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2012-07-09 06:30 pm (UTC)
Garviel watched the display, shifting a few times, obviously ill at ease amongst the very wild nature of the Moot. His own struggle with his Beast has taken up enough of his time, and appearing here as anything other than a raging Berserker took an act of control. He stands, in a gray cloak over white demi-armor, something akin to the lorica segmentata of the few men from Rome he has brought with him, warriors, veterans of the fights against Avshar and the Raiders. They are not in crusade company colors our bearing their iconography at the monent, this is clearly a Roman affair.
As the sounds of the earth, wind, and the other effects of the moot play over him, he is reminded forcibly of the
his long-lost brothers, the sons of Russ. Their
would put on similar shows, sometimes dramatic and powerful, sometimes to no effect that he could discern.
He keeps his mood as phlegmatic as he can, and his stony face shows little, as all around him, the others turn a little more energised.
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