Timestamp: 18th Day of Summer, 510 AV Location: Knirin Gardens, Riverfall Status: Closed, tag Mao, Kavala The stunning scenery of Riverfall had provided some distraction from the dramatic events that had occurred since arriving. Vanator had marveled at the city built into the massive cliff wall around the falls, and the magnificent landscape itself, so different from the endless grasslands he traveled all his life. He had stolen away, finally reaching the Knirin Gardens perched halfway down the monolithic cliff wall. Vanator wandered around the small lake and into the gardens, the roar of the falls distant at some parts, roaring as he would near the crashing water. He was congenial but avoided the Akalaks, still somewhat unnerved by the large, stoic beings. There were others, mostly Konti and human women and children, largely boys with the telltale bluish skin. The Drykas treaded deeper into the garden, his sleeveless tunic and breeches damp from his venture near the falls, small glistening beads of moisture clinging to his dark blond mane. Drawing a deep lungful of the warm humid air, the horseman studied a stone bench, feeling the smooth surface with his hand before deciding to sit. Riverfall was Vanator's first visit to a permanent city. Walls, doors, streets, even stone bench's were unfamiliar to him. Taking into account all of these resided in a community of tall blue-skinned men perched in a high cliff wall amid a monumental waterfall, The Drykas found himself overwhelmed at times with it all. But he would someday lead his pavilion, and having some familiarity with the Akalak could only be an asset to him. So he roamed the city, trying to understand its layout and culture. The gardens, to his relief, were tranquil, beautiful, and where he had chosen to rest, quiet. Van would rather have mounted Backlash and raced across the grasslands around Riverfall, his typical therapy when he needed time and space, but it was not so easy when he found himself in the middle of the city. So, slipping the hand ax from his belt, and pulling a small whetstone from his pocket, the horse clansman leaned back on the bench against a tree and began drawing the sharpening stone along the weapon's head, letting his mind relax and focus on the menial motion. |