The cloak, rain-sodden and clingy as it was, could only hide so much of its wearer. It was obvious that the personage was tall, too broad-shouldered to be an Elezen, and not yet bulky enough to be a Roegadyn.
They could call it Bronze Lake if they wanted, he told himself, but in the inclement weather, it might as well be Mirk Moor, or the Flood Flows, or something about mud and muck and marsh. Yet, to complain about rain was like to spend one's day slapping a Goobbue with a stick - it wasn't going to change anything, and most likely would leave one simply feeling much worse.
He had finally come close enough to notice the growing throng of people, apparently music lovers whose enthusiasm could not be dampened even by drizzle and downpour - his kind of people, mayhap. Something had stirred them, but it wasn't music, yet, unless the sounds of these Tonberries sounded like women yelling and large things slithering in muck.
As it turned out, the spectacle apparently was, indeed a woman yelling, and a disturbingly large Eft menacing the crowd, and ignoring the source of the feminine shouts: A lithe Elezen, who appeared instead to be charging at the sodden beast, with raised fists.
A dirty joke flew through his mind about pretty women punching salamanders, but he bit his lip to stifle it, and began to reach for his bow, which was tucked under the cloak, even though the rain would play havoc with the bowstring.
They could call it Bronze Lake if they wanted, he told himself, but in the inclement weather, it might as well be Mirk Moor, or the Flood Flows, or something about mud and muck and marsh. Yet, to complain about rain was like to spend one's day slapping a Goobbue with a stick - it wasn't going to change anything, and most likely would leave one simply feeling much worse.
He had finally come close enough to notice the growing throng of people, apparently music lovers whose enthusiasm could not be dampened even by drizzle and downpour - his kind of people, mayhap. Something had stirred them, but it wasn't music, yet, unless the sounds of these Tonberries sounded like women yelling and large things slithering in muck.
As it turned out, the spectacle apparently was, indeed a woman yelling, and a disturbingly large Eft menacing the crowd, and ignoring the source of the feminine shouts: A lithe Elezen, who appeared instead to be charging at the sodden beast, with raised fists.
A dirty joke flew through his mind about pretty women punching salamanders, but he bit his lip to stifle it, and began to reach for his bow, which was tucked under the cloak, even though the rain would play havoc with the bowstring.
"But in the laugh there was another voice. A clearer laugh, an ironic laugh. A laugh which laughs because it chooses not to weep."
![[Image: 3610850.jpg]](http://assets-cloud.enjin.com/users/1266293/pics/original/3610850.jpg)
