• Mature • The Frontier

[Alistair]

78th of Ashan, Arc 718

They walked. From risen sun to falling darkness, the soldiers walked the road that led out from the mountain pass and into the rich south. Southern Oakleigh was much like Venora; bountiful and often warm, with millions of acres to be covered in towed fields with lain seeds. The land was undeveloped, but the river that ran across the southern portion and the lakes filling the edges made for great potential. Oakleigh, it seemed, was one of the prime focuses for further Rynmere development -- perhaps in a hundred arcs, it would rival the great Southern Duchies in manpower and significance. If Tristan remained Duke and carried on a successful lineage, Venora would perhaps become the most powerful family in Rynmere.

But for now, it was being patrolled, a factor that began some cycles ago and a fact that remained this trial. The Eastern Settlements were rife with discontent, as foreign Lords ruled them and foreign troubles seeped into their foundations. The people feared and despised the influx of immigrants, with tens of thousands coming on boats, more each day, from the troubled places of Rynmere and seeking a new life. Colonization was what they called it, the locals of these lands. And they weren't wrong.

This group - likely part of the Iron Hand - walked from Welles, to Oakleigh, to Berwick. It was a troubling route to patrol, as the mountains between the two Duchies further in were perilous and steep. These factors made Berwick nearly wholly unregulated, which the mage saw as a likely doorway to lawlessness and rebellion formulating within the realm furthest out.

Alistair himself was laid on the edge of the hill with a trivial amount of clothing covering only his upper legs and what was directly beneath his waistline, mostly painted in a light colored arid dirt to camouflage with the sandy texture of the path, a narrower road leading to Kingsley directly behind him. From here, he'd often watched troop movements and the status of the nearby farming towns, considering the flat view that allowed him to observe far out into the horizon. More and more he learned to hide, to fit with his environment, and to remain inconspicuous.

Utilizing Syroa's blessing, even his hair shifted to the limestone color surrounding him, which certainly instilled a feeling of invisibility in the man. He continued to crawl along the edge of the hill, observing the militia, until the sediment he'd been laying on suddenly dropped in elevation, falling out of place. "Fuck," he cursed, quickly sliding downward until the soles of his feet met a boulder standing up along the edge of the road. His abdomen was burned by friction along the way down, but considering the brawn he'd developed of late, it didn't significantly bother him. He turned his head backward and moved to step off of the boulder onto the road, but as his bare feet met the ground he immediately saw another man staring back at him.

"Shit," he swore again. "Uh, err," the man coughed, shaping his vocal chords with Sesser, shifting his voice to the unnatural tone he'd made for secondary identity, Kieran Riley. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," he nodded, a deep rural tone flowing from his lips. "Don't mind all the dirt on me. I'm trying to catch prey, and they're not very good with their eyes," Alistair lied, flashing a false grin on his limestone shaded face. He certainly didn't look very noble or mage-y, which was a positive in his eyes.

[Doran Cooney]

Having already walked for several breaks without yet coming across "the boulder with a light dusting of turquoise lichen on its south-facing side", as it had been described in his cousin's absurdly detailed letter, Doran had since removed his tunic. While it wasn't an arduous path to follow, he had been walking for long enough that small beads of sweat had started on his forehead and upper lip. Using the back of his hand to wipe some of the saturation away, he glanced up at the sky, shrugging his shoulders a couple times to adjust the weight of his rucksack. With all going according to what the old woman in the caravan had said, he was supposed to be nearing his destination. Flat as the surroundings were, the hill that he had been directed towards had long since been in sight, only now it was near enough that as he walked, it seemed to grow closer, rather than remain an obnoxiously constant object in the distance.

Ahead, there was group of armored individuals, most likely the patrols he'd heard of when he'd been on the ship that had ferried him over to the Eastern Settlements. They passed by, wordlessly, and Doran eyed them curiously. They looked tired, but beyond that, they seemed very similar to any other guard he might have come across. Clicking his tongue in consideration of how very much like Venora Oakleigh had proven to be - without all the gardens and cottages and general civilisation, of course - he blinked in surprise when he realised the boulder just to side of the path was the one his cousin had wrote of, right down to the lichen. Pleased that he would only have a short way longer, he paused in his step when he heard the unmistakable sound of cursing.

It was quickly followed by the dry scuffle of dirt falling from somewhere above, and he turned his gaze upward. It looked, for all the world, as if a piece of the hill had decided to up and leave on its own two legs. Mutely taking a step back as anthropomorphic piece of hill stepped down from the boulder, he blinked again in confusion as it cursed once more. He'd always imagined that dirt would be a little less profane. When the man - as it turned out to be - spoke, Doran felt just a twinge of disappointment. After all, a sentient hill creature wasn't something one came across just any day. Though, he supposed that was primarily due to there probably being very few - if any - of them.

His voice was surprisingly friendly, though Doran could have sworn it had sounded a bit different just before. Still, etiquette that had been drilled into him as child was reflexive, and he offered a polite bow in return. The man's explanation, however far from what Doran had first thought it to be, was interesting enough. Upon closer inspection, he realised the other man was hardly clothed. There was a faint flutter in his chest at that, and though his own face had broke out into an genuine smile, it faltered for a moment as his brows knit. "Erm... Hello." The feeling settled itself into his chest, and Doran opted to ignore it for the time being. Lightly shaking his head, his grin returned as he raised a brow at the dusty, muscular figure. He was about a head taller, if not a little more, but the sheer mass of his body seemed to make him all the larger comparatively. A little voice in the back of Doran's mind reminded him that it was probably best not to get himself into a situation where the other man might find reason to try to snap him in half like a brittle stick. "And a pleasure to meet you."

Glancing up towards the top of the hill, Doran squinted his eyes slightly. "Are they up there?" Dark eyes settled back onto the man before him, "Or down here? And," He squinted again, not actually certain if the man was wearing anything at all. "Is it easier to catch them in the nude?"

[Alistair]

He was polite, and attractive. Very much so in fact, comparatively to the simple people that occupied these lands. Some of them practically had beards growing from their noses, and many of them had as many teeth as fingers. This man was different - immaculate, well spoken. He was from Venora, too, which immediately warmed Alistair up to him. He could tell by the way his body spoke, and the way his voice was followed by the pleasant hum of his country. It was difficult to explain. He wasn't an inlander, like from Sabaissant, but he was from their mutual home. He knew it.

Alistair, however, could tell he was a bit uncomfortable. The mage's face twisted to look somewhat apologetic; he didn't really want to scare his new, probably-Venoran friend away. He had very few friends in Oakleigh, and even less that spoke remotely intelligently. No matter how long he stayed here, he couldn't adapt to their dialect, and most viewed him with quirked brows and narrow eyes. Most, if he discounted the farm girls that smelled like cow-pies, who eyed him with as great a lust as one could find in a bordello waiting room.

Still, he needed to regain himself. The mage cleared his throat, and nodded his head once as if he were acknowledging something the traveler had said. But he wasn't; he was trying to focus his mind. "Yes. Well. They're everywhere. Mountain goats hop around on these hills, and there are plenty lizards too. They tend to avoid the road because it leaves them open - but they often rest between rocks hanging out from cliffs," he stated factually. He wasn't actually wrong - Alistair was a hunter as a secondary lifestyle choice. But of course, he wasn't actually hunting anything. Beating iguanas dead with his fists and then roasting and chewing them wasn't idyllic. He liked to spoil himself with the fruits of others' labor.

When Doran questioned his... clothing, Alistair quickly waved his hands forward as his cheeks grew lightly rose-shaded. "I'm not naked," his brows arched down, seeming to frown for him. "Look," he gestured towards his groin, flapping the loincloth up and down to show that it was there, just difficult to distinguish from the rest of him. Of course, the downside of that was that if Doran looked a bit too closely, the loincloth being raised flat upward would show Alistair's reproductive bits all the same. In his embarrassment, that wasn't wholly considered.

"Anyway, what's your name? I'm Kieran," he nodded, holding out a hand to shake. "This road only leads to one place - the valley where us townfolk ranch and farm at. What would bring city folk like you out here?"

[Doran Cooney]

Doran's mouth turned a small, silent "o" at the man's surprisingly informative answer. He had no idea that mountain goats had vision problems, though he'd only ever been around those found in Venora - and the dead ones in meat markets. Perhaps it had something to do with the slightly different climates? Whatever the case, he nodded along, finding it difficult to keep his eyes on the man's face. He didn't usually have a problem with such things, but his physique really was quite impressive, even dirtied as it was. Or was it all the more alluring because of the dusting of earth? He found he wasn't actually listening to what was being said to him, and his cheeks tinged a slight shade darker. "Oh." He lamely cast his gaze downward.

The fluttering in his chest had started again, and his gaze had been lingering far too long on the man's defined chest. The ground was safe. It was solid, flat, and held zero interest. The man was too interesting, and Doran wasn't certain why, or what exactly he was supposed to do with that. Short of literally running away, he figured averting his eyes for the time being until he could get a better handle on himself was the best course of action. All this before the man addressed his state of undress.

While the man may have meant his invitation to be just that, Doran found himself reacting to it as one might a command. Without missing a beat, his gaze rose at precisely the moment the cloth was lifted. His face immediately flushed a dark rose. "Oh." Airy as his voice naturally was, the sound was much calmer than the sudden beat of his heart and rush of blood that served to facilitate his reflexive blush. It wasn't the first he'd seen, but it was certainly impressive. Enough that, though he immediately returned his gaze to the ground with a firm stare, he couldn't quite get the image out of his head - and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to.

Realising he'd not actually introduced himself earlier, when Kieran asked his name, Doran cleared his throat and tried to at least say a little bit more than a single syllable. "D-Doran. Doran Cooney. Erm..." Without making eye contact, though he knew he probably should, he gently gripped the other man's hand. It was smoother than he'd expected, as he'd shaken hands plenty of times with the rural farmers of the Venoran fields. Their hands had all been worn and calloused, but Kieran's were... realising that he'd yet to release the handshake that was now threatening to be something a little more intimate, Doran quickly dropped his own back to his side. "Excuse me?"

Recalling the question he'd caught the tail end of, having completely missed what Kieran had said before, Doran blinked several times, his thoughts so out of order it took a trill or two before he could actually reply. "Out here...? Ahm, yes... my cousin." He took a moment to draw a steadying breath through his nose. "I'm... so terribly sorry. Perhaps I'm merely tired from the journey, but you'll have to excuse my blunders." His smile was a bit weak, but he pressed on, finally able to grip the reigns of his thoughts tight enough to get out an acceptable answer. "My cousin, Marcel Durand. He owns a plot of land nearby, and I have come to..." Here, he paused, this time not due to his flustered state, but something else - heavier and more sombre than the light flutter in his chest. "Deliver news of a... passing in our family."

Lily helped to ground him some, and he was even able to smile wistfully, his umbre gaze meeting Keiran's with the gentle sorrow of loss tinged a shade lighter with the soft sheen of acceptance. She wasn't gone, not entirely, and though it was still a bleak subject for him, there was a kind of nostalgia that helped to dull what had once been the jagged edges of grief into something much more manageable. "You are from here?" The natives he'd come across so far were utterly incomparable to the specimen of a human being that stood before him. If there were too many more like Kieran in the valley ahead, Doran wasn't sure his heart would be able to handle it. Thanks to Lily, at the very least, the worst of his fluster had faded, though it took visible effort - denoted by his complete inability to hold any sort of prolonged eye contact - for his gaze not to wander south of the man's hipline.

[Alistair]

Their conversation quickly devolved. If Alistair were incapable of recognizing the signs of attraction, he'd likely have assumed that Doran was merely dull-witted or dehydrated. Fortunately, he recognized the position of the other man's eyes, and did his best to move forward without outwardly acknowledging his rosy cheeks or downward-facing view. Doran Cooney. The first name was so very Venoran - charming, fit to be worn by a handsome and educated man. There were no Carl's born in Venora. No Bob's. And lord, no Robert would ever demean themselves by shortening their name as such. The surname, Cooney, was rather quaint. Alistair found it cute, though he had no idea what a "cooney" was or what the name meant. He'd always failed that part of being a noble - recognizing the intricate history of families merely by hearing their name.

He had a lot of time to think, though, and to stare. Doran continued to bleat out his thoughts at the pace of a bradypus, which allowed Alistair the opportunity to stare him top-to-bottom without being noticed doing so. He was smaller, certainly, and oddly light; the way Alistair stood implied such weight upon the earth, but Doran had the posture and physique of a dancer. His form was gentle, but his figure was not underdeveloped. His body was one of lean muscle, and Alistair could tell the exact proportions, as his clothes fitted firmly around his shape.

The mage, too, found himself in a state of attraction... though he was not keen on gratifying his wills without the wonder of friendliness and conversation. Clearly though, the two of them were keen to another. Something to keep in mind - perhaps for the purpose of having a companion here in Oakleigh, rather than wandering the fields alone.

"Don't worry about it," the mage reassured him, as Doran pointed out his consistent blunders. Alistair really didn't mind very much, as it was flattering that he was the source of such a vast quantity of slip-ups and stutters. Marcel Durand, he mentioned. Alistair's vision rose upward as he poked into his brain. Marcel.

The man who ran the Shona Ranch? He sometimes sent horses for "Kieran" to look at. He was a good man by the accounts of others, though the Rupturer scarcely saw him. He sent laborers to do most things for him, the communication, the herding and the pick-up. At least he was busy. Most of the people here, surrounding Cappola, toiled the fields in brief spats and then flew off to their coops to cluck around and gossip. They were content with their mediocre state. With the crutch of isolation, it didn't really matter what anyone had. They just liked to talk, and sing, and be themselves... which was admirable, he'd always thought.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear of your loss," he stated, frowning faintly. He'd lost a lot of people lately, so their suffering was to some extent shared. Fridgar, and their son. He didn't want to think about it-- he needed to stop.

So he did. Thespian. The longing, for now, was gone.

"I'm not from here, no," he lightly shook his head. "I'm actually pretty new to Oakleigh; came about four seasons past. Bought out Cappola, found Kingsley charming. Stayed. I was a doctor in Ne'haer before that. Lived all my life treating the victims of Bayward. And also treasure seekers, too. Lots that come there; many more get injured. I'm done with that, though. Cappola's a better life for me. If you need a place to rest from your long journey, I can bring you there. It's right at the entrance to the valley. Good rest stop - I leave my doors unlocked," he smiled warmly, offering Doran a bed. And food, if he was interested in it.

"Besides," he wryly quirked his brow, "Cappola's a quiet place, and I don't really have neighbors," Alistair said, clearly insinuating something, as his hands pulled back to his chest to rub off the bright-colored dirt. Doran's curious eyes didn't particularly bother him, and he saw no reason to remain falsely unsuspecting. Syroa had changed him a lot from who he once was before. Sexuality was an informality and rarely anything else, a fundamental for maintaining fulfillment. A way of greeting and of parting. That was the man Sesser had made him.

[Doran Cooney]

Bright eyes again met with Kieran's, and a genuine smile spread across Doran's face. "Thank you." His voice was soft and sad, but there was a gratefulness in his tone that was intended whole-heartedly. He liked to think that every person who extended their condolences whenever he spoke of Lily was offering their introduction to her. Kieran, especially, she would have liked. He could even hear the shock in her voice over his impressive musculature. The smile he wore faded into something softer as he nodded along with Kieran's abbreviated history.

That he wasn't a native of the region was both relieving and didn't come as a surprise. He raised his brows at the mention of Ne'haer, impressed with how well traveled Kieran claimed to be. He'd read of the massive city to the west before, and while books painted quite a picture of the pale stone from which it had been constructed, he had no doubt it must be quite something in person. Kieran painted quite the thrilling picture of his past, but Doran had a difficult time imagining the mountain of a man as a healer of any kind. He appeared far better suited to causing the injuries, not cauterizing them. His surprise, curious wonder, and friendly skepticism all found their way across his face as Kieran spoke; his emotions and reactions an open book to any who sought to read them.

"Cappola...?" Doran's brows came together momentarily as he let the name linger on the tip of his tongue. "I believe my cousin's ranch is nearby your own." The letter had had so many different names, he couldn't be certain, but he was sure he didn't want to impose on Kieran's hospitality. "I would feel far too guilty taking advantage of your kindness. We were strangers not but a bit before." Though he had clearly been flustered by Kieran's very presence, he took no notice of the man's implications, their subtle allure passing right over his head. Instead, he smiled his thanks, the dark flush of his cheeks having receeded to a grateful blush.

Though his eyes lingered on Kieran's chest and hands, an odd spark of something akin to hunger glimmering in his gaze for a trill, Doran cleared his throat, and to some extent his thoughts, "I have noticed that to be case. How do you find it? The quiet?" In truth, it reminded him much of his home in Venora. Though he had had neighbors in a sense, there had been space far enough between them that it was not uncommon to go days without seeing another person, especially during the colder cycles. He absently ran a finger over his lips, turning just so to survey the way he had yet to go, the lull in their conversation a testament to Kieran's apt description.

Realising that an invitation of guidance had been offered as well, Doran glanced up toward the hill. "Weren't you hunting? I wouldn't want to pull you from your work." He had found his stride once more, having been taken so completely by surprise before. The flutter in his chest remained, but he felt more in control of himself. While his eyes still tended to wander, he no longer stumbled so haplessly over his own tongue. "But..." Given the choice between walking alone or in Kieran's continued presence, however uncertain the other man made him feel... "If it is not too inconvenient, I would be glad for the company." He grinned, no ulterior motive in mind or tone.

[Alistair]

Thank you. He was... so genuine. It almost made Alistair's heart quell for a moment. Alistair spoke only as a formality, but Doran took his words as being so genuine, that they became so. He really was sorry for his loss - he seemed like a good man, and surely a good man loved good people. He liked to think so, at least, as Fridgar had been a good man, and he loved Alistair. Back then.

"No problem, Doran," he smiled back, a placated grin consuming his lips. He found himself more attracted to the other than previously, which he supposed meant both of them were quite taken. Which meant, of course, that Doran was far from taking advantage of his hospitality. He wanted him to come stay with him - it would provide him with much needed company before he embarked again to Ne'haer, another place where he had virtually no connections. There was Kleine, and of course Damien, but they'd always be around. Always there. His heart sung for more than just them. One was a dead man, and one was a friend that depended on the mage just a little too much.

"It's not taking advantage, Mister Cooney," he called him, politely. That was one pleasant change that distinguished here from Venora -- it was less milord, My Lord, Ser, Peasant, and more... mister, missus, friend, companion, comrade. Nobility had brought great things upon the Kingdom, but also the blight of irreparable distinguishment. The commoners never allowed themselves to speak to one another with true respect - they reserved that for the often incompetent Lords above them, who forever abused their authority.

That was not a thought to linger on, though. He bowed his head lightly, and reached out to take the man's hand. "It would be my pleasure, and besides, you're not any stranger than they all consider me. I'm the new guy here, so I've been foreign and uncomfortable to them, but you're even newer than me. So -- we have to stick together while you're around," he grinned, before stepping forward once towards Kingsley, letting go of Doran's grip.

"The quiet's nice," he responded, wiping off his back with a flurry of sweeping motions from his hands. He'd need to get the sodding dirt off before presenting himself - the women of the village were all-seeing, and they spoke rabidly among themselves.

"To be truthful, though, it doesn't stay nice always, all the time. Sometimes I wish I had more people around. So --" he turned back to Doran and beckoned him to follow, "As enthralling as skidding along dirt and grabbing iguanas is, I'd be glad for the company too. Let's go," he nodded, turning around and stepping towards the ranch, one foot at a time, strutting gleefully in his own subtle way as he hummed Venoran music quietly from his cheeks. While his sexual solicitation had flown directly over the other man's head, Alistair thought it landed directly on the spot, as Doran seemed ever eager to come spend time with him at his ranch. He thought he had won a nighttime companion; certainly a factor to his present joy.

"So, Doran," he called out to him, expecting the man to keep with his pace as he continued forward, "how are you finding the temperature? It's blistering in Ymiden and Saun, but Oakleigh's gorgeous in Ashan and Vhalar. Warm, with cooling winds, and pleasant rain. You're on your feet - must have done a lot of walking to arrive here. Any complaints?"

[Doran Cooney]

Doran blinked at the title, finding it odd to hear his surname used in such a fashion. It felt a bit strange, but he didn't raise complaint. He wasn't sure he liked any kind of definitive formality attached to him at all, but he didn't mind the second handshake - or hand grip. He wasn't entirely sure what the gesture was for, but the rose flush of his cheeks suggested it didn't really matter.

Though smitten, he did a better job of actively listening to what Kieran had to say, letting his hand fall to his side as it was released. Nervously clearing his throat, he ran his fingers through his hair, brows turned in a slightly incredulous look. "I find it hard to imagine any of them find you 'uncomfortable'." He turned to follow with a chuckle, but seemed to forget what it was he was supposed to be doing in the next moment. The musculature was simply artistic, as if Kieran had been carved from immaculate stone, not grown of flesh and blood. And with each step, his body shifted, a new pose, each equally exquisite. Had Doran not already been flushed as dark as his skin would allow him, he most certainly would have then, gawking as he was.

When Kieran turned to check on him, the spell was broken, and Doran adjusted the pack on his back with an embarrassed shake of his shoulders before doing as he was bid. In spite of where he wanted to look, for fear of tripping over his own feet, Doran stared straight ahead, his complexion falsely suggesting he'd been out in the sun for too long. He tried to focus on anything but the roiling mix of emotions and confusing desires that had seemingly sprung up out unbidden, almost out of nowhere; and that's when he heard a familiar tune. Forgetting himself, he turned to stare up at his cheery companion, a question on his lips and infatuation gently pushed aside in favor of the peculiarly nostalgic song, but found himself interrupted before he even began.

"Th-the temperature?" He again scrambled for words, glancing to the ground in front of him as he gathered his thoughts, his suspicions regarding Kieran's song getting lost in the jumble. "Oh, well, it's... quite similar to Venora's climate. Which, I've always found to be quite pleasurable." Glancing down at his own feet, his lips turned a wry grin, though he spoke more to the side rather than directly to his distractingly statuesque companion. "If I had them, I can't say I'd give them voice in your presence. Your feet have surely carried you farther and longer than mine." He drew a breath in through his nose, releasing it in a happy sigh. "And it really is beautiful here. Different but... familiar. In it's own way."

He let his eyes wander over Kieran's decidedly less dusty body. It was odd to think that so perfect a man could belong to the same race as he, though Doran couldn't help but feel a bit shameful at his own actions. After all, certainly there was more to the man than his body alone. He had hardly even listened much of what he'd had to say, and Lily had always been a firm believer to always look beyond what one saw. It was difficult not to feel a bit guilty with how very enamored he was. Instead of trying to stumble into more conversation, Doran fell into stride with the other man, though he took two small steps for each of Kieran's longer one, and absentmindedly began to hum an old Venoran folksong that he'd gotten stuck in his head from somewhere he couldn't quite recall.

[Banshee]

Alistair

Overview

XP: 15

Renown: N/A

Consequences

Injuries/Overstepping: Friction burns, cuts and scrapes across his abdomen and along his shins, slightly bloodied knees which won't be readily apparent until the dirt is washed out of them.
Healing times (halved if treated properly):

• Friction burns, cuts and scrapes: 2 trials
• Bloodied knees: 3 trials

Loot: N/A

Expenses: N/A

Knowledge

• Skill:
  • Stealth: Camouflage
  • Stealth: Moving slowly along distant cliffsides
  • Stealth: Limestone colored disguises work well in desert hills
  • Stealth: Losing your hiding spot to physics
  • Stealth: Descending to avoid being seen
  • Intelligence: Spying on enemy troop movements
  • Sesser - Transformer's Toolbox: Adjusting vocal cords to change voice depth
  • Acting: Feigning a rural accent
  • Acting: Using a different dialect
• Non-Skill:
  • Kieran Riley (Alistair): Vision of Sesser

Comments

I enjoyed this thread so much, I actually don't have words for how enjoyable I found it. In terms of your description, your scene setting in your first post was stellar. Everything was so clear and it was truly a wonderful piece of writing. However, Alistair basically slid down a hillside on an unkind surface while wearing next to nothing so you have been graced with injuries! Even with the endurance that he has, you can't get away with not being hurt or downplaying it that much. You can grit your teeth and think "ow" but you kind of can't ignore injuries altogether. Realistically, there should be twinges and things. Additionally, it's highly unlikely that you'd get away with just the abdomen, hence the extent of the injuries.

You had a few slip ups grammatically, namely adding words where you shouldn't have but overall, it was a very good thread!

Doran Cooney

Overview

XP: 15

Renown: N/A

Consequences

Injuries/Overstepping: N/A

Loot: N/A

Expenses: N/A

Knowledge

• Skill:
  • Endurance: Walking Long Distances
  • Endurance: Adjusting to the Heat
  • Etiquette: Don't stare
  • Etiquette: Avert gaze for the sake of politeness
  • Deception: Lying away odd behaviour
  • Discipline: Maintaining focus despite finding someone distractingly attractive
  • Discipline: Handling yourself in awkward situations
  • Etiquette: Don't impose on a stranger's hospitality
  • Socialization: Finding a common topic to discuss
• Non-Skill:
  • Location: Oakleigh
  • Location: Wells
  • Location: Cappola
  • "Kieran": Hails From Ne'Haer
  • "Kieran": Landowner of Cappola
  • "Kieran": Ex-Doctor
  • Personal: Smitten with "Kieran"

Comments

Doran is such an innocent being, too pure for this world - and for Alistair - and I love him! Your scene setting was lovely, an excellent mixture of humour and observation. The characterisation was very clear, his embarrassment (if that's even a strong enough word) was palpable so that I was cringing and it wasn't even me in that situation. I really appreciated how you managed to shift from that into a more sombre mood while discussing death but managed to keep the momentum of the thread going. Good job!

My only qualm would be the odd grammatical slip, namely the inclusion of words that shouldn't be there. I would also point out the difference between 'rein' and 'reign,' something that appears to be a very common error for people. 'Reign' of course refers to the period of time that someone rules over a particular area, while 'rein' has to do with horses, namely reins, which is used to direct and often curtail their movements. Hence, if you are curtailing your emotions, you rein them in, not reign them. They're homophones so it's an easy enough mistake but good to note.

Otherwise, I very much enjoyed this and I also chose to add some knowledges for you. If you have any objections or want to make any changes to them then please, don't hesitate to message me!

Don't forget to edit your grade request with the following stamp:

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If you think that I missed anything or you have any queries about your grade then don't hesitate to PM me!