Post by brindle on Jul 16, 2009 19:38:38 GMT -5
A gasp of pain passed his thin lips, audible as little more than a whisper. Brindle suppressed the noise on instinct; a habit long held and for good reason. A life of being the smallest boy around had taught him it was best to go unnoticed, even at the expense of letting others know you were hurt. Especially then. It would take far more that a stubbed toe to get more than that gasp from him, and even now it had only been at the surprise of the thing. Staring up at the fast approaching archway he had neglected proper footing, and found an uneven tile.
After the brief moment it took to regain balance and act as if nothing had happened (and at this, if nothing else, he was an expert) the small boy reached the archway, raising an undersized hand to touch it. The soft pale skin of his childlike fingers stopped, only millimeters from its smooth stone surface. He didn't need to be any closer than that to feel the thing. Lines of awareness streaked through his hand, where he knew the veins lay, beneath the skin. He felt the age of the great rock, and the age of the form it now took. The form was not as old as he had expected. It certainly had none of the antiquity of the rest of the castle, and perhaps he should not have been surprised, as he had noticed approaching it the difference in craftsmanship setting it apart from the rest.
Brindle smiled a subtle smile, crafted to attract as little attention as his earlier gasp. He shrugged the bag and bundle he carried from his shoulders, setting them down on the inside of the archway. If he had looked small wearing them, now he looked tiny. Though he was newly fifteen, most would have guessed he was little over ten years old, and small for his age at that. Bright auburn eyes looked out at his new home from beneath tawny brown curls, hiding his eyebrows, and adding to their shade. He let his weight go, slumping against the archway, back first. As little sound came from the impact as their was weight to drive it. The boy couldn't have been more than five feet tall, and frail for his height. His exceedingly pale skin lent evidence to the impression that he was severely underfed, though this was offset by the roundness of his cheeks. What hint of colour those cheeks had was hidden by a smattering of freckles which spanned his face, left to right, continuing straight over his tiny nose, like a ferrets mask.
He slid down the wall and arrived gently, sitting on the floor. He pulled his pack and bundle a little closer, resting one arm on them. He sat and stared at this new place, a thousand questions crawling excitedly through his mind like ants through an anthill. Brindle, of course, was too shy to ask anyone any of these. He resigned to sit, and watch, and take in the mood of the place until he could work up the courage to go any further into these uncharted waters.
After the brief moment it took to regain balance and act as if nothing had happened (and at this, if nothing else, he was an expert) the small boy reached the archway, raising an undersized hand to touch it. The soft pale skin of his childlike fingers stopped, only millimeters from its smooth stone surface. He didn't need to be any closer than that to feel the thing. Lines of awareness streaked through his hand, where he knew the veins lay, beneath the skin. He felt the age of the great rock, and the age of the form it now took. The form was not as old as he had expected. It certainly had none of the antiquity of the rest of the castle, and perhaps he should not have been surprised, as he had noticed approaching it the difference in craftsmanship setting it apart from the rest.
Brindle smiled a subtle smile, crafted to attract as little attention as his earlier gasp. He shrugged the bag and bundle he carried from his shoulders, setting them down on the inside of the archway. If he had looked small wearing them, now he looked tiny. Though he was newly fifteen, most would have guessed he was little over ten years old, and small for his age at that. Bright auburn eyes looked out at his new home from beneath tawny brown curls, hiding his eyebrows, and adding to their shade. He let his weight go, slumping against the archway, back first. As little sound came from the impact as their was weight to drive it. The boy couldn't have been more than five feet tall, and frail for his height. His exceedingly pale skin lent evidence to the impression that he was severely underfed, though this was offset by the roundness of his cheeks. What hint of colour those cheeks had was hidden by a smattering of freckles which spanned his face, left to right, continuing straight over his tiny nose, like a ferrets mask.
He slid down the wall and arrived gently, sitting on the floor. He pulled his pack and bundle a little closer, resting one arm on them. He sat and stared at this new place, a thousand questions crawling excitedly through his mind like ants through an anthill. Brindle, of course, was too shy to ask anyone any of these. He resigned to sit, and watch, and take in the mood of the place until he could work up the courage to go any further into these uncharted waters.