The right fist rested on the pommel of his plain long sword, which, contrary to the fashion of the time, had no name. Beneath the heavy cloak, his slim and deceptively delicate hands were curled into fists, weighted, as was the custom of the time, with heavy rings of nonprecious metals intagliated with involved cyphers and sphenograms. He wore a dark green velvet cloak, spun about him like a cocoon against the wind a tabard of antique leather set with iridium studs over a white kid shirt tight mazarine velvet trousers and high, soft boots of pale blue suede. He had slept little lately, and his green eyes were tired in the dark sunken hollows above his high, prominent cheekbones. In the distance, faintly, he could hear dull and heavy explosions: and it was not the powerful sea that shook the dunes beneath his feet.Ĭromis was a tall man, thin and cadaverous. It was a catastrophe that had driven him from his tower, something that he had witnessed from its topmost room during the night. Like swift and tattered scraps of rag, black gulls sped and fought over his downcast head. Tegeus-Cromis, sometime soldier and sophisticate of Viriconium, the Pastel City, who now dwelt quite alone in a tower by the sea and imagined himself a better poet than swordsman, stood at early morning on the sand dunes that lay between his tall home and the grey line of the surf.
0 kommentar(er)
