Thread: Pynti-Peldot

Name Quick-Step Racoan. Race Dnedain Attire Traditional attire for his sect of the Rangers. Weapons His bow , machete , axe , and long sword . Location Pynti-Peldot inside the Inn of the Snowy Eagle Tagging Anyone Time TA 3018, March 1, evening. With a tired sigh, Racoan had approached the sled. It's team had eyed him and growled at him, baring teeth, more out of uncertainty than hate. Whoever these raiders had been, they hadn't been good trainers. A smart person would have trained the dogs to be loyal more through compassion than through the rod. They distrusted him as they distrusted their own masters but they had lacked the fear of him. Their driver lay dead with an arrow buried deep in his skull not a few meters away. Near him was his sole companion that had ridden with him, while another sleigh of two in their own sled were turned over in a drift another fifty yards off. Using the closest man's furs after he'd finished pulling his blade from the man's stomach, Racoan had wiped his blade clean of blood. A glance over at his own six-dog team laying dead on the snow preceded Racoan heading over to the sled with its dogs still alive. He had looked it over and had found it stripped down to only its barest essentials nothing for shelter or long-term survival. The Ranger suspected that if he were to follow their tracks he might find the camp that these four had come from. The gamble was that it might be abandoned, or it might be filled with more of their ilk, and that was something he didn't have time for. Yet that didn't mean he was at a total loss since they'd killed his dogs. It took some time since he couldn't afford any sort of sudden moves lest he encourage the dogs to attack him, but eventually he'd moved his own belongings onto the sled. His own yurt, food, supplies, and the food for his own dog team. Racoan had watched the dogs as he'd opened one cloth sack in particular. Their ears had perked up and he watched them sniff at the air before their eyes had settled on him. It was hard to tell if the creatures had ate recently or if they were simply regularly fed enough to keep them from being ravenous. Either way trust had been quickly earned when each of the six animals had found fresh meat laid before them on the snowy ground. All that was left by the time Racoan was finished moving his own belongings were small divots in the snow where the dogs had been perhaps a little too enthusiastic. A few grateful barks had told him the team was pleased with his little peace-offering and they didn't fight when he took the reigns. From there, despite it not being his own it was not difficult for Racoan to make himself comfortable. Being for all purposes native-born meant that he was no stranger to this sort of transport. From there it had been on to Pynti-Peldot. While the town wasn't completely new to him, it had been a while since he'd set foot there. Maybe ten or twelve years and the last time he'd come it'd been accompanied by fellow Rangers to deal with a problem caused by local raids. A few choice deaths and some stern negotiating had eventually solved the problem and while he hoped that the city still enjoyed it's safety he knew the politics of the land were as ever shifting as wind-blown snow. It wasn't far from where he'd come under attack by the bandits at no more than a mile at best and he was able to make good time. While they may not have been trusting of their master's the team was good and kept an excellent pace by the standards of a man known among his fellow Rangers for his speed both on skates and at the reigns of a dog-team. His arrival in town had come quick and silent with only the panting of dogs and the sound of fresh-carved wood and bone meeting packed snow. While the more permanent looking buildings were new to him, travels taking him to a wide variety of places meant that he wasn't so surprised as to be lost for navigation. Familiarity with even some warmlander customs meant finding what he had presumed to be the inn from a distance had been little trouble. Seeing the sign as he'd guided the dogs to a roofed shelter where a few other such sleds and teams were kept he'd unhooked them and ushered them in to the pen where they quite happily made their homes. A few passing barks were exchanged with those teams kept in the other pens, those of other travelers who had arrived to call the inn a home for the night. Soft but quick steps to the door brought him just that much closer to warmth, and not spending another night camped alone in the snowy wastes. When the door had swung open - nobody had really cared. Racoan was no lost foreigner. He'd always wondered that as he'd grown older. He'd seen many from the south who would come to places like this and every eye would be drawn to them, yet short of walking in ablaze he'd hardly be worth a note of attention unless he did something unusual. As he'd opened the door he wasn't disappointed by a lack of routine when he'd glanced about and seen - well familiarity and routine went out the window right about the time that a Lossoth man hit the floor when what he gathered to be a musician decided something of the man's face must have offended him. He'd paused just inside the door as the bard had paused in front of a rather dainty looking, pretty little thing. Next to her stood a not-so dainty but admittedly handsome-looking fellow who he pondered might have been the lovechild of a fortress wall and a glacier given his stature and the armor he wore. A dead silence filled the air after the two had spoken. Racoan still stared from the doorway, observing for a moment as the cold air slowly came against his back. - THUD - , - THUD - - THUD - . - THUD - His boots met the wall and loose snow was cast down. In that silence he suddenly found eyes on him. Reaching up with one gloved hand he cast his hood down and pulled down the earthen-colored scarf that wrapped around his face. Anybody who looked at him could tell that despite the pale skin, lighter hair and hazel eyes betrayed him as not being of Lossoth birth. Yet those who were familiar with them might recognize the demeanor and equipment of a Ranger of the North. Simultaneously one of the most distrusted but ironically respected groups in some places. Balls . If he was hesitant to use harsh language around a young woman it didn't show, because right now wasn't the time for flirting, but for work, You'd think somebody died in here. That, and the Walking Palisade next to her might already claim her as his. Only a few steps in he took note of the barkeep in a double-take, surprise flashing across his face along with a smile, Naiq? By Eru boy, I remember you when you were a pup only yay high. His hand didn't even raise to his shoulders, Good to see your father got this inn idea of his working. Now with that sidetracking mission handled he turned back to the three standing there on the floor as the Lossoth man rose and retreated to his friends' table lest he be caught in this trouble. What seems to be the matter here? If anybody were to look, he didn't seem aggressive, at least to perhaps the lady, and the bard. His arms were crossed and he was regarding everybody with dark hazel eyes. To the warrior perhaps, it might be seen the tension just under the surface. Even without a hand at one of his several blades or even on his bow, it might be betrayed that he was more than capable and confident of acting if it was necessary. It was in the way that he had displaced his weight equally between both feet, and the way that his arms weren't quite so fully crossed to prevent him from quickly reaching one of his blades. It was subtle things like that.