[He's still obviously stiff in the joints as he reaches beside his chair and into his satchel that's sitting on the floor. He retrieves a leather, folding frame, setting it on the table and pushing it toward Chris.
Inside are four portraits, lifelike illustrations produced by a skillful artist. The first has a rugged fellow with wild, ruddy hair and an even wilder look in his vibrant eyes. He's got a massive axe strapped to his back and, if the definition in his neck and shoulders is any indication, has no problems wielding such an intimidating weapon. Despite his hard jawline, untamed features, and numerous scars across his skin, his smile is soft, kind.
The man in the second portrait must be related to the first, as he also has a furious mane of hair; it connects to his sideburns, all of his auburn locks brushed backwards and pulled into a knot at the back of his head. He has a traditional bow over his shoulder, the limbs engraved with symbols and depictions of various creatures. His long nose is wrinkled as he smiles for the artist, proud to have his picture made.
That smirk is no comparison to the confident grin on the third man, whose hazel eyes and chiseled features were likely to have made him very popular around any town. He looks as though he knew it at the time of his portrait too, his hand only loosely curled around his staff, fingers relaxed. Though not as weathered as the previous two men, he doesn't look like one to be challenged -- the orb at the top of his staff is not the only ornament on the weapon, as teeth, claws, and feathers all hang below it, attached by leather strings and wrappings. He's got several hanging along the neckline of his tunic, too -- trophies, mementos of favorite kills.
And the last portrait is someone who might be familiar to Chris, despite the fact the figure in it is several years younger, not even an adult: tired eyes, glasses, nearly colorless skin even as an adolescent. Even without the sides of his head shorn, the hairline is unmistakably Carlisle's. At least he's smiling. Times were happier, then.]
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Date: 2016-10-28 01:52 am (UTC)No, um. Actually.
[He's still obviously stiff in the joints as he reaches beside his chair and into his satchel that's sitting on the floor. He retrieves a leather, folding frame, setting it on the table and pushing it toward Chris.
Inside are four portraits, lifelike illustrations produced by a skillful artist. The first has a rugged fellow with wild, ruddy hair and an even wilder look in his vibrant eyes. He's got a massive axe strapped to his back and, if the definition in his neck and shoulders is any indication, has no problems wielding such an intimidating weapon. Despite his hard jawline, untamed features, and numerous scars across his skin, his smile is soft, kind.
The man in the second portrait must be related to the first, as he also has a furious mane of hair; it connects to his sideburns, all of his auburn locks brushed backwards and pulled into a knot at the back of his head. He has a traditional bow over his shoulder, the limbs engraved with symbols and depictions of various creatures. His long nose is wrinkled as he smiles for the artist, proud to have his picture made.
That smirk is no comparison to the confident grin on the third man, whose hazel eyes and chiseled features were likely to have made him very popular around any town. He looks as though he knew it at the time of his portrait too, his hand only loosely curled around his staff, fingers relaxed. Though not as weathered as the previous two men, he doesn't look like one to be challenged -- the orb at the top of his staff is not the only ornament on the weapon, as teeth, claws, and feathers all hang below it, attached by leather strings and wrappings. He's got several hanging along the neckline of his tunic, too -- trophies, mementos of favorite kills.
And the last portrait is someone who might be familiar to Chris, despite the fact the figure in it is several years younger, not even an adult: tired eyes, glasses, nearly colorless skin even as an adolescent. Even without the sides of his head shorn, the hairline is unmistakably Carlisle's. At least he's smiling. Times were happier, then.]