Raymond.
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
Raymond laughed heartily as Quinn took the story and ran with it in good humor. "Likewise, Quinn." There were few things that the red stallion enjoyed more than an engaging story, and truth in the matter was entirely optional (while truth is usually stranger than fiction, it's not always more entertaining - so it goes). Had he walked any other path in life, he would probably have found his happiness in the bardic way of life: jovial, bombastic, and lyrical.
Instead he merely entertained the hobby, stealing what few moments he could to build rapport with someone else by making them smile. He didn't regret the loss - it had burned to ash before he'd ever tasted its like for himself - but at times like this he wondered how different his path might have looked had he been allowed to entertain purely for the art rather than for social currency.
Ah, well.
"He had magic feet indeed," Raymond replied emphatically. The truth of it was that Old Uncle Sorrel had indeed been a fixture in the red stallion's youth, and before he'd gone long in the tooth and rather broad in the beam he had been one of the most graceful and deadliest dancers the clan had. His bladework couldn't have been better than average, but step into the ring with Silky Sorrel and you'd find out pretty quickly it didn't matter. You'd be cutting nothing but the breeze as he racked up points against you. But that was before his time; for Raymond, he'd always been Old Uncle Sorrel.
He continued, his voice growing somewhat more serious, "I was born to the blade, as are all my kind." It was the first time he had referred to the rendari aloud as his kind, but whatever the past he could not forsake his own blood.
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
Raymond laughed heartily as Quinn took the story and ran with it in good humor. "Likewise, Quinn." There were few things that the red stallion enjoyed more than an engaging story, and truth in the matter was entirely optional (while truth is usually stranger than fiction, it's not always more entertaining - so it goes). Had he walked any other path in life, he would probably have found his happiness in the bardic way of life: jovial, bombastic, and lyrical.
Instead he merely entertained the hobby, stealing what few moments he could to build rapport with someone else by making them smile. He didn't regret the loss - it had burned to ash before he'd ever tasted its like for himself - but at times like this he wondered how different his path might have looked had he been allowed to entertain purely for the art rather than for social currency.
Ah, well.
"He had magic feet indeed," Raymond replied emphatically. The truth of it was that Old Uncle Sorrel had indeed been a fixture in the red stallion's youth, and before he'd gone long in the tooth and rather broad in the beam he had been one of the most graceful and deadliest dancers the clan had. His bladework couldn't have been better than average, but step into the ring with Silky Sorrel and you'd find out pretty quickly it didn't matter. You'd be cutting nothing but the breeze as he racked up points against you. But that was before his time; for Raymond, he'd always been Old Uncle Sorrel.
He continued, his voice growing somewhat more serious, "I was born to the blade, as are all my kind." It was the first time he had referred to the rendari aloud as his kind, but whatever the past he could not forsake his own blood.
@Quinn
aut viam inveniam aut faciam
