like’d from x
@endtablefororphans
Roland scratches the scruff of his beginning-beard, blooming a raspy sound; half-distracted by the book in his lap, and half-distracted by the belch of green energy come a’walking near his person; ne’erminding the healthy green of flora and plant-life seeping pollen inside the breeze.
One strong leg promptly swinging in his tree-hanging repose, he looks downward, holding the book out of his way, to see clearly the garden floor below, riddled with herbs and sweet-smelling flowers in the abundance of Knowledge for the healers and mage-gifted of the Inquisition.
Roland sits in the boughs of one of the good trees; thick, strong bark, taking his evening with the gentle press of ink and yellowing parchment, and in the front of his vision doth he espie the an elf, walking, proud and firm in their stride, and something ancient and unseen and evil clinging snatch’d at their back, like the razor’d thorns of a wilting rose. Roland’s eyes narrow, as he watches quietly, cautiously.
“Hail,” he calls, whence borne on sublime ear-shot and wondering. His hand doth rise in his greeting, tall in his nest of spidery branches. “Good morning. How goes with thee?”