KORBIN
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
That blushed and bloomed,
The outside air was only marginally cooler, but at least there was a breeze. Breathing deeply, his senses recoiled from the plethora of unfamiliar scents that came drifting - salt sea, sand, vegetation and the stench of humans crowded together in a warm place - and had to restrain himself from grimacing.
"Not long. Thought I'd try and find a friend of mine who's here on trade business... but so far I've had no luck. Maybe he's gone home already." He shrugged. Korbin had come for the Festival, because Weaver wanted him to. He'd stayed for a bit to try and give the place a chance, but already he missed home - the cold wind, the clean smell of ice and snow - and felt the uncomfortable itch of shirking his duties.
Sweating even out here, he finally gave in to the discomfort. Dumping his belongings by the feet he hauled off the shirt - long sleeved, thin but made of wool, and way too warm for the climate - and threw it down by the rest. The young man's torso was lean and muscled, though the skin was stark white, of course, never exposed to any kind of sunlight - Halo climate being what it was - and only hands and face had any trace of tanning. There was color on his back though, blue-green hues and shimmering black; vibrant and life-like the raven tattoo spread its wings over both shoulders, its feathers grazing his neck and draping down over the upper arms a ways. When he moved, it looked ready to fly off his skin.
"So, this is your home, then? It's just as soft as I imagined it," he remarked. Throwing a sly glance at the other, to see if he would rise to the bait. (He really just didn't know what else to talk about.)
"Not long. Thought I'd try and find a friend of mine who's here on trade business... but so far I've had no luck. Maybe he's gone home already." He shrugged. Korbin had come for the Festival, because Weaver wanted him to. He'd stayed for a bit to try and give the place a chance, but already he missed home - the cold wind, the clean smell of ice and snow - and felt the uncomfortable itch of shirking his duties.
Sweating even out here, he finally gave in to the discomfort. Dumping his belongings by the feet he hauled off the shirt - long sleeved, thin but made of wool, and way too warm for the climate - and threw it down by the rest. The young man's torso was lean and muscled, though the skin was stark white, of course, never exposed to any kind of sunlight - Halo climate being what it was - and only hands and face had any trace of tanning. There was color on his back though, blue-green hues and shimmering black; vibrant and life-like the raven tattoo spread its wings over both shoulders, its feathers grazing his neck and draping down over the upper arms a ways. When he moved, it looked ready to fly off his skin.
"So, this is your home, then? It's just as soft as I imagined it," he remarked. Throwing a sly glance at the other, to see if he would rise to the bait. (He really just didn't know what else to talk about.)
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
Of the old time entombed.
