Among his kind, seeing an armed individual out and about was as normal as breathing. With the exception of war veterans who had paid the price of victory (or defeat) with their blades and those for whom the maintenance of a scythe was more work than the tool was actually worth. They dulled their scythes rather than whetting them, a peculiar but not unwelcome sight.
Dedication was the rendari virtue of choice, not deadliness.
In essence, when you live in tornado country, the iron-grey anviltop brewing on the distant horizon may indeed be far more dire a warning than stormclouds elsewhere, but such danger becomes commonplace. Given time and exposure, even the Apocalypse starts to look like just another day on the beat.
But sometime around Raymond's fifth birthday he'd left tornado country solidly behind him. Quinn could be forgiven for never having seen a rendari warrior before, and the red stallion did not begrudge him a double take.
He met the young stallion's eye, grinning warmly. "Oh no," he chuckled. "When I was a stripling, I would hide behind my Old Uncle Sorrel while playing tag with the other foals. He was a big lug of a stallion and gentle as can be. But wouldn't you know it, one day as I was taking shelter good Old Uncle Sorrel took a step back and landed square on the tip of my tail, flattening it like a cow chip." He waved the blade theatrically. "It's grown this way ever since."
Perhaps one would find it rude to deflect an honest question with a dishonest tale, but Raymond was as much a performer as he was a fighter, and he meant it in the most good-natured of ways. He loved a good yarn, and the truth of a story was always the listener's decision.
"The name's Raymond. I don't think I've seen your face before, friend."
Dedication was the rendari virtue of choice, not deadliness.
In essence, when you live in tornado country, the iron-grey anviltop brewing on the distant horizon may indeed be far more dire a warning than stormclouds elsewhere, but such danger becomes commonplace. Given time and exposure, even the Apocalypse starts to look like just another day on the beat.
But sometime around Raymond's fifth birthday he'd left tornado country solidly behind him. Quinn could be forgiven for never having seen a rendari warrior before, and the red stallion did not begrudge him a double take.
He met the young stallion's eye, grinning warmly. "Oh no," he chuckled. "When I was a stripling, I would hide behind my Old Uncle Sorrel while playing tag with the other foals. He was a big lug of a stallion and gentle as can be. But wouldn't you know it, one day as I was taking shelter good Old Uncle Sorrel took a step back and landed square on the tip of my tail, flattening it like a cow chip." He waved the blade theatrically. "It's grown this way ever since."
Perhaps one would find it rude to deflect an honest question with a dishonest tale, but Raymond was as much a performer as he was a fighter, and he meant it in the most good-natured of ways. He loved a good yarn, and the truth of a story was always the listener's decision.
"The name's Raymond. I don't think I've seen your face before, friend."
Raymond.
"he's an outlaw loose and runnin'," came the whisper from each lip
"and he's here to do some business with the big iron on his hip."
"he's an outlaw loose and runnin'," came the whisper from each lip
"and he's here to do some business with the big iron on his hip."
@Quinn <333
aut viam inveniam aut faciam
