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Snippet #1922679

located in Calisma, a part of Calisma, one of the many universes on RPG.




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Character Portrait: Gallow Ó Tuathaláin
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Gallow pulled his face out from his hands, eyes clenched shut against a hailstorm of conflicting thoughts. This bitter cacophony had been playing out since the day his uncle had spoken to him. The whole wretched ordeal made his stomach knot. It wasn't so much what he had to do (or could do, better yet), but what was at stake either way. So many brittle pieces, so many clamoring choices. For as loud as they were, to their merit, they were little more than whispers for all the attention he refused to give to them. Not even a battle could be this difficult! With one move the whole game's outcome could be blown to tiny pieces strewn against the grain. A murder-strike to the head of the "grand design" the more perfervid priests wailed about from their pedestals. It didn't sit well with him, just like everything else at the moment refused to settle.

He'd arrived in Paetax nearly four days before and boarded in one of the city's more well-to-do inns. There he was suddenly overcome by a swift bout of anxiety. This shocked him. He was never nervous, not since he was a young boy on his first day in the Academy. Why, now, did some meandering particle of weakness worm its way back into his brain? Accursed misfortune, maybe. It incensed him to no end. But, he challenged, maybe it was all to do with the potential, or the "jitters" as he'd heard some put it. No matter what the reason, it had to be alleviated. It would not do to enter into this affair unsettled and, therefore, unprepared. With his mind all a-mess he would be prone to missteps or worse.

He'd taken the time he had to wander the city. It was not the Deluge, and he found himself unconsciously criticizing how it was so unlike his home. The tromping cadence of the Siadhail was absent, as were the droning hums and rhythms of the pipes and drums that had grown so familiar throughout his childhood. It was also colder in Paetax. The March was so near the desert that, some days, one could swear the sands themselves were bearing down upon them in furious tumult. He'd served his time on the border with the Southern Guard. Those barren wastes, rolling on and on in the distance, seemed alive, and some of the veterans even told stories of them moving. There was no telling what horrors might have dwelt in that drought-laden hell. He missed them not. In truth, while the climate change was a bit unsettling, it was not exactly unwelcome.

He partook in no pleasantries during his short stay. He wandered the streets daily so as to clear his head, or at least that had been the hope of it. It never worked. No disillusionment came to his aid, however sorrowful it might have been. Time did not avail him, and at last the day finally came, the day the notice had said to meet at the Black Vagabond. He was still unprepared, though he was somewhat bolstered now that the coming ordeal was staring him in the eye. Rising from his seat he went to the window. Outside a bell was tolling, and he watched as the masses halted apprehensively. He could delay no longer.

Already dressed, the final preparations were made. He pieced his armor together, enclosing himself in a thick, defensive coffin. Lastly came his helm, and once locked into place he felt.. whole. As restrictive as it was it brought him calm, and his troubled mind began to ease. He took his axe in hand, holding it steady at his side, and left the inn behind. Citizens of the city scurried out of his way, wary of the farmed figure, and though many may have feared the worst of him he never faltered in his step. Some of the guards recognized the wear, and kept respectfully to themselves. When, at last, he reached the Black Vagabond he paused. This was it. The anticipation for this single moment mounted in a rush of adrenaline, drowning all fear in flame. He pushed the door open and entered.

His eyes ran over those gathered within, and he couldn't help but think it was a rather.. "colorful" lot. Then he noticed the man at the back, the one standing. So, a cold voice whispered, it was the Prince.. the Ulaid were right. Standing as tall as he could, he announced himself as he had been trained to do, "I hope I'm not too late to partake in this venture, Your Highness. I am Gallow Ó Tuathaláin, son of Farrow; Champion under the Fourth Banner of the Deluge. I offer my services to you, to aid in the restoration of the health of the King." He fell silent, and did not move. He'd spoken his piece.