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The first, cool signs of an autumn breeze gently whistled through the undergrowth of the elven quarter. The calm and near rhythmic rustle of wind disturbing the browning leaves and foliage offered a soothing backdrop to an otherwise silent evening as the footsteps picked their way through the dark. A face, darkened and streaked with grime and dye peered from the shade of the woodline and examined the proud structure that stood tall and beautiful before him. Picking his steps gently, almost silently, the woodsman wove towards the Rose, low and alert in posture and settled amongst the roots at it's foot, gazing up.
To the keenest ear, the nimble fingers of a cold mind broke the quiet, clawing off the lid of an ornate barrel with a eerie, dull scrape. The figure flinched as the wreak of sulfurous ash filled his nostrils, the course black powder ebbing inch by inch from the miniature keg as his steps circled the popular taverna. A wry smile pricked his lips as the knave plucked a flint and tinder from the pouch about his kilt, arson the easiest as crimes as the tiny spark flickered it's way through the undergrowth. Darting out from the shade the figure hauled his cloak about himself and dived for cover to watch the ensuing commotion, as the soft, sweet amber of flames began to lick and lap their way from the foot of the Trinsic Rose.
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"It's easy to know what you're against, it's an honour to know what you're for"
JOIN THE REVOLT!
Er gwaetha pawb a phopeth,
R'yn ni yma o hyd. |