KORBIN
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
That blushed and bloomed,
He couldn't get used to it. The constant motion of the waves. The way they rolled and churned, clucked and gulped against the dock, the stone, the wooden boards of the ships that lay anchored to the quay. He had roamed the Sea of Glass all his life, yet this was nothing like what he had imagined.
The people were different from how he was used to as well. Their lack of clothing aside, they were loud and openly quarrelsome. Hardy, in a way he hadn't expected, because surely a balmy breeze and plenty of food should make for soft people, right? But that notion was knocked askew by rippling muscles and sunbrowned skin, by the confidence in their gait and the wild abandon with which they threw themselves at each other over perceived slights.
He brooded about it from a spot in the shade, sweating in his too-warm clothes and staring balefully at the ships. As if hoping they might just disappear. One of them in particular had caught his eye; it looked newer than the rest, with none of the weather-beaten roughness or the barnacled sides that the others possessed.
The people were different from how he was used to as well. Their lack of clothing aside, they were loud and openly quarrelsome. Hardy, in a way he hadn't expected, because surely a balmy breeze and plenty of food should make for soft people, right? But that notion was knocked askew by rippling muscles and sunbrowned skin, by the confidence in their gait and the wild abandon with which they threw themselves at each other over perceived slights.
He brooded about it from a spot in the shade, sweating in his too-warm clothes and staring balefully at the ships. As if hoping they might just disappear. One of them in particular had caught his eye; it looked newer than the rest, with none of the weather-beaten roughness or the barnacled sides that the others possessed.
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
Of the old time entombed.
