Erirag the Poet
05-05-13, 09:21 PM
Erirag had noticed something as she'd trundled around Radasanth. The human children that flocked to the city streets had little respect. They were little more than animals in human skin, throwing rocks at the orcess and then running to hide behind the skirts of their mothers when Erirag had paused and growled curses at them. Their behavior was odd to her, but even more puzzling was the fact that despite these shows of aggression, they were not allowed to follow through with combat. It was becoming clear to Erirag that the differences between orc and human spanned beyond her tribe's nomadic nature versus the permanent lifestyle the humans lived.
And thus, she'd assembled ink, paper, and brushes. She sat down and stared at the surface of the natural paper for a long while. She could see flecks of grass and petal that had snuck into the mash of dried reeds that comprised the fiber. The children of humanity seemed to learn better from the stories their mothers told at night, all written down and collected in tomes. She'd seen the books of bedtime stories before and decided that perhaps she should write her own. Her Common had improved enough between her friendship with the armored orc and what she gained by walking the streets and immersion in the culture. Dipping a small brush into the jar of ink she'd just opened, she furrowed her brow and began pull the bristles along the paper. The dark line started, the curves of her hand composing fables for the modern child.
And thus, she'd assembled ink, paper, and brushes. She sat down and stared at the surface of the natural paper for a long while. She could see flecks of grass and petal that had snuck into the mash of dried reeds that comprised the fiber. The children of humanity seemed to learn better from the stories their mothers told at night, all written down and collected in tomes. She'd seen the books of bedtime stories before and decided that perhaps she should write her own. Her Common had improved enough between her friendship with the armored orc and what she gained by walking the streets and immersion in the culture. Dipping a small brush into the jar of ink she'd just opened, she furrowed her brow and began pull the bristles along the paper. The dark line started, the curves of her hand composing fables for the modern child.