Happy Life
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"Quite the spectacle," Veserod remarked with a slight smile, shaking his head.
For many, the "chief hunter of Baldur" might initially seem deceptive. Most would picture some gray-haired, wiry old man in unassuming, practical, and slightly ridiculous attire, making sharp and agile movements honed over decades of practice, skinning an elk, and radiating a stern aura of presence despite his advanced age; or a wild, unkempt dweller of the backwoods, like Veserod himself, as if he had emerged from the very soil and dry leaves he tramples with his fur boots day after day. Gregor Filanemo defied both of these stereotypes, and his appearance and mannerisms were more reminiscent of a grand royal hunt – the kind where a drunken monarch in lavish palace attire, barely staying in the saddle, pompously shouts orders to his retinue, who, along with dozens of hounds, chase a wild boar to exhaustion so that His Majesty can poke it once in the belly and boast about this feat for a month before a court full of sycophants.
The significant difference was that Gregor not only looked regal but also behaved accordingly and possessed a real skill that could reinforce this image. Veserod himself would never have believed this description if he hadn't had the chance to meet this man during their first encounter, while hunting, and witness firsthand what he was capable of. While the intuitive Sharnhorst style, or at least the style of the lands where the Rusoariessen clan resided, focused on endurance, agility, and adaptability, essential for successfully tracking and defeating an aggressive, eternally hungry beast in difficult terrain, poor visibility, and gusty winds, the Illian style combined aristocratic elegance with refined technique, even with some noble military flair. In any case, Veserod could easily imagine his colleague on an open and level battlefield, methodically striking down hapless infantry with a self-satisfied smile, and even managing to enjoy a cup of tea with his little finger extended in the intervals between their cries of pain.
"Impressive," Veserod concluded his thoughts, nodding to his companion concisely but with an expression of profound approval.
For many, the "chief hunter of Baldur" might initially seem deceptive. Most would picture some gray-haired, wiry old man in unassuming, practical, and slightly ridiculous attire, making sharp and agile movements honed over decades of practice, skinning an elk, and radiating a stern aura of presence despite his advanced age; or a wild, unkempt dweller of the backwoods, like Veserod himself, as if he had emerged from the very soil and dry leaves he tramples with his fur boots day after day. Gregor Filanemo defied both of these stereotypes, and his appearance and mannerisms were more reminiscent of a grand royal hunt – the kind where a drunken monarch in lavish palace attire, barely staying in the saddle, pompously shouts orders to his retinue, who, along with dozens of hounds, chase a wild boar to exhaustion so that His Majesty can poke it once in the belly and boast about this feat for a month before a court full of sycophants.
The significant difference was that Gregor not only looked regal but also behaved accordingly and possessed a real skill that could reinforce this image. Veserod himself would never have believed this description if he hadn't had the chance to meet this man during their first encounter, while hunting, and witness firsthand what he was capable of. While the intuitive Sharnhorst style, or at least the style of the lands where the Rusoariessen clan resided, focused on endurance, agility, and adaptability, essential for successfully tracking and defeating an aggressive, eternally hungry beast in difficult terrain, poor visibility, and gusty winds, the Illian style combined aristocratic elegance with refined technique, even with some noble military flair. In any case, Veserod could easily imagine his colleague on an open and level battlefield, methodically striking down hapless infantry with a self-satisfied smile, and even managing to enjoy a cup of tea with his little finger extended in the intervals between their cries of pain.
"Impressive," Veserod concluded his thoughts, nodding to his companion concisely but with an expression of profound approval.
My sword, my trusted ally, unphased by my aspect.
