=A mailed hand rests upon the stone of the gatehouse wall. A pair of piercing emerald eyes cast about the land beyond them, open fully against the window, set in a handsome, if somewhat cold face, showing no concessions to nature. For a long moment the eyes scan everything within their line of vision, never blinking, each detail carefully arranged in the mind behind the eyes.
Another hand, cold, living metal, rests upon the long haft of a halberd, though no weight is rested upon the weapon as if in repose. The body of the man is straight, his posture perfect, his armored body looking as a statue, an idealized figure, the quintessential guardian.
To many, he was.
The minutes past, and still the eyes are wide, unblinking. To any looking, perhaps they would think the man had frozen to death at his post. Any that challenged him would find otherwise. A crimson cloak, rich, thick, and well-worn falls down the back of the man, behind the shoulders for freedom of movement. a pair of blades rest at his hips. One, an old, well-worn thing, speaking of ancient design and hard use, is strapped tight, with no mere peace knot. The other is a close match in design, and though obviously well-worn and oft-used, it is visibly newer than the counterpart.
On a nearby table rests a wrapped flagon of water, untouched, and a meal, also untouched, left by an awe-struck guardsman. On the wall behind this leans two quivers of crossbow bolts, a third resting near the leg of the man. A seemlessly crafted heavy crossbow rests beside the man, within easy reach.
Slowly, with a deliberate movement, the man takes a step backwards from the wall, an old habit of never turning his back on the side of an enemy's approach. He turns and with a quick spin of the 10foot haft effortlessly in his hands, places the halberd across the table. This post was not his, by and large, though none would argue his worth at the post. Still, he found himself there, on the gate, when he was not needed elsewhere. Few bothered him on his forays to this place, despite their orders to hold it themselves. The man was legend, and they deferred to his presence, sometimes with relief, other times with awe and trepidation.
He walks to the other side of the gatehouse, looking into the courtyard, and gives a quick whistle and hand signal to a guard within his eyesight, notifying the man to send a replacement up.
Near silently, despite his armor, Catona moves along the wall, and down the steps into the courtyard, his eyes never seeming to waiver from their course, though he is aware of every movement and every subtle nuance of his surroundings as he walks.=
2010-05-25, 01:18