Jun 14, 2014
The False man of Lys
Sitting atop a small grassy ridge, above a known road, was a blonde-haired man, his nose in a book. The atmospheric conditions were, at this time, rather fair. A warm stillness that, at mercurial moments, became accentuated by light cool winds. The cover of the book he glared into was of a stiff, brown, murky looking parchment, with foreign letters written vertically down the spine.
Oh, literature was this blue-eyed man's inferior love. Perhaps not a love. He could only love one thing. Tomes and texts were a light. Something to keep himself from harming every poor innocent whom carried a blade.
The mind was lost, until only the faint sound of footsteps reached his seemingly uncaught attention.
