There is a boy who stumbles on Fraser's Ridge one day —
and everything about that is an oddity. His accent approximates British, but if asked he doesn't seem to recognize the place. Or this place, for that matter. There's a bow at his back and a well-crafted sword at his hip, though the latter he all be refuses to be parted with. He doesn't give a name, wary as he is of everyone; but root of it seems to be more fright than anger. He isn't aggressive at all, flashes of politeness he can't seem to help when he does speak.
And he's in clear need of help: weary and sweaty and filthy, a fresh wound at the neck that's still seeping blood. The last thing is what finds him left in a room to wait for Claire, a chair by the window he ends up accepting by sheer exhaustion more than anything else.
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and everything about that is an oddity. His accent approximates British, but if asked he doesn't seem to recognize the place. Or this place, for that matter. There's a bow at his back and a well-crafted sword at his hip, though the latter he all be refuses to be parted with. He doesn't give a name, wary as he is of everyone; but root of it seems to be more fright than anger. He isn't aggressive at all, flashes of politeness he can't seem to help when he does speak.
And he's in clear need of help: weary and sweaty and filthy, a fresh wound at the neck that's still seeping blood. The last thing is what finds him left in a room to wait for Claire, a chair by the window he ends up accepting by sheer exhaustion more than anything else.