Post by dootishian on Mar 10, 2021 23:02:56 GMT -5
A pale old man walks down a dim cobblestone street illuminated only by the sparse glow of streetlights running perpetually on midnight oil. With his chin down as he walks swiftly and determinedly ahead, Russair McLeery’s dirty face is cloaked in darkness. He wears a heavy leather backpack on both shoulders, and mud-soaked black boots on both feet. Though the midday light of the sun may bathe the surface-dwellers in light just a kilometer or so above, those radiant rays rarely touch the inhabitants of the underground city. In Tuber, life and culture don’t persist in spite of this fact, they thrive because of it. Although the cold darkness can be oppressive to those unfamiliar with it, to Russair, it’s the warmest ambiance in the world. With a stumbling, possessed motion, he heel-turns away from the bustling crowd forming at the lunch hour on 4th street and proceeds briskly down a yet darker side street. Still, the voices of the busy Tubian populace behind him echo off the cavern walls ahead. He pays them no mind.
The old man walks for only a few minutes before arriving at the doorstep of a small but homely abode. His rushed stride comes to a gradual halt as he approaches. He raises a fist to the door, but then suddenly hesitates. Though his downward stare rises and levels, his leaf-green eyes are filled with trepidation. He lowers his hand and steps back. His bag comes off his shoulders for a moment, and he crouches down with some exertion, then quickly pushes the largest flap aside and reaches in. From inside, he retrieves his journal, a bound tan tome with a border of golden runes. He gives an exhausted sigh and his shoulders relax from the relieved weight as he opens up the journal to reveal a pressed fragment of brittle snake shed — thank Spirit, exactly as he left it. He gently closes the journal and tucks it under his arm, then takes a deep breath before approaching the door one last time. He knocks, and quickly, a kind-faced Fréime woman answers. But she’s interrupted by Russair’s frantic lower-Beathan rasp before she can even finish the greeting.
“Pracell, wee problem in the old silver mine...” He carefully opens up the journal to display the paper-like shed before her. “The cave-dwellin’ cold-bloods ain’t exactly as banished as we been told.”
(OOC: Adventurer's Guide to Tubian Fauna is an open thread. Any and all are welcome to join!)