The Onion:
The Onion: A heavy stomp, the clink of plates shifting with each step. Townsfolk stop, some stare. Ambling down a cobble path, the Onion walks on, their sword bloody, and their shield with a fresh chip. Finding an empty corner, they lay their arms. The Onion slowly places themselves upon a bench, taking care to not drop right through, feeling the chair creak with strain beneath the heft of their mail. Sat in rest, sat in mild prayer, the Onion is still, breathing slow and deep. feeling the aching muscles from a battle recently fought, they whisper prayers that echo in the hollowness of their great helm. huddled in an alleyway, a group of thugs gabble about their harlots and their "jink", shooting ugly stares at passerby. their attention shifts, a mother, dropping her gaze, her expression calm but her pacing frantic. Licking its lips, the younger one turns to his friends. "say lads... reckon she's up for it?" he pipes up, baring a toothy grin....
