Passing the Torch

{Been writing, just been too lazy to post.  This more or less makes up for it.}

The gentle hum of steel slipping across cloth vibrated in her ears as she pulled the knife away from the blanket and in front of her body, palms clammy and eyes unfocused.  Her breath choked in her throat as she coughed up some spittle from half a night of sleep, her usually razor-sharp senses blurred and meaningless as the twilight faded from her consciousness.  She breathed in the familiar scent of her bed, her ancient house, her sweat and hair as both trickled across her brow.  The edge of the blue-bladed knife glinted dully in the barely-existent rays that streamed through the shuttered window, while the point flicked to and fro in front of her, searching out its prey.

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IRC&D – Character Bio Text Dump

Description

A proud kobold of above-average height but below-average weight, born with wings and a snow-white hide, signifying strong draconic heritage.  There are no traces of scars or hard work on his body, giving a handsome yet unimposing look to him.  He sports finely tailored clothing in various brown shades, accented with minor jewelry, a signet ring, and a bowler hat; whether this makes him any more presentable is debatable.  He rarely slouches and often uses his wings to fill out more space than he actually does, a daunting task for a creature that doesn’t even make it to most people’s waists.

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It could be something – d

However hard the breeze tried to blow the smell into the trees, she trailed it from one street to the next, leading her to a place she would have needed no nose, eyes, or ears to find.  To almost anyone else it was a storage shed next to an old manor, the kind one might keep garden tools or firewood inside.  To her, it was still a storage shed next to an old manor.  What it was did not matter.  The door was short, but she was shorter; she crept inside without so much as brushing her ears against the head.

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It could be something – c

The night air pricked her skin as she slid the front door open, her search having predictably yielded nothing.  Above the moon battled the clouds for control of the sky, a battle which the young lady neither paid attention to nor cared about; as long as the faintest shadow of a light was near her, she could see as clearly as any man, and when light failed her she was perhaps even deadlier.  Her house was one of many in a village outside of time, herself and two others the only permanent residents of any note.  Lost travelers would come and go, sometimes without even seeing one of the three, or perhaps not choosing to see them.  The distinction between one and the other was a topic far above her head, though two other two discussed it constantly amidst riddles and sarcasm; she preferred to focus on the now, the here, the is, not the “might be” or the “may come to pass”.

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