Murkstav's Story

Murkstav smelled it deep in the rocky canyon. Choosing between its thirst, its need, for water, and tearing him limb from limb. He took a blade out of a satchel along his lower back, a sharp thick blade he had named Swallow.

It glinted and danced, the mercenary could see his very reflection in the blade. Against the blue sky his hard deep features, as if cut from a knife themselves, looked back at him. His gray eyes, thinly hiding a desperate fatigue. His hat, long brimmed more for deception than shade- it seemed almost enough to cover wearer and horse.

He approached the area of the lake, trying to draw the thing out. His black armor, riddled with pockets and tiny satchels, filled with the tricks of his trade, cast a long shadow between rock outcrop and lake.

Murkstav looked up, then where the growling and panting came from, then cast Swallow up at the blazing sun, curling it, reflecting it off the rocks.

Sometimes things cannot be resisted.