- am now 18
- have finished january modules
- am still in love
- am still looking to do psychology
- still partially doing CU
other things have changed but they're not realyl important enough to talk about, yes i am aware that i never finsih stories but my current created character i like more than any other os hes a new new story.
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I’d met him before, in the same post house, several years before, the man they called Batan; his real name was lost, even he had forgotten it and Batan seemed to fit the lean young man with his well kept beard who hid beneath the hood of his long coat never showing all of his face.
It had been a cold winter’s night, a blizzard blowing outside the snow whipping at the faces of travellers. We had both been forced to stop on our travels and rent a room by ferocity of the elements. He had sat hunched over a tankard at the bar, his finger sliding round the rim, snow still sat on the shoulders of his coat. I approached the bar; set down my bag unbuckled my short sword and sat on the neighbouring stool. I greeted the bar man and nodded to him, he grunted a reply sat back and drained the contents of the tankard. He looked at me as he set down the mug, ‘another?’ he nodded and a half smile crept onto his lips,’Batan’
He held out his hand, his voice matched his appearance low and intense, I took his hand; as we exchanged is pleasantries I ordered a second tanked for him and one of my own with a little bread and cheese.
The Blizzard kept up for threes days when none when came or went from the post house, Batan and I built up what you could almost call a friendship in those three days, we discussed old times he his time with the army and I of the great city on the lake where I had once worked as a merchant before the hordes came and I was forced to pedal my wares from town to town. Dark days we lived in and it took hard men like Batan and the other wild men who lived in the mountain passes to protect the rest of us citizen from the continuing rampage of the horde. The second time I met him I was again travelling the high mountain paths when I passed the post house we had spent our three days in, it had become some what of a tradition for me that I stop at least for a small meal and a drink at the post house before travelling on, for three years I’d come back but this year I entered to see him sitting in the same old green coat, his long sword by his side, but now his eyes seemed darker, gone the happy mocking look replaced by one of loss and fear. I sat beside him we embraced and then he began to sob, then he told me the story of his past three years.
