Andtaen
His skin is pale, like snow on the Mountains, or like shimmering
moonlight in a dark, dark sky. The eyes shine, brown they are, yet not
so, for the faintest hint of olive-green lurks in them. Hair reaching
down to his shoulders does he have, dark brown; some strands in front
are braided and pulled loosely to the back, tied by a black strand of
thread of sorts. He dons but a simple green outfit made of thick wool
of some kind. The pants are short, reaching barely below his knees,
about mid-calf, perhaps, and beneath them are seen black boots; soft
they look, but seemingly worn from years of age. The shirt is loose,
and short as well, reaching to a bit below his elbow. A bow of fine,
pale wood hangs from his right hand, and you see a quiver, made of
pale green cloth, that has been tossed over his left shoulder.
"Hello, Andtaen," greets Coleng. Interestingly enough, he
grabs the elf (for that is what he is, apparently) and tosses him up
into the air. Andtaen lands gently on the ground, though; for though
Coleng is tall and looks rough, he is ever kind in his ways with the
Fair Folk.
Phikasten clears his throat. "This, Andtaen," he says,
pointing to you, "is Galen, our new friend."
"Pleased to meet you," says Andtaen, bowing and smiling.
You hold out your hand to shake his, but he clasps it and kisses it. A
familiar crimson blush flies across your cheeks, and you turn away so
that no one may see.
Unfortunately, Andtaen does see your face flush, but, fortunately, he
says not a word; but an unstoppable grin appears teasingly upon his
fair face.
"Where are the others?" asks Coleng, looking around.
"They are back at camp," Andtaen says, waving his hand
north. "Why? Did you wish to see them for something?" His
face looks curious.
"Yes," says Phikasten. "We want to see Lord Faiglion.
We think we may have found Melawen." He nods to you.
Andtaen studies your face for a moment with his piercing,
knowledgeable brown eyes. You feel uneasy beneath the stare, like your
soul is being searched or some such poppycock: finally, the
russet-brown gaze turns to Coleng. "I think," he says
slowly, as if great thought is upon his mind, and he is unwillingly
sharing it, "I think I have never seen such a resemblance to
Melawen, daughter of Lord Faiglion, in my life." He looks
carefully at you, at your clothes, and then turns away.
"Hello, Phikasten," says a soft, gentle voice. A laugh is
also heard ringing the thick, lush trees of the Forest; the laugh is
melodious, and kind, but rich. "Hello, Coleng." You see a
stranger before you.
