Celts Of Old Forum My Quill be yours.

The old warrior poet trailed his fingers through his salt & peppered beard as he looked around. His blue eyes squinted as he took in his surroundings. This place that he had stumbled upon at first inspection appeared to be a fine place for him & his work, nay...his passion. The road weary Khelt dropped his luggage beside the doorway, he sucked in one last draw from the cigarette he had been smoking before flicking it out into the alleyway. He continued to scan the place as white blue streams of smoke drifted lazily from his nostrils as he exhaled, encircling his bald head. He noted the Lord & the Lady and nodded his head in a greeting to both.

His voice was not soft nor was in gruff, he kept it powerful yet reserved. "Tis a fine place you have here....perhaps I will be calling it home for a bit." He located a quiet place to sit himself. "I am called the Kheltic Ryder, my quill be yours."