Common Vani Nari
67th of Fall, 513 A.V
Streets of Zeltiva
Everyone had their way of alleviating stress. It's just a fact. There are numerous ways of doing so, and each is customized to the individual. Someone might exercise while another would converse with a friend. Then there is the people who like to be alone. They might write in their room and listen to the soft scratching of the quill to the papyrus. They may just sit there in silence. And then there was the walkers.
The walkers were typically viewed as any other plebeian who strode the streets. The writer may been seen as 'anti-social' or engulfed in his work. The silent once may be perceived as distant. The walker subtle. You may hear scurrilous banter about the man who keeps to himself and spends his time sitting in his own silence. You may also hear about the writer who spends countless bells writing in the candlelight, wasting quills and ink on nugatory things. But hardly do you hear about the walker who spends his money on shoes for he wears them out. The walker is subtle. The walker walks where others walk. His path follows others footsteps. He follows the crowd and blends in, unlike the writer or the silent man. They are abstruse to others, for they are sitting at a desk scribbling away, or they are laying on their bed starring at the ceiling. They are obvious to the population.
This is why Gale felt content while walking. He was invisible to the mind's eye. No one would suspect a man of forlorn thoughts and transgressions when he was walking from here to there. It just doesn't happen. When he was walking, Gale felt solitude. There was no lingering eyes when he walked. There was nothing. Everything within him felt alone. It was pure solitude to the murderer. And to a penitential man, solitude was a gift. When you're alone, you can do what you want, you can think what you want. No one was there to tell you right from wrong, as if they would know. They couldn't tell you anything! Because it was just you. Just you against the world. There weren't obstacles in your way to trip you up when you were alone. The path was clear as day. That's why it was a gift.
Gale didn't know what he would do if he couldn't walk. He would probably be long gone.
The widower paced around the streets of his beloved city, his feet effortlessly followed the whims of the crowd, almost as if it was the wind pushing him along. He weaved between the commoners and so did they, almost like an ethereal dance within the street. His mind wondered beyond him, having made it's way to the docks and watching as a silly otter chucked fish at a stranger. It watched as the same two chased each other into the water and then pause in awe. It traveled to the mountain pass and watched as they chased each other there. It was all fun and games then. But now... what was he left with? All that is left of their remains are shells. Shattered shells that would never recover.
Gale's hand throbbed in protest to the inimical memories.
The artist made his way towards the edge of the crowd and slipped into on of the alleys. Although there wasn't a soul making their way through it, his palliate solitude was put on hold as he pressed his back against the wall of one of the edifices and sliding down to the dirt covered ground. With his backpack at his side, the widower held up his mangled hand. The bandages were light compared to earlier in the season in which felt like a bag of stone. Nevertheless, it was a stigma that Gale could hardly bare to look at for any extended period of time. He could already see the image of the missing limbs as his frail hands cautiously unraveled the cloth. Having to change the cloth several times a day for a little less than a season now does that to you. The image was ingrained in his mind. But he'd rather that be stained on his conscious than other matters...
Gale would grimace as the final strips of white cloth pulled away from his skin, but by now, the pain as far too minor and he was far too used to the peeling sensation to give it more than a glare full of reproof. It was almost healed now. A dozen or so days from now and he could forget the pathetic bandages and that blasted infirmary. He could forget the pain and the memories. He could forget that any of this ever happened.
Pfft, Haha! No he couldn't.
"But I can dream, can I not?" Gale whispered to the air. Not that it would be much of a dream. He didn't want to forget Kendhl. He didn't want to forget those days. He just wanted to forget those lowly, pitiful, repugnant excuses for life and what they did... And what he didn't do...
The man dropped the soiled bandages into his lap, his green, sorrowful eyes starring at his punishment. Because that's what cowards get. They get punished. And what type of man was he if he couldn't even defend Kendhl from some pathetic dogs...
He was a coward.
Streets of Zeltiva
Everyone had their way of alleviating stress. It's just a fact. There are numerous ways of doing so, and each is customized to the individual. Someone might exercise while another would converse with a friend. Then there is the people who like to be alone. They might write in their room and listen to the soft scratching of the quill to the papyrus. They may just sit there in silence. And then there was the walkers.
The walkers were typically viewed as any other plebeian who strode the streets. The writer may been seen as 'anti-social' or engulfed in his work. The silent once may be perceived as distant. The walker subtle. You may hear scurrilous banter about the man who keeps to himself and spends his time sitting in his own silence. You may also hear about the writer who spends countless bells writing in the candlelight, wasting quills and ink on nugatory things. But hardly do you hear about the walker who spends his money on shoes for he wears them out. The walker is subtle. The walker walks where others walk. His path follows others footsteps. He follows the crowd and blends in, unlike the writer or the silent man. They are abstruse to others, for they are sitting at a desk scribbling away, or they are laying on their bed starring at the ceiling. They are obvious to the population.
This is why Gale felt content while walking. He was invisible to the mind's eye. No one would suspect a man of forlorn thoughts and transgressions when he was walking from here to there. It just doesn't happen. When he was walking, Gale felt solitude. There was no lingering eyes when he walked. There was nothing. Everything within him felt alone. It was pure solitude to the murderer. And to a penitential man, solitude was a gift. When you're alone, you can do what you want, you can think what you want. No one was there to tell you right from wrong, as if they would know. They couldn't tell you anything! Because it was just you. Just you against the world. There weren't obstacles in your way to trip you up when you were alone. The path was clear as day. That's why it was a gift.
Gale didn't know what he would do if he couldn't walk. He would probably be long gone.
The widower paced around the streets of his beloved city, his feet effortlessly followed the whims of the crowd, almost as if it was the wind pushing him along. He weaved between the commoners and so did they, almost like an ethereal dance within the street. His mind wondered beyond him, having made it's way to the docks and watching as a silly otter chucked fish at a stranger. It watched as the same two chased each other into the water and then pause in awe. It traveled to the mountain pass and watched as they chased each other there. It was all fun and games then. But now... what was he left with? All that is left of their remains are shells. Shattered shells that would never recover.
Gale's hand throbbed in protest to the inimical memories.
The artist made his way towards the edge of the crowd and slipped into on of the alleys. Although there wasn't a soul making their way through it, his palliate solitude was put on hold as he pressed his back against the wall of one of the edifices and sliding down to the dirt covered ground. With his backpack at his side, the widower held up his mangled hand. The bandages were light compared to earlier in the season in which felt like a bag of stone. Nevertheless, it was a stigma that Gale could hardly bare to look at for any extended period of time. He could already see the image of the missing limbs as his frail hands cautiously unraveled the cloth. Having to change the cloth several times a day for a little less than a season now does that to you. The image was ingrained in his mind. But he'd rather that be stained on his conscious than other matters...
Gale would grimace as the final strips of white cloth pulled away from his skin, but by now, the pain as far too minor and he was far too used to the peeling sensation to give it more than a glare full of reproof. It was almost healed now. A dozen or so days from now and he could forget the pathetic bandages and that blasted infirmary. He could forget the pain and the memories. He could forget that any of this ever happened.
Pfft, Haha! No he couldn't.
"But I can dream, can I not?" Gale whispered to the air. Not that it would be much of a dream. He didn't want to forget Kendhl. He didn't want to forget those days. He just wanted to forget those lowly, pitiful, repugnant excuses for life and what they did... And what he didn't do...
The man dropped the soiled bandages into his lap, his green, sorrowful eyes starring at his punishment. Because that's what cowards get. They get punished. And what type of man was he if he couldn't even defend Kendhl from some pathetic dogs...
He was a coward.
