For two months, the fugitive, Twice-Orphaned, named decades ago by his clan, endured absent mindedness, now suddenly staring into the Heraclitean river, alongside a rag tag group of similarly assumed rejects, to which he now haphazardly belonged. Brim encountered and conquered this suffered social meningitis, a vexed flux for the majority of his lanky life, effervescing as an outcast through the ranks of villages and towns, denominated by the fervor and fever of civilization’s conformity. His demeanor could have nursed etiquette as an only child, devoted and tended by mimicking the behaviors of others, blending into the wall of obscurity. However, his towering height, capacious constitution, and offensive bodily odors prevented such a facile camouflage, especially with those kindred not sheered from the same Goliath cloth. He enjoyed the forceful stench of skunk pelts and intentional soiling of redundant prestidigitation, which provided a worsening schism, a reek he himself doted, as his aroma broke most, if not all social mores of camaraderie. The stink, though, was also somewhat of a fragrant façade, easily rectified by the very same cantrip, to force others off his anticipated scent, when being hunted.
The day stood, alongside the stone sorcerer, upon the banks of a quiet tributary. If he committed a crossing, such a valuable defense of smells would likely be washed away, baptized in the Rubicon of combat.
Dawn and dusk, he had watched, patiently enduring all the annoyances that irritable nerves and a shaken reason could inflict. Though, rumors remarked, what had saved him from the grave would only recompense his attention to dirt and disgusting pongs by forming the source of constant future anxiety. In fact, his health was being sacrificed to preserve a mere ruin of humanity. He obviously observed no limits in sarcastic gratitude and joy when his nose was fumigated with said redolence, declaring danger to those who smelt such a familiarity before. Tracing the gradual return to reality, flattering his sanguine hopes with the illusion that his mind with the aging aid of potential wisdom, would eventually settle him away from this nomadic life style, the Herculean man judged the neighboring, young wizard’s reflection, gingerly, as others marched ahead into battle.
The barbarian, bard, and rogue had chosen to wade into treacherous territory, addressing an enemy, which was lost upon Brim. This would be the first time, he could prove the commencement of his worthy companionship. He had been gifted with the morning of magic at a young age, hewn to now only a handful of golden nuggets. His eye, long stranger to any gleam of pleasure, caught someone beyond the foliage to which Kiki and Bar had ventured to. Witnessing bodies fall with bloodied screams clued that their foes remained, as a silhouette had cemented its stance against Cas and Pebbles.
Delighted, he dashed into the waters, hopeful for the woody fray beyond. His tongue gathered, in a very high-pitch, his accustomed shrill Tysonesque lisp to rally his flowering comrade.
“Theethe, leth go!”
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