Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-3293219-20150724223316/@comment-5614539-20150728043116

Martin sat as far away from the fire as he could, the heat waves that washed from it would crack his skin and burn it. He looked down to the soil, thinking, wishing, hoping that what had happened had not. ''I manipulated that poor man. I sucked him dry, and then I used him.'' He sighed, wondering why he even had a sword strapped to his side. Why he was even there. ''Why? Why do I associate with these people? Because I'm not afraid of dying. I'm afraid of killing. I'm tired. My curse, gift, I don't remember, or even know. It's making my tired. It's making me feel... old. It's making me feel ready to... die.'' The very word was a strange concept to him, one which he had studiously avoided for his whole life. ''But I can't. I have responsibilities now. I, for some reason, unknown even to the Divines above, signed up on this wild fantasy of a quest. Why? Because I thought I was saving lives? Because I thought I finally got a turn at playing hero? Tch. I'll never be a hero. Just the background man. The behind-the-scenes man. The one who never makes a real difference. The one who has no fate, but eternal un-deathly hell.'' Martin sighed, reflecting bitterly. ''There might have been a time, when I made a difference. When I could have been someone important. But no. It was never me. It was always going to be my brother.'' He sighed, before looking down again.

Ashara sat on a log, beside the fire, alone, looking into its misty depths. She had a tankard sitting beside her, but it lay forgotten. In her had was the hilt of her father's sword, her personal dagger. "One day, I'll get someone to reforge it. But no one has been right," she whispered to herself, looking at its twisted end. "One day."

Roggvir, meanwhile, had no deep or insightful thoughts. He sat by the fire, drinking happily, and laughing with the bandits.