favorthebold: (Hair in eyes)
[The feed clicks on when the PCD is tossed aside in disinterest by its user, probably because it isn't any good to eat.

Its user is, at the moment, a pale, malnourished adolescent - maybe fifteen - who moves with predatory purpose, examining his surroundings. He looks in desperate need of a hot meal, a full night's sleep, and maybe a haircut. But probably not a hug. He is holding a long pole whittled down to make a functional spear, and passes it from hand to hand every few minutes, moved by restless energy.

A few minutes' looking around later, though, that energy seems to desert him, all at once like a physical blow. With a long, quiet sigh, he crouches down next to the nearest wall and puts his hands down on his arms. His voice, when he speaks, sounds older than his appearance suggests.]


It doesn't matter. Across the border, all places are the same...


((OOC: No teen icons. Cope. No Ads memories either. Might age him further down as the week goes if I feel like it.))
favorthebold: (Oh so pretty)
Do none of you miss your homelands? I ask sincerely. No one here ever mentions where he'd come from, no one speaks of his faith, his ways, his history... it's a wretched thing for a man in exile to never speak his country's name. Or is it that you have no countries at all? None of you?

I am Ilyigan. No manner of exile would change that. I am Ilyigan, I drank sunlight and honor, sailing and city politics and glasswork with my mother's milk. And I do not understand the rest of you.

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Saul Samaren

December 2020

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