[Off they go to Greece. Thankfully it's not far, since it's part of the Ancient World exhibit series they're showing right now. His steps slow.]
A very long time ago, the world was ruled by gods and monsters. The world my past self hailed from was much the same. In that time, there was a group of friends whose duty it was to look after the people of their land.
One of them had a talent for aesthetic. He was rather adept at designing clothes that fit someone's style and personality, sometimes without even asking for input. His work was innovative, detailed, and easy to move around in—perfectly suited to those who fought for peace.
This tailor was the salt of the earth, with a manner like warm stone. On one occasion, he found two children who wore nothing but rags. The most recent battle had destroyed their home; yet another casualty of war. He gave them the clothes off his back so they wouldn't shiver in the bitter cold, and carried them in his arms as he descended the mountains. He left them in the care of a friend who lived alongside humans, where they would be safe and provided for.
When the tailor rejoined his friends, they saw that he had lost half of his clothes and wondered what on earth could have happened. Was it a great battle? A desperate foe? He told them, 'Don't worry about me. I simply wanted a change of attire.'
Amongst all the foes that he had fought with needle or with sword, the one that inflicted the greatest wounds was war itself.
[He comes to a stop in front of a carved spearhead behind some glass, and crosses his arms over his chest.]
no subject
[Off they go to Greece. Thankfully it's not far, since it's part of the Ancient World exhibit series they're showing right now. His steps slow.]
A very long time ago, the world was ruled by gods and monsters. The world my past self hailed from was much the same. In that time, there was a group of friends whose duty it was to look after the people of their land.
One of them had a talent for aesthetic. He was rather adept at designing clothes that fit someone's style and personality, sometimes without even asking for input. His work was innovative, detailed, and easy to move around in—perfectly suited to those who fought for peace.
This tailor was the salt of the earth, with a manner like warm stone. On one occasion, he found two children who wore nothing but rags. The most recent battle had destroyed their home; yet another casualty of war. He gave them the clothes off his back so they wouldn't shiver in the bitter cold, and carried them in his arms as he descended the mountains. He left them in the care of a friend who lived alongside humans, where they would be safe and provided for.
When the tailor rejoined his friends, they saw that he had lost half of his clothes and wondered what on earth could have happened. Was it a great battle? A desperate foe? He told them, 'Don't worry about me. I simply wanted a change of attire.'
Amongst all the foes that he had fought with needle or with sword, the one that inflicted the greatest wounds was war itself.
[He comes to a stop in front of a carved spearhead behind some glass, and crosses his arms over his chest.]