38th of Winter, 518 AV
A soft breeze ruffled Tarn’s hair as he gazed at the dilapidated structure of the Temple of the Unknown. He came here sometimes to think and clear his head. He had used to make a habit of it, but had stopped for a while and only recently taken it up again. Maybe it was something about the building’s age, or perhaps some echo of the influence of whatever deity the temple had been built to honor, but Tarn always felt calmer here.
Tarn raised a hand to his temple and his fingers came away wet with blood. He grimaced. He had been training in the proving grounds earlier that day when he’d taken a blow to the head. Wooden swords were less dangerous than the real thing, but a well (or poorly) timed blow could still do some damage. The strike had split the skin just above his eyebrow. Luckily, it wasn’t as bad as it looked, but it had been bleeding pretty profusely at first. It had gotten a bit better since, but the crimson stained tips of his fingers proved it was still oozing blood.
Many of the passersby gave Tarn a healthy distance, edging around him without drawing much attention to it. Most people wanted little to do with a bloody-faced man if they could help it, and the wisdom was sound. If somebody was bloody, they’d probably gotten into a fight, and if they were still standing at the end of it, they were probably tough enough to win. The Sun’s Birth brand on his hand didn’t help much either. People who saw that usually averted their eyes and avoided him completely. Suffice it to say, when outside of the Sun’s Refuge Tarn had little trouble finding solitary time for reflection.
A soft breeze ruffled Tarn’s hair as he gazed at the dilapidated structure of the Temple of the Unknown. He came here sometimes to think and clear his head. He had used to make a habit of it, but had stopped for a while and only recently taken it up again. Maybe it was something about the building’s age, or perhaps some echo of the influence of whatever deity the temple had been built to honor, but Tarn always felt calmer here.
Tarn raised a hand to his temple and his fingers came away wet with blood. He grimaced. He had been training in the proving grounds earlier that day when he’d taken a blow to the head. Wooden swords were less dangerous than the real thing, but a well (or poorly) timed blow could still do some damage. The strike had split the skin just above his eyebrow. Luckily, it wasn’t as bad as it looked, but it had been bleeding pretty profusely at first. It had gotten a bit better since, but the crimson stained tips of his fingers proved it was still oozing blood.
Many of the passersby gave Tarn a healthy distance, edging around him without drawing much attention to it. Most people wanted little to do with a bloody-faced man if they could help it, and the wisdom was sound. If somebody was bloody, they’d probably gotten into a fight, and if they were still standing at the end of it, they were probably tough enough to win. The Sun’s Birth brand on his hand didn’t help much either. People who saw that usually averted their eyes and avoided him completely. Suffice it to say, when outside of the Sun’s Refuge Tarn had little trouble finding solitary time for reflection.
