. And: arbeitslos. That last one stings. Occupied as his thoughts are, the new arrival doesn't seem too concerned about where he is. Or for that matter: isn't. He has been walking for days, and a town is a town, and his shoulder feels off from wriggling out of his bonds to cut himself down from the noose.
And so the population of Haurvatat has increased by one walking dead man.