Masters | The Shieldwall

TwistyShape

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Original poster
Apr 3, 2024
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Simon Masters.jpgA large, imposing man stands before you, dressed in the rugged attire of an experienced traveler. He wears a weather-beaten brown surcoat that conceals glimpses of chain mail, and his rugged boots are marked by countless miles traversed. Over his shoulder rests a dented shield secured by a leather strap, and a battered sheath of a longsword hangs from his belt loop. A pouch of curious rocks dangles nearby, each suggesting a tale waiting to be told.

He moves with the weight and power of a seasoned warrior, his countenance etched with the wear of battle, often bearing a stoic scowl. Occasionally, flickers of cautious warmth dance across his features, but there’s a heaviness in his gaze that suggests memories he cannot shake. His comforting brown eyes lie beneath stern brows, framed by shaggy, unkempt hair and a thick beard that speaks of rugged resilience. His voice, a resonant baritone, carries the weight of experience and humility, its timbre akin to distant thunder. Despite his imposing presence, he exudes an approachability that draws others to him, offering his attention to any who seek it. His shoulders remain tense and his posture rigid, as though braced for an unseen blow.

In restful moments, he finds solace in the art of cooking, his culinary skills a surprising delight amidst the trials of travel. Adorning his belt is a symbol of Helm, its significance known only to him, a quiet reminder of his past. In quieter moments, he sits by the campfire, sharing humorous and enigmatic tales, his baritone voice weaving a tapestry of intrigue and camaraderie. His loyalty is steadfast and unwavering, shown through quiet acts of kindness—sharing his meal with a hungry traveler or mending a torn cloak without a word—often overlooked but never unappreciated.
 
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8-l3oCDvNnBq0nPvf.jpgStep after heavy step, the road stretched endlessly toward the horizon. Looking back, it was the same—trees flanking the path, their shadows hiding unseen creatures. The lumbering man hummed a jaunty tavern tune, breaking the woodland silence with a sound that warmed the solitude. The melody, a remnant of alcohol-fueled nights gone by, helped ease the monotony of the trek. With well-worn boots, a patched surcoat hiding glimpses of dull chain mail, and a thick cotton cloak, this knight of the road was accustomed to the company of his own thoughts. That little voice bouncing around his mind often made for better company than most strangers.

Each step echoed with a rattling clunk. The tarnished shield strapped to his back thudded in rhythm while the leather loop at his hip cradled a well-used axe. Simon had learned long ago never to let his guard down—not with the threats that could lurk beyond the next fallen log or bridge crossing. Truth be told, though, he wouldn’t mind a sudden intrusion. At least it would break the monotony. Still, better safe than sorry. “Proper preparation prevents piss poor performance,” the old saying echoed in his head, a mantra from his younger days.

As the sun climbed toward its peak, he paused, his shadow long on the dirt path. His eyes scanned the forest wall, his hand instinctively ruffling the matted brown locks atop his head. What was it he was searching for? Peace, perhaps. Or purpose. He wasn’t sure. What he did know was that he hadn’t found it where he’d come from and could only hope it lay ahead.

A sudden crack of a branch snapped his attention to the woods. His brow furrowed, and his hand hovered near his weapon as rustling filled the silence. “Simple forest critters,” he muttered to himself, shaking off the paranoia that always seemed to creep in. Broad shoulders shrugged, and with a sigh, he returned to the path. "Bestn't linger; sleeping under stars could be trouble". The rhythmic clanging of his equipment followed him into the woods, each step carrying him closer to an answer he had yet to find.
 
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8-bvRaQqMrvouc3bn.jpgIn the man's mind, a favourite pastime flickered as his boots trudged ever forward. His stomach growled in protest, a reminder of the boot-tough jerky he’d finished earlier. He sighed heavily, wishing for roasted pork crackling over an open fire or a bloody flank of beef sizzling in a skillet. The reverie was cut short as his steps halted abruptly. For all his grit and determination, one thing could stop him in his tracks: heights.

The path had led him to a canyon, its jagged depths like a wound in the earth. A rickety rope bridge swayed in the wind, its creaking planks daring him to cross. His heart thudded painfully as his white-knuckled grip took hold of the bridge’s rope. One step, then another. Each creak of the wood beneath his boots sent a jolt through him, his breath caught in his throat. Turning back wasn’t an option, so he pressed on, his legs trembling but relentless. What took mere minutes felt like an eternity, and when he finally reached solid ground, he placed a calloused hand on his chest to steady his racing heart.

Later, a fire crackled in the forest as the stars blanketed the sky. The bear of a man crouched by the flames, turning a skewered rabbit over the heat. He’d skinned, gutted, and cooked the animal with practised precision, seasoning it lightly before taking a satisfied bite. The savoury juices brought a rare smile to his face. As he ate, his fingers brushed the worn charm tied to his belt, its quiet presence grounding him. When his meal was done, he turned to his equipment, murmuring an old lesson as he cleaned his sword: “Care for your tools, and they’ll care for you.” The rhythm of the task lulled him, and before long, he rolled into his bedroll, the firelight flickering against his closed eyes.
 
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8-f4Mw5bPtXaDkA39.pngMemories and dreams swirled behind his heavy eyelids as sleep enveloped him. Spanning from aerial views of battlefields to glimpses of long-lost friends. A gentle trickle of recollections quickly morphed into a torrent. Images raced through the darkness, and peaceful dreams gave way to restless tossing and turning. The roar of turbulent tides reached a deafening crescendo, culminating in a scream as he bolted upright beside his dying fire.

Instinctively, his hand sought the worn sheath nearby, finding solace in the steel. As his heavy panting transformed into a deep growl, he rolled out of his sweat-drenched bedroll. Though dawn was still hours away, sleep had vanished, replaced by fear. A large hand swept away the mist from his forehead as he began to pack up camp. Remaining here after such a loud outburst was foolish. Fortunately, the road was still there, as it always had been.

The small camp was packed up in no time. He hoisted his pack back onto his broad shoulders with a grunt, slinging his shield on top. The heavy march resumed, but this time, the air felt weighted. The man's hand remained firmly on the hilt of his sword, cradling the pommel as one would a lover.
 
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