Well, to be more particular about it, there's goblin blood coating Horst's entire left arm, but about half of that arm is encase in a rolled-up sleeve of a shirt that is, or was, brand new, and he'd been so careful about keeping his new clothes clean. It's really disappointing.
There are several tall towers here in the Northern district, and realistically, no proof that any of them is even the tower that frazzled Jason Blood had referred to, where he left his, err, bleeding book -- but feeling restless to make himself somehow useful, even to someone who might not be aware of it, and not having much better to do as yet, Horst has come looking.
Looking has, as it turned out, involved the rather surreal experience of battling some kind of -- imps? goblins? -- which Horst can't really say he dressed for when he left this evening. He's not generally a violent man, but he has no particular taste for things that appear to be diabolical in nature, and like most people, he's perfectly ready to defend himself if attacked. As a result, he's spent a harrowing amount of time now inserting his fist into the skulls of a group of goblins. He pulled a short sword off of one of them, but it hasn't seen much use, since Horst hasn't exactly had much armed combat training. He's stuck to his own two hands and his physical strength. It's been successful, but not exactly heartening.
Still, it's nothing to the sight of a very large, very unaccountably skyworthy dragon fluttering around through the air. Horst stops in his tracks and stands there for a moment just staring at it. There's really, really nothing about the dragon that explains how it's able to fly: it moves on the wind like something weightless, no long wings picking up air currents, but seeming to have no difficulty steering itself where it wills. Something about the physical impossibility of the thing just makes it seem all the more unfair.
Horst sighs. He hefts the chipped old dirk in one hand, having no real idea how he's going to use a tiny sword to . . . slay . . . a dragon.
"I suppose I'm fighting a dragon now," he grumbles sourly. "There really is no hope for this shirt."
Horst squares his shoulders to his feet and whistles, high and sharply, to grab the dragon's attention.
"Come on then, you great, impossible beast. I've put on my battle shirt and everything."
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Well, to be more particular about it, there's goblin blood coating Horst's entire left arm, but about half of that arm is encase in a rolled-up sleeve of a shirt that is, or was, brand new, and he'd been so careful about keeping his new clothes clean. It's really disappointing.
There are several tall towers here in the Northern district, and realistically, no proof that any of them is even the tower that frazzled Jason Blood had referred to, where he left his, err, bleeding book -- but feeling restless to make himself somehow useful, even to someone who might not be aware of it, and not having much better to do as yet, Horst has come looking.
Looking has, as it turned out, involved the rather surreal experience of battling some kind of -- imps? goblins? -- which Horst can't really say he dressed for when he left this evening. He's not generally a violent man, but he has no particular taste for things that appear to be diabolical in nature, and like most people, he's perfectly ready to defend himself if attacked. As a result, he's spent a harrowing amount of time now inserting his fist into the skulls of a group of goblins. He pulled a short sword off of one of them, but it hasn't seen much use, since Horst hasn't exactly had much armed combat training. He's stuck to his own two hands and his physical strength. It's been successful, but not exactly heartening.
Still, it's nothing to the sight of a very large, very unaccountably skyworthy dragon fluttering around through the air. Horst stops in his tracks and stands there for a moment just staring at it. There's really, really nothing about the dragon that explains how it's able to fly: it moves on the wind like something weightless, no long wings picking up air currents, but seeming to have no difficulty steering itself where it wills. Something about the physical impossibility of the thing just makes it seem all the more unfair.
Horst sighs. He hefts the chipped old dirk in one hand, having no real idea how he's going to use a tiny sword to . . . slay . . . a dragon.
"I suppose I'm fighting a dragon now," he grumbles sourly. "There really is no hope for this shirt."
Horst squares his shoulders to his feet and whistles, high and sharply, to grab the dragon's attention.
"Come on then, you great, impossible beast. I've put on my battle shirt and everything."