Rincewind's (Mostly) Inner Monologues

Leaving the Manor

I freeze at the gates of the estate. I thought I was ready – I was wrong. The endless sky is above me and behind the buildings and city walls I feel the pull of the horizon, just waiting to dissolve my essence into its vastness.
Maybe the danger is not as great as Lord Goram says; he may let me stay if I promise never to show my face again, anything so long as-
Shekir the Stable-master plops his big old hat on my head, it falls past my ears and I am engulfed in the smell of old hay and horses. "There, there, lad," he whispers in his thick Shoanti accent, "take it one step at a time, you'll be fine."
He's treating me like one of his skittish horses!
Does he think I can be pacified with blinkers? It's insulting, it's demeaning, it's … it's working…
I pull the hat deeper over my burning ears and mumble a thank you. He's right in front of me but I can only see him from the chest down. "It's alright, Raesho. Even great horses can stumble. Just follow me and I'll take you where you need to go."
And that is how I leave my home of thirteen years: eyes down, following someone's boots through the streets.

First Impressions

Scuffed sandal boots, scars go at least up to his denuded knees, his voice is rough and gravelly to match. Presumably he's wearing clothes, but I'm not about to take off my hat to find out.

Breeches and well-maintained boots. Is that the tip of a whip dangling by his side? He speaks with a well-modulated voice, probably in his twenties.

At first I think that one of the others has brought their child along, then the halfling turns around. So… still a child but not much younger than myself. He has a symbol of Desna around his neck and a pipe in his mouth.

The gnome's body is almost hidden by the crossbow strapped on his back, the smell of oil and metal wafts around him. A marksman of some sort, he obviously cares very much for that crossbow.

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