<div class="floatright">(https://img.webnovel.com/bookcover/19905752406914205/600/600.jpg?coverUpdateTime=1619213439231&amp;imageMogr2/quality/40)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Sir Cecil Frostmantle<br/><strong> Location:</strong>Cecil's Tent<br/><strong>Warnings:</strong>None<br/><strong>Open/Closed:</strong>Open<br/><strong>Direct Interaction Tags:</strong>None<br/><strong>Mentioned Tags:</strong>None<br/><strong>Actions Taken:</strong>Waking up, shaving<br/><hr/><br/>Cecil stirred in his sleep, and then awoke, rubbing his cranium front to back with his calloused left palm.  The visage of peace that oft adorned his handsome face in slumber was now replaced by an absent one, devoid of emotion, passion, and pain.  Those dull, icy eyes, once piercing and full of merriment, remained alert.  Where was he?, he wondered.  In a tent, someplace faraway from home, he remembered.  He took a deep breath, deeper than most humans can imagine, as he had the lungs of a horse, and sat up without effort.  His shoulders, massive and ripe, sizzling with musculature that rippled with every movement, rotated sorely as he stretched the steel-like cords of sinew and mein that encapsulated his giant-like skeletal frame.  As he stretched, taut tissue groaned, and the ligaments between his bones crackled in an orderly manner, trained by their master to compose themselves at his urging.<br/><br/>He wore nothing but a white linen wrap-around kilt, which hugged his narrow waist snugly.  Within his tent, he moved akin to a lowland gorilla, his body crouched so that he might not disturb the composition of his tent-poles or cause some disarray to the canvas.  He moved with an animal-like grace, a grace that oft escaped notice, until he emerged from the darkness of his sleeping hole and stood upright for the first time in the day.  His powerful legs, and powerful they had to be to carry Cecil about across the world created by the Gods, for he was a very large lad, were similarly stretched.  He held his ankle, one after the other, for twenty seconds each, bending his knee to a critical point, until he found some modicum of relief.<br/><br/>There had been very little in the way of personal locomotion, it must be said, for the last two weeks.  He had sailed from the Lion Tooth Isles, and then traveled by canoe, which had been driven--much to his horror--by an old, and slow, oarsman.  Then, he had been carried hitherto by wagon.  Traveling hence had been the most boring time of his short life, as he had warred since he was... well, Cecil thought that he had become a page sometime during his ninth birthday, but it's difficult to remember such things.  Difficult and unimportant.<br/><br/>He took a deep breath again and, in depleting the air of that vital nutrient the sages called oxygen, detected the smell of dinner over a campfire.  Was he hungry?, he wondered.  He felt... discombobulated, in the manner that travelers often do after long trips to faraway places.  Discombobulated and uneasy.<br/><br/>It must be said, I suppose, that Cecil was very tall, but he was very well proportioned.  He was not lanky, but his body had been composed in a regimented manner similar to his lifestyle.  He kept a clean face, shaving every morning (and sometimes in the afternoon), but he had ignored his muscular figure.  His torso was noticeably hairy, with a thick patch on his chest, which traveled to his groin, and his meaty forearms, too, were covered in this almost translucent hair.  He stood beside a barrel, and using the reflection of his shiny helmet, commenced to shave himself with a sharp dagger.<br/><br/>"... Look at ye, ye old bastard," he said softly to his own reflection,  "you look like a merry sort, don't ye?  Lookin' like ye haven't shaved in a donkey's year, haven't ye?" he had said.   "Make a right mess of it, actin' the maggot for the last two weeks, haven't we, Cecil?  Bless me," he said, murmuring to himself.   "Easy does it," he said as he slid the sharp blade across his left cheek, slicing facial hair off gradually and incisively.