A Swordsman of disp - REPUTE

He usually gave his name as Hunter, though more fully he says Alec Hunter (and occasionally adds a strange title, but only when openly mocking a person. Though said person generally has no idea what the mocking actually is).

He stands a mere smidge under six foot even, but usually apears slightly shorter due to how he holds his shoulders and body. The great coat he wears seems to be of rather thick material, seeming to the eyes and touch to be like leather, but apparently much tougher. Beneath said coat, he usually has his single slim blade, about two and a half to three feet in length, inscribed along the fuller with alien glyphworks. The rest of the outfit is generally utilitarian and solid practical wear. He also sometimes sports a set of spectacles with smoke-darkened lenses, "for the sun" he claims as he wears them almost always indoors and at night.

The Arrival

There is someone new around, sniffing and exploring, getting a sense of what and when. This place, like all places, had a definite expression on the senses. Well, when one is used to looking for those expressions, and has the wherewhithal to contrast a multitude of said experiences. That, at the end of it, was the hitch. The one way to truly experience a place is to have gone to a nigh unto infinite amount of them and been clever (or just been born good) enough to tell them apart in the infinitesimal but profound ways that they were. Told apart that is. But even to one born well, clever, and experienced enough there was always lacking the crucial portion of time, which is actually what this is all about. The time of looking, sniffing and exploring about was consuming, and rarely enough gave more than normal interaction could give. The trick was, of course, to do one whilse the other simmered in the back of the mind. Thus it was that it took so long for this one to reach anything major or populous; he took the adage to know the lay of the land tremendously literal.

He was now across the lake, staring towards Earnwold. The Heart of the Forest was skirted (for reasons so numerous and complexly entwined that the simplest way of explaining it would be to say "It's about a woman", and therefore be as far from the truth as can be possible), wondering if he should actually go through it on a boat or just circumnavigate the whole wet mess. With narrowed eyes and a crotchety grunt, he just decided to pull out a pipe and light it up. The weed within was more fragrantly sweet than most stock, and would appear at a glance to me a veritable bouquet of mixed wild and cultivated plants, dried and somehow thick and tacky. The blazing ember gave his strangely morphous eyes a warm glow that, and importantly is only noted in hindsight when compared, his normal gaze entirely lacked. 

The walk was bound to be annoying, though, and there probably wouldn't be that many interesting things around at this hour. Farmers might be starting to get up soon (their children were invariably already doing chores. or at least the Well Raised ones were), and merchants on the road probably either still camped or so surrounded with guards and servants to care about a wandering person. 

"Besides," he puffed out sullenly, "place is too well patrolled for any banditry. Well, serious banditry. Can't get a half-descent murderous horde anymore. Or a mad god king drunk with the blood of ancients." 

He continued to stroll, puffing. "The last one usually sucks, actually. I'm think I'm done after the last time. Though I might reconsider if I get another ship." He pauses near the shadow of a large tree and takes his right hand from his pocket, turning a small metal disk over in his fingers. He continues to talk to it, tumbling it idly from knuckle to knuckle as he watches the city on the horizon.  

"Or if I get to blow up a planet again. That was a pretty major plus all told. Anyfuck," he flips the disk away at the foot of the tree. It glints gently in the dim light as it spins towards the ground to nestle inside of the roots. "Hopefully I won't be seeing you anytime soon. Or ever, I can live with that." He continues to walk off towards the city, now silent, his head down and brows furrowed in memories. The whispy smoke trail which follows him eventually dissapears when the pipe burns out, but he doesn't put it away.  

"Fuck being a General again though. I'd rather let them all just die. Army can eat a literal platter of shit sandwiches." He's finally swallowed up by the trees, as he leaves the road behind to cut cross country again. After all, he didn't get the sense of this place quite right yet. "

Uruks! In the Dungeons!

There have been quite a large number of Uruks moving around the kingdom of Ponton. Such a large number is difficult to hide, even if their commander makes them move in smaller groups. However, to any who can read the signs, it is not hard to track.

Hunter is one such person, and for a few weeks has been tracking down groups of them, collating data on their movements and numbers and possible destinations. This all culminated in a fight with a group of a dozen or so of the Uruks, which were painlessly dispatched. With their tokens in hand, the swordsman decides on his next move.

The next move being to wander around Ponton waving a rotting Uruk hand in peoples faces and grossing them out, then being right put off that none of them reacted appropriately.