- Pronouns
- He/Him
- Location
- The Town of Blargney, Iveria & Environs
The sun glared and stung despite its ascent only marking it as mid-morning, and a billion cicadas sang out their short lived songs of desperation after years of waiting from amidst the wild copses of birch and hawthorn bisected by the long country road leading towards Blargney. Nature's susurration was broken by the purring of a motorcycle engine as a lonesome young man sped down the lonely road. His long and ever so slightly curled hair tussled in the breeze in a handsome contrast to a tightly lipped drawn visage devoid of any trace of contentment or even disdain at the vagaries of the day's weather. The man's name was Ragenard Guiscard and he rode with one eye cast inwards and with the throttle pulled fully open as if out-distancing his demons was a matter of speed.
The soft creaking of the worn material of Ragenard's leather riding gloves was clearly audible to his enhanced senses even above the louder and more powerful hum of the engine in Ragenard's 1969 Perrault Phantom Voyager custom. There was no clearly audible to him but tinny music playing from the state of the art FM radio he had added to his bike. It wasn't time for the news, a pick up, and he hadn't had the stomach for music lately. Yet even through the morose pall that had overcome his life over the past six months, the powerful and oversized motorcycle was still his most treasured physical possession.
He pointedly ignored thinking about the long rectangular oilskin bundle tucked away in one of his bike's saddle bags, and tried to pull a bit more speed out of his bike to better recklessly cut through the winding turns ahead.
Without really registering the depth or size of the fall off one side—fully worthy of the qualifier of 'cliff'—Ragenard slid, turned, downshifted, and accelerated left and then all over again right and left again as he maneuvered to keep his unnecessarily high speed through his travail. He didn't care what happened if he failed, not anymore but he had too much pride to not try his best.
He made it back into a straight portion of the road without so much as a released breath or acknowledgement of disappointment. By now he could see the welcome sign (population. middling) ahead and the first rooftops inviting him to the small town in the middle of nowhere Iveria of Blargney.
Ragenard parked his motorcycle outside of the 'General Store'. His mind actually boggled a bit at the quaintness as if something out of the 50s of his youth instead of the radical and brash 1973 they were living through. The sign actually read General Store in large letters, and it was only after a careful second glance that Ragenard spotted the 'Old Tom's' in a much smaller font above. He shook his head as he swung out of the saddle, but felt he ought to give credit where it was due. The town had two traffic lights.
A bell jingled as he stepped in the shop, and he made his way to the counter to his left, ignoring the shelves and goods arranged to seek his admiration in the greater room to his right. The man behind the counter was certainly old, but Ragenard didn't think it a case so advanced as to merit capital adjective status on the shop's sign but it wasn't his business. He cleared his throat whilst giving the man 'The Nod', fulfilling greeting requirements in his currently tremendously stunted book.
"I'm looking for Sgt. Asvaldr," Ragenard said. His tone was gravelly and hoarse as if the man hadn't spoken in weeks and didn't care to wait for his vocal chords to warm up. "I served with him and was told to ask for him around here if I found myself in these parts."
The soft creaking of the worn material of Ragenard's leather riding gloves was clearly audible to his enhanced senses even above the louder and more powerful hum of the engine in Ragenard's 1969 Perrault Phantom Voyager custom. There was no clearly audible to him but tinny music playing from the state of the art FM radio he had added to his bike. It wasn't time for the news, a pick up, and he hadn't had the stomach for music lately. Yet even through the morose pall that had overcome his life over the past six months, the powerful and oversized motorcycle was still his most treasured physical possession.
He pointedly ignored thinking about the long rectangular oilskin bundle tucked away in one of his bike's saddle bags, and tried to pull a bit more speed out of his bike to better recklessly cut through the winding turns ahead.
Without really registering the depth or size of the fall off one side—fully worthy of the qualifier of 'cliff'—Ragenard slid, turned, downshifted, and accelerated left and then all over again right and left again as he maneuvered to keep his unnecessarily high speed through his travail. He didn't care what happened if he failed, not anymore but he had too much pride to not try his best.
He made it back into a straight portion of the road without so much as a released breath or acknowledgement of disappointment. By now he could see the welcome sign (population. middling) ahead and the first rooftops inviting him to the small town in the middle of nowhere Iveria of Blargney.
Ragenard parked his motorcycle outside of the 'General Store'. His mind actually boggled a bit at the quaintness as if something out of the 50s of his youth instead of the radical and brash 1973 they were living through. The sign actually read General Store in large letters, and it was only after a careful second glance that Ragenard spotted the 'Old Tom's' in a much smaller font above. He shook his head as he swung out of the saddle, but felt he ought to give credit where it was due. The town had two traffic lights.
A bell jingled as he stepped in the shop, and he made his way to the counter to his left, ignoring the shelves and goods arranged to seek his admiration in the greater room to his right. The man behind the counter was certainly old, but Ragenard didn't think it a case so advanced as to merit capital adjective status on the shop's sign but it wasn't his business. He cleared his throat whilst giving the man 'The Nod', fulfilling greeting requirements in his currently tremendously stunted book.
"I'm looking for Sgt. Asvaldr," Ragenard said. His tone was gravelly and hoarse as if the man hadn't spoken in weeks and didn't care to wait for his vocal chords to warm up. "I served with him and was told to ask for him around here if I found myself in these parts."
