A young Hyur, not a day older than 17 it would seem, starts to appear on the road to the area that would host the city-wide training day. Countless people began to appear, along with him. Different shapes of people in different clothing and even stranger weapons. A common trait, though, was the quality of the weapons and armor as most blades were worn and the armor was rusted.
Farridor was no different. Well, he was among the lower teir of people who did not even have much armor on, save for the mages. He wore a leather tunic, basic in design, with sleeved pauldrons that extended to just above his elbows. On his forearms were your run of the mil gloved vambraces. His legs were covered in with padded leather leggings and laced boots. The thing that made his armor stand out, other than the worn, scuffed marks of time, was the red splotches covering the leather, as though he just got done strangling a Dodo, though he himself, a skinny, scraggly boy, would not look the part to do such an act.
In his hand was a worn guisarme. The blade dull and rusting in some parts, looked like it was intimidating Eras ago, and the shaft itself was wrapped in some kind of cloth, either for support or to hide the quality the wood was likely to be in.
Seeing the gathering ahead of him already forming, he took to running to ensure the last of a possible, decent place in line. Approaching the crowd, only a few yalms away, he tripped, and while trying to keep himself from face-planting, he both failed and broke the shaft of his pole-arm.
He stayed face down for a while, debating whether he should get up or stay until the crowd leaves, and if he were to get up, he couldn't help but to ponder if leaving would be a suitable relief from his embarrassment. Eventually he succumbed, raising himself up to pick up his broken weapon, grumbling to himself.
Farridor was no different. Well, he was among the lower teir of people who did not even have much armor on, save for the mages. He wore a leather tunic, basic in design, with sleeved pauldrons that extended to just above his elbows. On his forearms were your run of the mil gloved vambraces. His legs were covered in with padded leather leggings and laced boots. The thing that made his armor stand out, other than the worn, scuffed marks of time, was the red splotches covering the leather, as though he just got done strangling a Dodo, though he himself, a skinny, scraggly boy, would not look the part to do such an act.
In his hand was a worn guisarme. The blade dull and rusting in some parts, looked like it was intimidating Eras ago, and the shaft itself was wrapped in some kind of cloth, either for support or to hide the quality the wood was likely to be in.
Seeing the gathering ahead of him already forming, he took to running to ensure the last of a possible, decent place in line. Approaching the crowd, only a few yalms away, he tripped, and while trying to keep himself from face-planting, he both failed and broke the shaft of his pole-arm.
He stayed face down for a while, debating whether he should get up or stay until the crowd leaves, and if he were to get up, he couldn't help but to ponder if leaving would be a suitable relief from his embarrassment. Eventually he succumbed, raising himself up to pick up his broken weapon, grumbling to himself.
