10-15-2013, 08:29 AM
Further reading:
The Cycle of the Duskrunner - How Fala'thorei became a Demon Hunter.
The Diary of the Duskrunner - Book I, and other notes.
Fala'thorei sat atop the ridge overlooking Booty Bay, his hood down now that he was away from the prying eyes of the port. The autumnal breeze wafted pleasantly through his hair as he surveyed the sights and sounds of the Bay from afar. He placed a roughly chewed cigar into his mouth, lighting it with a flicker of fel-fire from his fingertips. It had been two years since he'd last seen been here, and the town seemed to have recovered well from the plague that had ravaged it. He blew a billow of acrid smoke out, watching as it danced away on the air.
He was still unsure whether he was glad to be back or not, he reflected. The pressures and grievances of those he had known had made him leave. But the sights of this world, even to his spectral vision, were more than welcoming after two years spent on the broken world of Draenor. It was dark tidings, too, that had brought him back. His homeland torn asunder, those he once knew likely dead.
His father had been dead for more than three years now, his mother for three millenia. He had no real ties to this world any more, but still from the instant he had heard the news he had known that he had to return to see the destruction for himself. He puffed on the remainder of his cigar and extinguished it on the ground. It had been his first purchase when he had arrived. He rummaged in a satchel at his belt to pull out his second - a stack of papers.
He had spent all of the previous day writing, and his hand still ached slightly from the repetitions. The scent of the felhound blood he had used as ink made his nostrils twitch. A necessity to allow him to read his own writing. He flipped through the stack, each bearing his own untidy scrawl, each page with the same content, and each page with a different name on top. He reread one to be sure of the wording, although repetition had etched the words into his mind, and it was too late to change it.
He sighed, setting the pages aside. He'd spent the better part of a day and a night writing all of them, but now doubt had crept into his mind. Was it worth the risk? Or the expense? Several dozen letters, each with a handful of copies to be sent to various inns, homesteads and former meeting places, now likely two years out of date. Some of his former friends were likely dead. More too were likely changed beyond recognition. Humans changed quickly, he though glumly.
He pulled out his pistol and idly began disassembling it to clean it. I've changed too, he reflected. Two years on Outland had thought him new skills. He had honed his craft to near perfection. He had gained much more control over his emotions. The demon bound to his own soul was no longer as volatile, and it had been over a year since his last transformation. He had even taken to gunsmithing, in an effort to improve his efficiency on the hunt. The loss of his natural vision had made his judgement of distance too poor to shoot a bow, and so he now relied on a rather bulky handmade pistol to dispatch his prey from a distance.
He set about cleaning his gun's barrel with a shred of ragged cloth, and looked down at the Bay once more. A ship was mooring down by the docks, and he wondered if it was his own. He had booked passage the day before with some rather unsavoury types, set to depart within a few days. By avoiding the main passenger ships, he hoped to keep a somewhat lower profile than usual. He wondered yet again whether he'd meet any of his old companions along the way, and whether or not they would even receive his letters.
Fala'thorei began to reassemble his gun once he had finished, carefully placing springs and levers back into their correct positions. He remembered that he needed to sharpen his glaives, but that would have to wait for a more secluded spot. The sound of ringing steel would likely attract unwanted attention. He stood up, folding his letters back away and re-holstering his gun. He picked up the heavy bow-shaped bag that contained his glaives and hoisted it onto his shoulder with a grunt. Tugging his hood up, he turned for one last look at Booty Bay from above.
Screw it, I'll post them, he thought, and trudged down the hill towards the town gate.
((OOC Note: Basically Fala's sent off a bunch of letters in the hopes of tracking down some of the characters he used to hang with. Drop him a line if you fancy a bit of a reunion!
))
The Cycle of the Duskrunner - How Fala'thorei became a Demon Hunter.
The Diary of the Duskrunner - Book I, and other notes.
---
Fala'thorei sat atop the ridge overlooking Booty Bay, his hood down now that he was away from the prying eyes of the port. The autumnal breeze wafted pleasantly through his hair as he surveyed the sights and sounds of the Bay from afar. He placed a roughly chewed cigar into his mouth, lighting it with a flicker of fel-fire from his fingertips. It had been two years since he'd last seen been here, and the town seemed to have recovered well from the plague that had ravaged it. He blew a billow of acrid smoke out, watching as it danced away on the air.
He was still unsure whether he was glad to be back or not, he reflected. The pressures and grievances of those he had known had made him leave. But the sights of this world, even to his spectral vision, were more than welcoming after two years spent on the broken world of Draenor. It was dark tidings, too, that had brought him back. His homeland torn asunder, those he once knew likely dead.
His father had been dead for more than three years now, his mother for three millenia. He had no real ties to this world any more, but still from the instant he had heard the news he had known that he had to return to see the destruction for himself. He puffed on the remainder of his cigar and extinguished it on the ground. It had been his first purchase when he had arrived. He rummaged in a satchel at his belt to pull out his second - a stack of papers.
He had spent all of the previous day writing, and his hand still ached slightly from the repetitions. The scent of the felhound blood he had used as ink made his nostrils twitch. A necessity to allow him to read his own writing. He flipped through the stack, each bearing his own untidy scrawl, each page with the same content, and each page with a different name on top. He reread one to be sure of the wording, although repetition had etched the words into his mind, and it was too late to change it.
Quote:Dear ________
I hope this letter finds you well. It has been quite some time since we last met, as I was absent from the world. I have returned for some time, though I cannot say how long. I plan to travel by road from the Portal to Booty Bay, and from there find a ship to take me across the sea. I will then go by land from Ratchet to my former homeland. If you wish to get in contact, meet me at one of the inns along the way. I will travel slowly. If you cannot make it there but wish to get in contact, please send a letter to one of the inns. I will inquire in each one. Once again I hope you are well and healthy. Duskwood seems relatively peaceful.
Yours Sincerely,
Fala'thorei Duskrunner.
He sighed, setting the pages aside. He'd spent the better part of a day and a night writing all of them, but now doubt had crept into his mind. Was it worth the risk? Or the expense? Several dozen letters, each with a handful of copies to be sent to various inns, homesteads and former meeting places, now likely two years out of date. Some of his former friends were likely dead. More too were likely changed beyond recognition. Humans changed quickly, he though glumly.
He pulled out his pistol and idly began disassembling it to clean it. I've changed too, he reflected. Two years on Outland had thought him new skills. He had honed his craft to near perfection. He had gained much more control over his emotions. The demon bound to his own soul was no longer as volatile, and it had been over a year since his last transformation. He had even taken to gunsmithing, in an effort to improve his efficiency on the hunt. The loss of his natural vision had made his judgement of distance too poor to shoot a bow, and so he now relied on a rather bulky handmade pistol to dispatch his prey from a distance.
He set about cleaning his gun's barrel with a shred of ragged cloth, and looked down at the Bay once more. A ship was mooring down by the docks, and he wondered if it was his own. He had booked passage the day before with some rather unsavoury types, set to depart within a few days. By avoiding the main passenger ships, he hoped to keep a somewhat lower profile than usual. He wondered yet again whether he'd meet any of his old companions along the way, and whether or not they would even receive his letters.
Fala'thorei began to reassemble his gun once he had finished, carefully placing springs and levers back into their correct positions. He remembered that he needed to sharpen his glaives, but that would have to wait for a more secluded spot. The sound of ringing steel would likely attract unwanted attention. He stood up, folding his letters back away and re-holstering his gun. He picked up the heavy bow-shaped bag that contained his glaives and hoisted it onto his shoulder with a grunt. Tugging his hood up, he turned for one last look at Booty Bay from above.
Screw it, I'll post them, he thought, and trudged down the hill towards the town gate.
((OOC Note: Basically Fala's sent off a bunch of letters in the hopes of tracking down some of the characters he used to hang with. Drop him a line if you fancy a bit of a reunion!
))