Falkon O'Field's page

Illhir sighed and rubbed her eyelids. She wanted to go for sarcasm but feared that that too would soar over the little lords head. It was things like this that really steered her towards meritocracy.

Like in Mivon!

"If we were spies wouldn't we be a bit more discrete? Perhaps sneaking at night instead of riding down the path to your doorstep..." She shrugged. "I don't know; you my lord seems to be the spy expert."

"She has a point M'lord." falkon offers.

"But my lord," pleads the big man. "They may not be riffraff."

Actually the bow is just in his picture. I'm sure the picture gets that a lot. The angry face is dead right though.

There is more rustling from the forest from behind the boy, and out rushes a big frantic man dressed for fighting holding a big metal club.

"Pardon! Pardon! It is my fault! My humblest apologies to the dread lady!" He bows a number of times to the boy and Alia, and one for the rest of the group. "Please spare me. I was sparing with the young Lord Westolv here, when my inexpert hand jostled the sword from my lord's hand. I meant no harm. It is only my own natural clumsiness that smote the tree before you." With his last show of obeisance, he stays partially bowed.