The Festival of Lights was only a few hours away, but Hadama had lingered in the Sidhe Village after fixing up the shrine to Safrin, seeking knowledge in the Undercroft and doing some shopping in the Bodega. People were arriving on skyships for the Festival from all corners of Caido and the Fae town had a festive air ahead of the memorial for those who had passed away. Some found solace in their memories, while for others it was a time of grief, but for many there was a recognition of the natural cycles of life and death. The cleansing of the Void from the Greatwood made it particularly joyful this year, and Hadama moved through the crowds like a galleon among caravels, slow and steady but towering over the much smaller Fae.
Standing at a full six and a half feet in height and heavily muscled, he stood out in most crowds, but even more among the diminutive locals. His long, loosely braided hair was the color of steel, its metallic sheen a hue not normally found on human heads, and his eyes were the clear green of true emeralds, giving away his inhuman heritage. But it was the scars that crossed his skin, tattooed over in gold so that he appeared mended with the noble metal, that marked him as the King of the Merfolk, even if he walked on land today. For once his trident was not in evidence, but he wore a warm vest in recognition of the crisp Leafchange weather, and his legs were clad in leather trousers stitched with silver stars. Incongruously, his feet were bare, but he did not seem to mind the chill coming off the boardwalks that crossed the many streams that chuckled through the Village.
He paused near a shop selling scarves, however, ducking down nearly to a crouch to peer under the lintel and examine the merchandise with a careful eye. His expression was serenely stoic, and he was quick to incline his head in apology and move out of the way when someone tried to get past him.
Brokkrid
Standing at a full six and a half feet in height and heavily muscled, he stood out in most crowds, but even more among the diminutive locals. His long, loosely braided hair was the color of steel, its metallic sheen a hue not normally found on human heads, and his eyes were the clear green of true emeralds, giving away his inhuman heritage. But it was the scars that crossed his skin, tattooed over in gold so that he appeared mended with the noble metal, that marked him as the King of the Merfolk, even if he walked on land today. For once his trident was not in evidence, but he wore a warm vest in recognition of the crisp Leafchange weather, and his legs were clad in leather trousers stitched with silver stars. Incongruously, his feet were bare, but he did not seem to mind the chill coming off the boardwalks that crossed the many streams that chuckled through the Village.
He paused near a shop selling scarves, however, ducking down nearly to a crouch to peer under the lintel and examine the merchandise with a careful eye. His expression was serenely stoic, and he was quick to incline his head in apology and move out of the way when someone tried to get past him.
