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<blockquote data-quote="Celesarn" data-source="post: 5786312" data-attributes="member: 6688203"><p>Misfits, the lot of them. What a strange company I have found myself in, muses the tall, cloaked figure standing near Caratra. And this suits him just fine. Never one to have found his place in society, it is still unnerving being in an army of any organization (if this angry band could be called organized - or, for that matter, an army). As one who has spent most of his life wandering and scavenging, a harsh, militant lifestyle is no added strain, but though the professional military of his home realm may have been a road out of poverty, it had never appealed to this free spirit. Partially due to the stricture of the program, and mostly because any member of his home military would likely kill him on sight. So he is content to remain an enemy.</p><p></p><p>Though all present are familiar enough with his pointed facial features and pale complexion, Marcus still wears the hood of his cloak pulled well over his head, obscuring most of his face, out of habit and precaution. He pulls his cloak even tighter around himself, leaning heavily on the walking stick which he has spent the last few minutes carving. The support is unnecessary, but the whittling has kept his hands busy. Now, however, he begins to feel restless again. His hands fidgeting intermittently, he watches as his older sister surveys the area. She always was the patient one. Caring, calm, calculating. If it weren't for her, Marcus remembers coldly, he would have starved on many a cold night. But finally, the two of them have found their chance. She told him to wait, to let it be for a time, and now there is a resistance which they can join, bent on ending the humans. No situation could be more opportune. Except, perhaps, one which did not involve taking orders from that infuriating halfling.</p><p></p><p>So lost in thought is Marcus that he has mostly misses the instructions of said irritant. Absent-mindedly stroking his pet rat, which has climbed onto the top of his traveling stick, he turns and looks questioningly at the scroll in Peregard's hand, eager to learn of the new mission.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Celesarn, post: 5786312, member: 6688203"] Misfits, the lot of them. What a strange company I have found myself in, muses the tall, cloaked figure standing near Caratra. And this suits him just fine. Never one to have found his place in society, it is still unnerving being in an army of any organization (if this angry band could be called organized - or, for that matter, an army). As one who has spent most of his life wandering and scavenging, a harsh, militant lifestyle is no added strain, but though the professional military of his home realm may have been a road out of poverty, it had never appealed to this free spirit. Partially due to the stricture of the program, and mostly because any member of his home military would likely kill him on sight. So he is content to remain an enemy. Though all present are familiar enough with his pointed facial features and pale complexion, Marcus still wears the hood of his cloak pulled well over his head, obscuring most of his face, out of habit and precaution. He pulls his cloak even tighter around himself, leaning heavily on the walking stick which he has spent the last few minutes carving. The support is unnecessary, but the whittling has kept his hands busy. Now, however, he begins to feel restless again. His hands fidgeting intermittently, he watches as his older sister surveys the area. She always was the patient one. Caring, calm, calculating. If it weren't for her, Marcus remembers coldly, he would have starved on many a cold night. But finally, the two of them have found their chance. She told him to wait, to let it be for a time, and now there is a resistance which they can join, bent on ending the humans. No situation could be more opportune. Except, perhaps, one which did not involve taking orders from that infuriating halfling. So lost in thought is Marcus that he has mostly misses the instructions of said irritant. Absent-mindedly stroking his pet rat, which has climbed onto the top of his traveling stick, he turns and looks questioningly at the scroll in Peregard's hand, eager to learn of the new mission. [/QUOTE]
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