Post by tarra on Apr 14, 2008 1:20:56 GMT -5
Tsarkor dumped his laden haversack onto his newly assigned bunk. Pale brown eyes flicked over his new surroundings, drinking in the sights. He stood still a moment, thinking.
It was his father Tarkir he thought of. Thick-set dark brows came to mind, a heavy hand and a stubborn set of jaw. It was his mother Reina he took after in physical form, with her pale brown eyes and her lighter features. But his father he was, in mind at least. And like his father he was no cur to be chived and chased, or bowed by anger and fear. He had a mind, and he would express it. One way or another.
Tsarkor sighed, rough hands moving gently, undoing the traces of his haversack. A pity they could never quite agree on so many things, a bitter by-product of the strength of character they shared. He had respected his father greatly, once, when he was a child and the man was like a model of strength, of honour, solid and unmovable. But that trust had worn away with the years, with the beatings and the lashings and the never-quite-agreements they had had with each other. It was his mother Reina he was closer to now, with her quiet ways and winning manners. She had won his respect in more ways than one, and not merely by virtue of her motherhood either. Perhaps it had been for the best he moved on, away from the family he both loved and hated.
He slipped the few clothes he had packed from the haversack, and started adjusting them into the cupboard, movements smooth and rhythematical, action trained from years of experience with his heardbeasts, with his skittish runners. One could say many things of Tsarkor, but the fact that he had patience built into his very frame was something no one would gainsay him for. It made him seem beyond his years at times, if only because he looked calmer, wiser, more thoughtful. The one who probbed would find, however, that the fifteen-turn-old was still a boy at heart, still loving, innocent, playful.
Tsarkor bundled his clothes into the cupboard, stacked his personal items into the drawers with locks, and thought no more about his earlier life.
It was his father Tarkir he thought of. Thick-set dark brows came to mind, a heavy hand and a stubborn set of jaw. It was his mother Reina he took after in physical form, with her pale brown eyes and her lighter features. But his father he was, in mind at least. And like his father he was no cur to be chived and chased, or bowed by anger and fear. He had a mind, and he would express it. One way or another.
Tsarkor sighed, rough hands moving gently, undoing the traces of his haversack. A pity they could never quite agree on so many things, a bitter by-product of the strength of character they shared. He had respected his father greatly, once, when he was a child and the man was like a model of strength, of honour, solid and unmovable. But that trust had worn away with the years, with the beatings and the lashings and the never-quite-agreements they had had with each other. It was his mother Reina he was closer to now, with her quiet ways and winning manners. She had won his respect in more ways than one, and not merely by virtue of her motherhood either. Perhaps it had been for the best he moved on, away from the family he both loved and hated.
He slipped the few clothes he had packed from the haversack, and started adjusting them into the cupboard, movements smooth and rhythematical, action trained from years of experience with his heardbeasts, with his skittish runners. One could say many things of Tsarkor, but the fact that he had patience built into his very frame was something no one would gainsay him for. It made him seem beyond his years at times, if only because he looked calmer, wiser, more thoughtful. The one who probbed would find, however, that the fifteen-turn-old was still a boy at heart, still loving, innocent, playful.
Tsarkor bundled his clothes into the cupboard, stacked his personal items into the drawers with locks, and thought no more about his earlier life.