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Vagabond Knights: Spanish Lands.
Liath sat on a small hill which overlooked the little village and the small bay which stretched away to either side. Here and there along the coast he could just make out other smaller secluded coves. The late afternoon sun which bathed the hilltop warmed his back pleasantly and Stràcair lay heavily against his leg chewing intently on a large bone that Liath had procured from a meat seller in one of the stalls which lined the village's central square. The occasional crack and splinter were the only sounds which broke the otherwise calming wash of wind and wave which carried the salt air to Liath. Reaching over, he pulled his rolled up cloak closer to him and unravelled it slightly. From the dark interior he removed the jar containing his clay paint.

With practiced hands, he began to apply the paint to the areas of his body which would probably be exposed while in the village, his arms and hands first, then his face and head using the reflective surface of his blade as a mirror to ensure consistency. Liath replaced the jar into his pack and withdrew his leather jerkin laying it on his lap. The warmth from the sun soon dried his skin to a deep tan color, similar to that of the local inhabitants. With a small sigh, Liath picked slipped his arms into his jerkin, lacing it closed at the front with the stout leather ties.

He took another look around at the bay and village. The others would probably be gathering for the festivities. "Come Stràcair." he said softly, in his own lilting tongue. He ran his hand down the length of the wolfs back then pushed himself to his feet. Stooping low, he hooked his cape over his shoulder by it's carrying strap. "We should go enjoy the welcome while it lasts" he said as he began to stride down the hill path and into the winding streets of the small fishing village.

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