Chapter 17: The barbarian
The man’s face was rugged, like one that was worn by years of battle and weather. A tangled mess of dark hair fell past his shoulders, partially covering a jagged scar that ran across his brow. His eyes were narrow and sunken, glinting with primal-like intensity.
A thick, unkempt beard clung to his jaw, tangled with dust and hints of dried blood. Dirt smeared his skin, and tribal markings, crudely inked, coiled around his neck and temples, hinting at savage origins. Everything about him breathed raw violence.
Brutality!
Devon, who normally was unperturbed by things (by character), was surprised with what he was seeing.
The man looked like a medieval barbarian, like someone who had lived in the woods for a greater part of his life.
The man pointed his sword at them, breathing heavily. The sword looked sharp and capable, with just a single swerve, chop one’s head off.
Drahon was very cautious now. What if this was an enemy? With their current languorous state, they weren’t sure they would be a match for someone as fierce as this.
They could run though, summoning their dragons to fly them away, but then, everywhere was dark. They didn’t know who they would encounter.
"Who are you children!" the man said, his voice like someone that liked a lot of beer—in his case, rum perhaps?
Drahon thought he had this accent of people who drank rum (not that he had any idea), or a pirate maybe.
"We—we mean no harm. As you can see, we have no weapons on us. We’re just passing through this path on our way," Drahon explained. "Let us continue, and we promise not to disturb but to go our way."
The barbarian-looking man hesitated, brows furrowed as he stared at Drahon and the players.