As was his custom before a hunt, Arn used a wide leaf from a berry bush to dab the black paste across his cheeks smelled strongly of the dark fruit, and faintly of an alcohol fermented from the large citrus growing on Scoa Isle. It covered his forehead next, and his chin. When he hid in the brush, none could see him. Others painted a pattern, but the only distinction to Arn’s dark mask were two white spots he left above his eyes, like a second set. Continue reading Arn 3
Arn’s village had been his home for his whole life, and he had never seen another settlement like it, just a few remote huts and camps at different points on Razaad. The village was built in the rocky interior of a lagoon, with a view to the west, where lay Scoa Isle. There were cliffs there, which rose above the soft swampland. Caves in the cliffs made for reliable shelter during storms, while the wooden houses above housed most of their goods and livelihood. Each house had a square eave, some three feet deep, before a ten foot peak rose up, like each house had a second storey. Only one actually did; the steeples on their houses were to channel the smoke from fires up, without losing the healthy humours produced by the aromas of cooking and burning. Continue reading Arn 2
All of Razaad seemed like chaos. Dark clouds, twisting and coalescing above, cast unpredictable shadows and weaving curtains of rain across the lowlands of the isle. Where the tall grass grew, it was pulled back and forth, dark green tendrils on the edge of Arn’s crouched viewpoint. Where the puddles of water and motes of murk dotted the swampland, the wind from the rainstorm picked up spray and blasted it against Arn’s painted face. Continue reading Arn 1