[X] Half Elf
[X] Female
[X] Ardath
[X] Driven, Adaptive, Vengeful
\-/
The Tablelands, Free Year 8
"Where
are you!"
The thought has crossed your mind many times, and now, after many hours and the rising of the boiling dark sun, you let loose some of your frustration. You were paid--in
advance, no less!--to be here an hour before dawn, before the oppressive heat of day would beat down on the world.
It has been hours since, and you can't help but wonder if they're going to show at all.
You've had worse jobs over the years. Though none have taken you so far east, away from the Tyr region, you've survived plenty. Violence is everyone's first friend on Athas; you meet it on the wind with your first breath, and underfoot with your first step.
But that doesn't mean you want to be
outside of all things, if you can help it. The nerve of these people is astounding - if they mean to be late, the least they could do is let you rest with more shelter from the wind, sun and heat, than your favorite hat. At least the trip here was quiet, even if you had to be up far too early.
You sigh, sucking in dry air as you scan the horizon for a sign of life. Even with your impressive height and sharp eyes you see nothing. Out in the middle of the Tablelands, all alone, you would make an easy target. The thought makes you quirk your lips, as it always does. You are in
no mood to be crossed, though you're far from the toughest. But you have something nobody else you know does.
All it takes for
you to make a splash is to breathe and let out the magic inside - you are no psion, nor are you a
thrice-damned Defiler, but you do just fine for yourself. For a moment you consider wreaking havoc on the road, just to see what odd things might happen, but eventually decide against it.
If they don't show soon I might do just that… ah. There they are.
Finally, you see three figures mounted, approaching fast, all on scaled, bipedal creatures:
crodlu. There's an unmounted one with them. Presumably it's going to be yours to ride in a moment.
How quaint.
Rolling your shoulders to loosen tight muscles, you stride forward to meet the poor bastards you'll be stuck working with the next few weeks.
Who do you address in particular, as you approach the group?
[] The grizzled, annoyed-looking older human at the front. He looks like he's in charge.
[] The slim and hooded elven woman, wrapped in a cloak. She's smiling like she knows something no one else does.
[] The mul with facial tattoos, with the bow across his back. He looks to be the least trouble.
