SUMMER

Angkar: Wet season. Precipitation is common during the late afternoon and evening hours. Vegetation grows significantly during the summer, but flooding is a danger due to the monsoons that ravage the country. The rainforest sees evenly distributed rainfall throughout the season.

Ashoka: Desert: Extremely hot and dry. Violent, heavy downpours following long dryspells. Jungle: Hot and humid with frequent, violent rainstorms.

Morrim: Relatively hot and dry, but with a chance of thunderstorms from time to time. The heat may cause forest fires.

Soto: Hot and humid, tree cover is dense while ground growth is restricted. Thunderstorms see the most amount of rainfall during the season, and it can be very windy. On occasion, there are flash floods that can destroy homes and farms built on flood plains.

ANNOUNCEMENTS

March 30th, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has changed hands and is now under new management! If you have any questions, please direct them to DaringRaven! As for the rest of the announcements, including a season change, you can find them over here at the following link!

January 16, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has a new skin, all thanks to Mel! Don't forget to check out the new OTMs as well!

December 2, 2017 Winter has settled on Elenlond, bringing sleep for some and new life for others.

September 26, 2017 With the belated arrival of autumn come some interesting developments: new OTMs, a Town Crier and the release of the Elly Awards winners!

July 14, 2017 After a bit of forum clean-up, Elly Awards season has arrived! Head on over to make your nominations!

May 31, 2017 Summer has arrived and so has activity check! That's not all though – we also have some new OTMs for you and some staff changes!


WHAT IS ELENLOND?

Elenlond is an original free-form medieval fantasy RPG set on the continent of Soare and the Scattered Isles, which are located to the south in the Sea of Diverging Waters. The four chief nations of the western side of the world—Ashoka in northern Soare, Soto in western Soare, Morrim in eastern Soare, and Angkar, the largest of the Scattered Isles—continue to experience growth and prosperity since the fall of the Mianorite gods, although power struggles within the countries—or outside of them—continue to ensue.


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    Ashoka: In an otherwise peaceful times, Ashokans are beset with the relatively minor inconveniences of wandering undead and occasionally-aggressive giant rock worms. There has also been some controversy over the recent re-legalisation of human sacrifice.

    Morrim: Rumour has it that Emperor Leofric de Hollemark is mustering forces for a war. Though the threat from Soto’s forests has passed, the forces previously employed in watching the forest now linger at the border. Rumours also circulate of a small group that has been dispatched to make contact with the tribes of the Do’suul Mountains.

    Soto: The Sotoans have defeated the fey and liberated themselves from Méadaigh’s oppression! Preliminary efforts have been made at rebuilding the city of Madrid, which had been captured at the beginning of the war. However, the Sotoans are hindered from recovery famine. Méadaigh’s magic caused summer to persist in the Erth’netora Forest through the winter. Her power has been withdrawn and the plants die as if preparing for winter – even though it is now summer. The Sotoans must sustain off what food they can get, what creatures they can kill and what can be imported into the city from Morrim and Angkar.

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    Dark colour; Nerd alert, with Phaedrus
    Topic Started: Feb 2 2014, 01:53 PM (1,868 Views)
    Galeas
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    Hmh, knew I should have gone to the City of Oracles. These Eldaharians just don't understand...

    Eldahar was gazed upon by the Sun as usual, but today had an interesting coolness to the Wind that breached the city walls. It had rained the last time about a week ago, guess it was time for a dryspell. Once again. Galeas hardly took note of the weather during his travels, but winter was the only time during the year when it was actually pleasant to make one's way to the Northern parts of the continent. Not that the Jungle was that different, but at least it had a shade all around and the sandstone walls of his house tend to keep the humid air outside.

    The wandering sorcerer was currently before a carriage, talking to a seemingly busy Merchant. Or so they claimed. He didn't believe them for one second however, since they had been loitering about their shop until recognizing their customer from days past come in down the street. If there was something he hated, it was when people took him for a blind and deaf, just because he was slightly older. However this was not something he bothered his mind for long with, since he had more important things to focus on.

    As he stood there in the side of the street and listened to the fancily dressed artist of trading go about how they still hadn't received the things he had ordered over a month ago the Winterbringer couldn't but stare from under his brows. Ah, all the creativity they had with words. Letting out a sigh he folded his left arm behind his back and let his gaze wander away from the babbling person, which was probably the rudest thing he had done for quite some time. He mostly didn't express his dismay, or anything else to that matter, but the other had been going on with excuses for the past five minutes, which tiered him greatly.

    Observing, but keeping from staring for too long, he looked at those that passed. He sensed every presence around him, shifting his focus from one to another as they came to his range. Their colours were faint and nothing out of the ordinary, just like he had thought, but he couldn't help taking a peek into each individual nevertheless. Over the years he had been able to do this in a way most subtle, along with the fact that he was hardly meddling with their minds for longer than a split of a second. If they ended up noticing something, a slight feeling of disturbance maybe, it would have been too late for anyone to locate where it came from. And things that pass as fast as they appeared mostly are overlooked and forgotten. He couldn't say he enjoyed looking into their deepest, since it just reminded him about how utterly ordinary and boring this world was, for the most part. There was absolutely nothing he could learn from those he had gazed at so far and with the Merchant not having his books he would have made this journey for nought. Wasting his time was something he always tried to avoid, for he was just a human and wouldn't have forever to finish everything he had planned.

    Most of the meaningless words had fallen to ears that weren't really listening, but once they stopped the sorcerer was alerted to turn his tired look a the tradesman. The most pleasing silence wasn't for long however, since there was a certain reason why the talk had stopped in the first place. Galeas pointed his curious look at the same direction the now frowning Merchant had turned their's just a few second earlier. What was up next was yelling.

    " H-hey! No touching! Those are expensive! " The man screamed and darted out, their crimson cloak waving from side to side and the golden embroidery in it glimmering in a way most notable as they strode away from the shade of the roofing of their shop. They had set up a few display shelves outside to show off their collection and maybe get more customers in, but as it seemed it might not have been the greatest of witty ideas. Galeas' eyes observed the Merchant from under a frown as they took off, wondering what was it with them putting out their wares if they were afraid of people touching them. In the end they were just books, of great value of course, but most thieves didn't really go for them. One would think that this particular fact would have given the seller a peace of mind, but it seemed to be in every tradesman's blood to be paranoid no matter what they were selling and this person was no different. While listening to the sprouting argument he busied his hands with a book from one of the shelves, flipping it around to examine the back cover.

    The chubby salesman had just gotten the black covered tome back from someone that might have been a future customer, but most likely wasn't one anymore. After dusting the item off and putting it back into it's respectful spot the man turned to face the other, folding their arms in a questioning manner. Their gaze was demanding with a hint of annoyance.

    " Can I help you with something? " The Merchant asked, his look bouncing back and forth between the 'customer' and the sorcerer that seemed now to be disturbing the peace of his precious goods in turn. Galeas didn't have to do much to stop them from staring at him however, only look back. He wasn't known around these parts, nor any other to be honest, but his appearance was the factor that made those around him turn their gaze away. Guess it was the robes that yelled out MAGEMAGEMAGE and made the superstitious kind afraid that he was going to curse them in a blink of an eye. The thought made him smile in amusement, since he would never do such a thing. Casting spells of misfortune wasn't his specialty, along with the fact that it would be just tad rude to curse someone without first having a conversation about the reasons behind such action.
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    Phaedrus
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    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    My, my, what a mess Orion had made of Eldahar.

    Phaedrus frowned through a mouthful of pastry he’d recently acquired from a merchant stall, chewing it over as he watched a regiment of guards tramp past. It was more of an intuition, really. His memories of Eldahar--if they could be trusted at all--were different, less, ah, militarized. Flashes of recognition jumped out to him here and there: the shining white of a building, deja-vu jarring him from his enjoyment of the honey cake.

    Did Alloces walk here? Undoubtedly so. Undoubtedly entangled with the Moghul or some court wizard or another. He’d found a scrap of a decree that made him think so; enough to warrant a trip to Eldahar, at any rate. If all else failed, he could end up at the Harlot’s Inn and sigh into a world-renowned breast to distract himself from the lack of leads. Already, his trip to the city had been disappointing.

    It seemed that warriors had flocked to Eldahar and usurped any trace of magic; he’d swapped out his usual robes for a simple jerkin, looking less like a mage and more like a harmless traveler. In the spirit of the area, his hair had darkened to a deep ebony, falling in similar curls around his face, and his skin had assumed the color of caramel rather than a blushing corpse. A perfectly forgettable, unremarkable face.

    With the lack of leads, he’d settled instead on occupying himself with the market place, this afternoon’s spoils jingling in a traveler’s pack. A bottle of wine, a tin of Eldaharan mint tea, and some kind of jam that puckered the tongue and went most marvelously with toast, a greasy, sniveling merchant had stressed. Phaedrus had stared at him until he halved the price, and, well. One never knew when they needed a good jam.

    Phaedrus stuffed the rest of the pastry into his mouth with a glazed, bored expression, eyes sweeping the premises for a promising stall. A few yards away, between blurs of people in colorful fabrics, he glimpsed--books! Could it be? A flicker of life lit his eyes, and the pudgy sorcerer fell into a brisk step, sidestepping the people in the crowd with fluid ease. Wiping his hands on his pants, the man sidled up to the displays, bending close like it was a trove of candy rather than parchment and old ink. The quality of them surprised him--some were beautifully leather bound, their titles pressed in many languages, curling with gold leaf.

    Obviously the merchant didn’t know anything about his wares, for Aegan’s Conquest was placed next to a spell book of crumbling runes; they were arranged in a hodgepodge, a means that defied order. His slim fingers twitched with the need to pluck them up and rearrange them, to sift through them and hear the satisfying crinkle of parchment. A black-bound book in particular caught his eye. It was drab, and altogether not much to look at, but its corner was well-worn with thumb marks, and he could feel... something.... radiating off of it. An encryption spell, perhaps? A giddy pounding came to his heart, and he glanced sidelong to see the merchant occupied with someone, chewing the inside of his cheek. Just a peek, then. Several.

    He sneakily reached out and propped it open delicately on his palm, waving a hand over it with a sorcerer’s quiet, controlled grace. The pages flipped in a dry breeze, and Phaedrus hungrily scanned its contents, realizing with a jolt that it was written in a necromancer’s runes. Whatever was something like this doing here, in a city of people afraid of card tricks? He’d just begun trying to decipher the language when a rough shout jolted him out of his reverie.

    The man snapped his head up with an expression like curdled milk, seeing a fat merchant lumber his way over to shout at him for touching his wares. Oh, honestly now. He barely had time to formulate an answer before the wheezing salesman wrenched it from his hands and arranged it back on the shelf.

    “Ah--! My apologies,” Phaedrus deferred, attempting his most ingratiating whine of apology. “I meant no harm to your wares. Curiosity simply got the best of me.” The merchant looked him up and down like he was a freshly dropped turd, and no wonder. He didn’t look old or well-dressed enough to be particularly wealthy, more like a meddling boy.

    It was at this point that he realized there was another customer--and he felt a pleasant surprise upon noticing the robes and aura that clearly marked the dark fellow as a mage. My, my, two oddities in one day. The tall mage seemed amused by the flustered avoidance the merchant was giving him. To avoid looking at Galeas, the book seller averted his stern glare to Phaedrus, looking increasingly impatient. Can I help you with something?

    “Indeed you can, good sir,” Phaedrus breezed cheerily, putting his hands together with a soft clap. “I was wondering--” he drew the word out to annoy the merchant, “--as to how and where you acquired a necromancer’s tome.”

    Sweat broke out on the merchant’s forehead. “A--a necromancer’s--” he sputtered, looking quite disturbed by that fact. His piggish eyes darted to the dusty black book, then back to Phaedrus, brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t own such a thing.

    “Ah, my apologies. I did not realize I was speaking to an expert in the matter,” the sorcerer shrugged, yawning lazily. His eyes drifted back over to the book. “What you have there, cheery fellow, appears to be a tome for the Gates.”

    “For the what?” the merchant’s eyes widened with fear, then narrowed in suspicion. He looked about to see if anyone was listening.

    “The Gates. The various access points for Death, my ebullient man.” Phaedrus’ lazy eyes drifted over the rest of the wares, looking disinterested in the turn of conversation.

    “Are--” the merchant choked on the question, lips twisting in hesitation. “Are you... one of--one of them?” He hissed, piggish eyes widening in fear. He lowered his voice to a bare whisper, seemed terrified to speak the very word aloud. “A necromancer?”

    “Oh, heavens no. I find it distasteful,” he chuckled easily, placing his hands on his belly and glancing around the wares. Only half a lie. “I am, however, interested in curiosities.” He gave a veiled half-smile, staring directly into the merchant’s eyes. There was something terrible and fixed about Phaedrus’ gaze, his eyes too dark. “I would be honored to take it off your hands, and keep it quiet, as you need.”

    Indeed, your customers wouldn’t like buying from a man with the reputation of selling occultic books, mm? Guards might get nervous.

    The unspoken threat hung between them, and the merchant swallowed, weighing his options. In the meantime, Phaedrus smiled pleasantly at Galeas, rocking boyishly upon the heel of his foot.
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    Galeas
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    How in the name of all the Gods did I end up bartering with these ignorant beings in the first place?

    Galeas was muttering many things to himself while browsing the book he held and after becoming aware that it wasn't anything he hadn't seen before he put it back to it's slot between the other tomes. Eldahar held nothing he needed whatsoever, hadn't for quite a bit. The city to the northeast was a different thing, but he had no interest in putting endless hours into traveling, while he could have someone else to do it for him. Too bad the Merchants always ended up wasting his time anyway, for they seemed to be all talk and no deeds to prove they were actually worth their salt. Also, they had no understanding over good literature even if they called themselves experts. To someone that didn't know a damn thing about the subject they were able to play their shameful charade, but he was able to see through such things. Someone with real knowledge would not go about yelling about it, trying to make it look like they were better than everyone else, they wouldn't have to. They knew they were better. Higher than the lowly minds around them that didn't give a donkey's butt about things beyond their own little lives, nor showed interest.

    Letting out a disappointed sigh the scholar glanced at the two men that were doing business of some sort just a few long steps away. He had no trouble hearing them, not that he tried to eavesdrop since he mostly expressed little to no desire to know about the petty problems of the world around him. Straightening his sleeves and clearing his throat he leaned forward ever so slightly, then extending his hand toward the row of knowledge on the shelf and letting his index flow from spine to spine. He wasn't too concentrated to this however, since he was still on some level paying attention to the conversing duo at his left. A particular word came up, ringing a disturbing bell that made the scholar freeze his browsing for a second. Oh, Necromancy. How intriguing.

    It had been a long time since he had heard someone talking about such arts and back then they hadn't meant it for all to hear. There weren't too many things that made him shudder, but Necromancy and other activity with matters as Dead gave him this terrible chilling feeling. He had heard about the subject, read about it even, but never been truly into meddling amongst those that took it's path. Most that took the title of a Necromancer were driven by nothing but their own personal urges, bringing back dead when it pleased them the most. Galeas was aware that most of them never learned how to properly resurrect, but that was the extreme he held in the back of his head to keep himself from being tempted to anything related. Those that were dead should be burnt and left to rest, not reanimated and used as puppets out of others' thirst for power.

    His disinterest towards the subject hadn't suppressed his risen curiousity towards the person however. The scholar bent his figure back to the graceful posture generic to him, folding his arms upon gazing at the awfully silent pair of men. Wonder what had gotten the loud Merchant to shut up their rant. The one that did so should be granted an award, or so he thought as someone that had been listening to the ordinarily boring voice all morning. It had a lot to say, yet nothing at all. Such squander of breath.
    Was peculiar indeed if a tome in the matter discussed had ended up into the shelves in the open, but what was more concerning was the curly haired showing the amount of shameless and open interest as they did. With their offer of taking the piece off the tradesman's hands, which seemed more like a calculated move of coercion.

    He turned his gaze at the participant, his eyes narrowing as he saw it the first time. Having noticed them being a mage, since a sorcerer knows a sorcerer when he sees one even from afar, he had expected quite a different aura and state of presence. They had a hovering field of dark violet with strands of silver here and there that shone in a interesting fashion. Trying to put the pieces together about the mysterious figure he turned his gaze away and broke the vision. This needed more inspection... And had they been... Smiling at him? They probably tried to be friendly, being a fellow magician and all that, but mostly when people gave him that look they were just making up a way to lock him up for sorcery. At least in these parts.
    What surprised him even more than the glimpse he had just received was the Merchant's final response.

    "Ugh, no! You are trying to trick me you dirty son of a bitch! " The fat trader screamed out victoriously, since they thought they had just realized something that saved them from losing precious gold. The distant scholar frowned, staring at the disgusting colours of the Merchant. No surprise in their words really, for they reeked of greed and narrow-mindedness, their ever so familiar aura suggesting the same. Their self-interest knew no bounds and every action that even suggested being against them earning more money -or worse, losing it- was seen as the ultimate threat. Fast for a pigling they were, the crimson cloaked one tried to bump the young man on the chest and possibly knock him down furiously.

    " I am reporting you for Dark Arts! They will not even notice the book if I say you mentioned the word Necromancy! " The Merchant retorted, pointing at the Curly in a rude manner. Seemed they were about to take off, the way they turned on their heels and their cheeks wobbling of rage. At this point Galeas had heard and seen enough. It was none of his concern to meddle with other people's misfortune, but since he had been at the place of action they would surely seek him out too. The tradesman would surely take advantage of his presence and punishing everyone that had annoyed him during the day. Well, with what he was about to do it was even more likely, but he just couldn't look at this blasphemy coming from someone like the bookseller who had no idea what they were talking about. Their words angered him, along with putting the other Sorcerer in peril for something that could not be proven to be true. The Guards hardly cared about such little details however. He took off his glasses in silence, letting out a sigh as he put them into a pocket inside his jacket and rubbed the bridge of his nose in mental exhaustion. Damn these people, should have staid in the house...

    Before the fat man had time to take off toward a patrol of Guardians dressed in white and shiny armour, the scholar turned to face him in a subtle rustle of his robes. The look of his cyan eyes fixed to the back of their bald head, while his right hand swept the air before him in an almost unnoticable arch of his wrist. The eye contact wasn't something he mostly needed, but he was too irritated to not to look at the very man that had raised his annoyance.

    ' You better stop where you stand, before I smite Your cursed essence to the ground. You have been the most outrageous and disrespectful, towards those that least deserved it, My Kin. There is no right for you to call yourself a Man of Knowledge, You are nothing but a speck of dust in the face of the earth and very ground I will see you driven to -personally- should You choose to not heed My words. '

    The voice the Merchant heard in their mind was not recognizable to be anyone in particular, but it sure sounded demonic with it's angry hiss and the depth it had to it. They turned quickly, staring at the Curly if they were still there. If not, they would be staring nothing at all, wondering where the two sorcerers had gone.

    Galeas had turned his gaze away as soon as he had seen the subject stop, forming a smirk and turning on his heels once more. He folded his left arm behind his back in a soothing manner as he let his talents talk, taking himself away from the display cabinets that had been installed outside the shop. Upon being done ranting he chose to make one more distraction, looking over his shoulder at the rude Merchant's shelves and gesturing a wave with his right hand in a careless motion, while calmly walking further away.

    Hopefully the Tradesman was able to stop the wooden shelf from coming down, since having precious tomes laying around the street was a horrible disgrace. He had only given it a slight push, it would wobble about before noticably taking a turn to falling into it's side. Sure the other had taken their leave too already, they had seemed too witty to just freeze on their feet. He wouldn't worry about losing their acquaintance yet, he had certain talents that made it easier for him to find a certain person. Even with the fact that their presence had been somewhat harder to detect.
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    Phaedrus
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    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    Phaedrus had been more than willing to negotiate a price, if the jingle of gold made parting with the book more palatable to the merchant. In fact, his hand was already slipping to the pouch under his cloak, ready to flash one of Alloce’s coins between his fingers. But the bloated idiot in front of him had other plans, it seemed.

    You dirty son of a bitch.

    Phaedrus’ nostril flared, and his hand froze, body tensing like he’d stepped in a pile of shit and was presently staring at the culprit. He could have waved off an insult, certainly. Words were wind, some fouler than others, but he did not harm people over words, especially those shrieked in fear and ignorance. But the merchant took it too far. With surprising agility, the man surged forward, knocking into his chest with all the force of a squealing hog behind it. The sorcerer stumbled back, for he was not of great stature or strength to begin with, and was sprayed with spit as the merchant continued to yell.

    Even now, he would have been willing to negotiate, take the rational route (even as he considered freezing the water in the man’s eyes and watching him shriek, blinded, down the street--how deliciously petty), but perhaps that was too much to expect of the sweating cretin. As the merchant turned, he raised his hands, dipping into his magic reserves in preparation to cause a ruckus. It seemed the stranger from earlier preceded him, however--though he did not know what was happening, he saw the mage fix his eyes upon the merchant, and a disturbance rippled the magical sphere; the merchant stopped mid-stride with a squeak, eyes bulging out of his head, looking like he’d seen a living ghost.

    I wonder if he’ll smell like bacon if I set him on fire.

    Sparing a moment for sheer spite, Phaedrus snapped his fingers-- a piglike squeal erupted from the merchant, and he batted at his ass, which was currently curling in tendrils of smoke and a small fire that would self-extinguish. A split second later, Phaedrus bolted, cloak flapping behind him, and took special note of the mage; he didn’t forget good deeds, and he certainly didn’t forget assholes. Ah, he’d see that merchant again, undoubtedly.

    “Quickly!” Phaedrus shot a look at the mage and gestured towards a throng of people who had clustered to watch the ruckus. Galeas’ spell had caused the wooden shelf to creak forward, and given that the trader was occupied by his rump, he noticed too late how far it leaned; with a yell, the merchant barely moved away before the display came crashing down, flinging books everywhere. Phaedrus winced at the thought, but his mind was presently occupied on running. He weaseled through the throng, sneaking a glance over his shoulder to see if Galeas had followed. He’d have no issue disappearing into the crowd, but damn if that man didn’t look like a storybook wizard!

    A most unfortunate thing, too, because the crashing shelf had alerted a group of guards. They snapped to, armor glinting in the sunlight, while the merchant gave a hysterical gesture, flapping his fat arms in the direction of the crowd. He yelled descriptions--something to the effect of “tall, stupid hat” and “fat Ashokan boy.”

    Annoyed, Phaedrus threw his cloak over his head and ducked with a scowl, keeping his face down low and out of sight. When he looked up again, his nose had shrunk to a small, delicate button, face soft and sweet, eyes round and swimming blue. His lips had become plump and feminine, and he suppressed a laughing sneer, throwing his cloak over himself to hide his figure. A long lock of straight brown hair tickled his lightly tanned skin, and he turned sharply, slowing to an unsuspicious walk. Everyone else had been too distracted or fixed on their wares to notice his transformation, blinking stupidly at the source of the commotion. And not a moment too late, it seemed.

    “Stop, heretics!” A guard roared, armor clanking as he ran. “Stop, in the name of the Moghul, or you will be hanged!”
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    Galeas
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    For a bit, as he was gracefully striding away, he had the soothing feeling of anger having been released. It had felt pretty good actually, seeing the fat man stop before the Power that compelled them. One should be afraid of a Mage as much as they become cautious with someone approaching with their weapon drawn. Of course he didn't want to be feared, since it mostly made things complicated and awkward, but one hardly showed such disrespect - as witnesses today - at someone that had a sword in the ready. All he wanted was decency and good manners towards the human he was, nothing more. However now would seem that he was going to receive a bit more than that.

    He looked around peacefully and pondered on his next move when he finally heard the shelf collide with the stone street, making him glance over his shoulder. Oh... Whoopsie. Having not meant the particular event to take place he shook his head in disappointment, then seeing... Were those flames erupting from the Merchant's rear? Well, that explains everything doesn't it. He was about to turn his gaze away, but an approaching figure made him bounce it back. As they got closer he recognized them as the sorcerer from just a few minutes ago and as they were running they must have been the one that had set the tradesman's arse ablaze. Along with showing interest in Necromancy, on top of that, without which this whole farse had never taken place.

    Quickly, they shouted upon sprinting past. For what? After staring at them duck into the crowd he heard a Guard yell from behind him. His so far calm and blank expression morphed into a frown and he glanced at the armoured men coming down the street. Curses. Mister Curly, their thinking seemingly as swift as their feet, had just led the Guards to his direction. Wonder if that was their deepest intention, for if it was it would lower their score as a person quite a bit. Had he made a mistake and ended up looking like a fool? This was not how he had expected things to go, not one bit. Guess he could only blame himself for such a misfortune, for he had done the very thing he always tried to avoid. He had learnt to control all the other feelings and supressed them, but Anger was something that sometimes broke loose and overran his intellect and blurred his reason. Oh, the shame.

    Galeas wasn't the kind that ran away. Something like this had happened to him before, minus a Merchant being set on fire and an 'accomplice' whose behaviour was beyond guilty. That time he had been able to talk himself out from it in a way most peaceful, the Guardsman letting him leave after being charged a fine. But this was Eldahar. Such a reasonable and decent act was unlikely to display, which made him think twice. Turning oneself in, arms pointed towards the officials in a surrendering manner and saying ' Go ahead, arrest me ' would be pure madness. He would most likely get locked up and by that lose precious time. Might as well lay down and die, was all the same. Heck, he was already half way through his life and still had a lot to do, throwing away hours just because he had an urge to be sincere and honest was not an option. That Merchant had had it coming for a long while, better it was him that did what he had than one of the hasty young people who would probably end up worse than he did. Or might, since he wasn't sure how the events were going to unfold.

    Exhaling sharply in annoyance he turned his look away from the Guards that were drawing near. Taking the way of Magic was the same as being a Heretic nowadays then? Interesting perspective. If he ever got out he would never set foot in this city again. Or well. Not for a while at least. The Guards were too eager to pursue, something one didn't see too often.
    Hah.

    The scholar brought his hands together in a clap, fingers pointed straight forward, while walking towards the crowd of respectful citizens. His figure dispersed into thin air, only to be teleported a few meters forward behind the first row of spectators. People dissolved slightly from around him due to the sudden reappearance, but he didn't stay in the spot for long. He repeated the spell until he was out of the crowd that now had thickened and seemed to be hard to get through, according to the distant curses of the Guards that tried to progress after the two infidels. Galeas stood still for a moment as if taunting the pursuers by looking at their direction with a light frown of dismay. He just had to admire the might of an intrigued crowd, for they would not move aside if they saw something interesting and once one started gathering up it would only get bigger, even if the moment had already passed. Or maybe the Merchant was still on fire, which surely was a sight worth seeing in a city that seemingly had little going on. Why would so many have come otherwise.

    It was silent, for most of the people from the nearby streets had moved to watch a certain attraction, which made the sorcerer comfortable with proceeding a bit further in the form of series of teleportations, just to get away from view. Keeping one's head down for a couple of hours should be enough, for the wielders of law and order mostly didn't care to run after little 'criminals' like him. Bet even they had seen the recent situation quite hilarious, but ended up acting the way they were expected just for the heck of it.

    Having arrived to a distance he was able to consider as safe, or something of the sort, the scholar flipped back his hood and looked around. Hmh, the few people the street held and whom he sensed didn't seem to notice or care about him, which obviously was a good thing. This is why he took a moment and placed his palm flat against the sandstone wall, arm straight as he leaned slightly against it. He bent his figure forward just a bit and closed his eyes, trying to get the sudden wave of nausea to pass. There was no weakness in his mind and soul that channeled his powers, but it was the mortal vessel of a body that always ended up disagreeing with what coursed through it.
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    Phaedrus
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    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    Once he was satisfied that no one saw, Phaedrus strolled slowly through the half-emptied street, scanning the crowd for a sign of teal and feathers. Next order of business: to find and thank our storybook wizard friend.

    Keeping his cloak about him, he forced his face into an expression of quiet demureness, peeping out from dark lashes. The guards were held up by the murmuring stupidity of the crowd, but his sharp eyes didn’t see the mage there. Ah, but certainly he came in this direction? If the guards were still chasing them, that meant they hadn’t found him.

    Seemed rather rude to just sprint off and let the man be, after that gesture of sympathy. And my, it wasn’t like him to let an oddity slip through his fingers. An openly robed mage in Eldahar? How curious. He suppressed an ill-fitting smirk at the thought, ignoring the sizzling smell of kebab vendors and in favor of scanning the street. Phaedrus bit his rosy lip and continued walking, keeping his senses alert for the peculiar aura of another magic user, and -- ah, ah, ahh, whatever did he have here?

    As the sorcerer threw his cloak back, Phaedrus instantly recognized him and quickened his pace, although the smile melted off his lips as he noticed the man leaning against the sandstone wall. Was he ill? The sorcerer folded his arms, glancing over his shoulder to see if any guards were about; likely they’d have a few minutes to spare before any of them muscled their way through the crowd.

    “Well, well.” He played at a smile, not wishing to express pity. Hell hath no wrath like a sorcerer’s injured pride. “I must thank you for what you did back there. I do not leave a good deed unpaid.” His appearance as a sweet, innocent girl was somewhat spoilt by his clearly male voice. A flicker of movement made him turn his head; he could hear the persistent shouting of guards, and Phaedrus looked back at Galeas with a frown. The man certainly did not look in any shape to run or cast more spells. Quite a conundrum. He’d already set someone on fire, changed his face thrice, and angered a troop of guards, and it was not even lunch time.

    “I see our friends are back to meet us,” Phaedrus muttered at the sorcerer. “I have a plan, if you are so obliged. Put up your hood and stoop over, my friend. If you can cough and look like my beloved grandfather, all the better.”

    He hoped that the mage would swallow his pride and concede to it, for several guards had broken through the throng and were questioning people at the market stands. Phaedrus set his face into an expression of wide-eyed, innocent confusion, hooking one arm through the crook of the mage’s and making it seem like he was supporting the older man. A guard tramped over, sun blazing on his helm, and frowned at Phaedrus, eyes narrowed as they flicked towards the ice mage.

    “You, girl,” the guard barked. “Did you see a sorcerer in a blue hat and an Ashokan boy in a green cloak run past here?”

    “A-a sorcerer?” Phaedrus’ voice had risen several octaves, and he looked the portrait of a nervous girl, toes pointing inward. “I-I...” he relished the annoyance on the guard’s face, then broke his stuttering silence. “Wait--I thought... I might have seen someone run past there,” the man nodded towards another street. The guard straightened and grunted, armor clinking. He turned to move, then paused, staring at Galeas. “And who is this?”

    “My grandfather,” Phaedrus lied easily, peering up timidly at the guard. “We were--just shopping for food, sir, he is so frail, I thought, I’d accompany him to get--” he made a nervous, clinking show of rummaging about his pack, holding out the jam he’d bought earlier. “S-see?”

    His ramble had made the guard lose all interest, and the man snapped away with a grunt, holding out an armored hand. “Enough, girl.” I am proven right again. One never knows when they’ll need a fine jam. “Keep your eyes out. We can’t have heretics running around this city.” The guard spat the word like poison.

    He marched off in the direction Phaedrus had indicated a moment earlier, and the sorcerer permitted himself a sly look at Galeas, lifting his brows in a way that read see? He patted the jam away into his bag.
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    Galeas
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    Galeas had been too distracted to notice someone approach, not to mention the person had a faint state of presence, and once they spoke it made him shift as he wasn't really having one of his greatest moments. Creeping on him like that wasn't easy, but plausible when he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings. Taking a deep breath and straightening up to his former posture he turned in his place to face the other, about to make them state their business. And quick, since he wasn't really on the mood to have people get nosy on him. He looked at the other from under a frown, but then his senses awakened from their weakened hibernation and he recognized them. It was Mister Curlylocks, what a pleasant time for them to show up. In all honesty he had been about to look them out anyway, after sorting himself out of course, but seemed they had some kind of an agenda to beat him to it. After measuring their mildly amusing appearance up and down it didn't take him two seconds to make up what they were.

    A Shifter, Artist of Disguise and a man of many faces. Or was it a woman this time? Hard to tell, but the change that had occured only made him more interested. He had met many that could shift into animals and other creatures, in his past he had been able to do that too, but those that could alter their human form were a rare sight. Actually he had never seen someone being so aware of their facial features that they were able to move them about and back, it was Art. Now was no time to discuss such matter however, since the other made a note of the officials approaching. The scholar nodded, for he was able to sense their annoyed minds getting closer, but he didn't have time to say anything as the other already made up a plan.

    Grandfather? Ouch. Did he really look that old? Of course many had grandchildren at his age, but they hardly were as mature as the one that now stood beside him. Should Alasia have been alive she would only had reached her twenties by now and hopefully only just got married, for that is how he had raised her. The whole thought made him frown, but he didn't have a choise but to play along. Letting out a grunt in bitter acceptance the scholar smoothed back his hair and picked up his hood, positioning it on his head carefully. Just in time it seemed, since the Guard popped up from behind the corner only seconds later.

    He chose to let the Master of Deception lead the charade, for they seemed to know what to do. Which was to lie as much as they could, something he wasn't able to. The Officer came to close range, looking at the two the same way they looked at everyone, suspective. Everything seemed to go just smoothly until they actually paid attention to him, instead of staring at the weird looking and sounding 'woman'. This was when he felt another wave of pain grip his insides and bent forward, letting out a violent cough against the back of his hand. Which seemed to come in just handy, for the other had now a reason to explain the situation instead of him. He grunted and looked at his 'grandchild' as they kept speaking. Frail. I'll show these people frail...

    Stripped from all his remaining dignity Galeas raised his gaze up at the Guard's receding figure, straightening up slowly and clearing his throat. He swallowed, trying to get rid of the taste of iron that had risen up, then forcing a faint smile of appreciation at his accomplice in a lie.

    " I am grateful for Your aid. Forgive me for I let my Wrath take over my judgement, putting us both in peril and causing you unwanted trouble. " He said to the other, bowing his head in a humble manner. They had of course done their own part with shooting flame at the tradesman, sight of which made him smirk, but it was better to no mention that. Without being in any debt to him the Shifter had searched him out and ended up giving support when they could have just saved their own skin, which made him the one in debt to them. He hated the idea, but they seemed reasonable. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad.

    " I should get off the street, lay low for the rest of the day. Should you decide to stay in town however, there are things I would be interested in discussing. " He said with a hint of sincere curiousity in his voice and look, while the rest of his face was as empty of expression as ever. Not saying anything else for now he gave the feathers of his hood a light stroke, putting them back to order. Having regained some of his former grace, but still nauseous, he would start striding along the street in an even step, not quite sure where he would end up. All he knew he needed to take a seat. And have a drink, the stronger the better.
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    Phaedrus
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    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    Such fools.

    Phaedrus glanced at the retreating backs of guards with self-satisfied triumph, un-looping his arm from Galeas’ and placing a hand on his hip. On second inspection, the mage didn’t look nearly old enough to be a grandfather, but it was just what jumped to mind instantly; grandfathers, on the whole, were easier on his mind than the concept of a father. Perhaps because they were more... removed? He could not fathom having a father. Did not know if he could call anyone Father. The closest he remembered was Alloces, and he would rather die a second death than admit any blood with that demon. The thought slithered unpleasantly in his mind, and the sorcerer had to choke it down, not wanting to devote any more mental energies to his treacherous Master than was necessary.

    Grandfather it was, then.

    Nevertheless, he was glad the man conceded. The cough was terribly convincing--or was it not an act at all? It did not sound good in the least. His eyes danced lightly over the sorcerer, watching him straighten. At his apology and humble, formal bow, Phaedrus gave a chuckle, waving it off easily. He was not much one for formalities--found them more of a quaint hassle than anything else. “Ahh, it is of no matter, my friend. A day is not interesting without trouble.” He winked, gestured vaguely with his free hand. “It was rash of me to talk of the Arts here. But I have a short temper with fools.” And an even shorter temper with those who cannot tell a spell book from their sweating ass. He huffed, strands of hair fluttering on his face.

    The curiosity in the mage’s voice did not elude him, though the rest of the man’s face might as well have been hewn from rock. A dimpled smile lit Phaedrus’ cheeks, and he fell in step with a cheery gait, laughing lightly to himself. He finds me interesting? How flattering. I have a great many questions myself, O Shelfslayer. “Well. I had planned on acquiring lunch, if you are so inclined.” He kept his voice low and pleasant to avoid double-takes from passerbys. He truly needed to practice his grip on the female form. He’d change to something more comfortable as soon as he was certain no guards were around; already he had to concentrate most unpleasantly on keeping his nose looking appropriately dainty. He bemoaned being unable to take his usual form. In Soto or upon the road, it was of no matter, but his fiery hair and deathly skin would single him out as a strange foreigner, and with the guards on the alert for heretics, undoubtedly they'd take one look at him and shriek witch.

    “I know of a place that is quiet and lends itself to discussion. And--” the sorcerer seemed rather excited by the prospect, “--they make a fine lamb shank.” The taste of mint jelly floated up in his memory, and he pushed it aside in lieu of not being rude towards his newfound companion--who looked most decidedly ill, he realized, somewhere between curiosity and concern. “...It is not far, now,” Phaedrus added, turning onto a street the opposite direction the guards took. It was empty, fluttering with laundry--but a few turns away, it opened up into a quiet tavern. Some people milled about, sipping ale or strong, black Ashokan coffee. The distinct smell of sizzling meat filled the air, and everyone looked like the sort to keep to their own business, tucked off of Eldahar’s main square.
    Edited by Phaedrus, Feb 5 2014, 06:01 PM.
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    Galeas
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    The scholar slowed down his stride, a smile creeping into his face as the fellow sorcerer expressed their desire to stick around. Excellent. The day had started as the worst for a long time, ever since he had arrived it had just gone downhill and made him regret ever making his way to Eldahar. Now was the special moment that he had waited for, the point where it took a turn. Since one can't go but up from the very Depths. He let the Shifter pass and sped up his step to match their pace, since they seemed to have a spot in their mind and knew where it was from here. Better just follow.

    Galeas had not spent that much time to actually explore a city, for he mostly just grabbed what he needed and got the heck out. Things rarely go smoothly when a bunch of people with different agendas live too close together, as proven today. The very reason he staid in his solitude far away from known settlements was because others tend to cause him nothing but trouble. He had never actually brought something of the sort upon himself deliberately, there was always someone else that got him involved. Sometimes indirectly, by not asking for help but still making him do something about the situation. Shouldn't blame them for that though, was his own stupidity to care.

    As he walked in the wake of the other in silence the observant gaze of his cyan eyes wandered in the surrounding. Such lovely Ashokan architecture. The sandstone walls had always been pleasing to look at, for the light colour made them seem elegant in their smooth minimalism. His house was pretty much the same, yet it had ornate decorative carvings here and there due to it's vain previous owner. The particular material mixed well with all colours as well, not that he actually put thought to such superficial matters.
    He was awakened from his daydreaming by multiple faint presences that shook the web of his mind, moving his tired look to face the direction the Shifter was heading. Upon turning the last corner and spotting their destination he formed a smirk. It was rather empty for a Tavern at this hour, guess it had something to do with the location, but he had actually hoped for something of the like. The quieter the better. He had heard enough ranting for one day. Or more like the rest of his life, was how he'd prefer.

    Covering his mouth with his fist he let out a cough, as silent as he was able, then making his way to the Tavern. There were a few on the tables that had been placed to the street, but the actual inside was less crowded. He looked left and right along the street, as if making sure there wasn't anyone hostile approaching, then stepping indoors in a slow stride. Having already picked a spot he had seen from the outside the scholar headed for a table in the corner, as was his habit. In such a spot people hardly bothered him or paid any attention to his presence, just the way he preferred. Also, it let him observe those around him in peace, should he see something that raised his interest. Straightening the hems of his robes he took a seat as gracefully as he could due to the lingering pain, on the side of the table that would allow him to have his back against the wall. He took a deep breath, looking down as he removed his leather gloves. After folding them and placing them neatly beside him he leaned his elbows heavily against the table, exhaling sharply and letting his posture collapse ever so slightly. It wasn't too often when he allowed his formal state to drift away like this, but he was done with the tension for today. Besides, the Shifter didn't seem to care how he presented himself.

    Should the other have joined him he would look up to them from under his brows, forming some sort of an empty smile. He flipped back his hood and smoothed his hair with a quick sweep of his palm, then bringing his hands together and placing them on the table.
    " Maybe it is time for an introduction. My name for one is Galeas and I am of the Winterbringer line of scholars. Should you so desire you may call me Gale for short. Also, this is just my habit. I will not pressure you to give me Your name in return, Shifter. " He stated and bowed his head slightly, letting his gaze wander about the space around him.

    " The reason I wanted to approach into a conversation was due to Your extraordinary display of skill. In all sincerity I have never seen such an alteration of one's features in the time you were able to execute it. Did you learn it or was it a Gift given by nature? " The scholar's gaze would bounce back to the other as he gave out the question, looking into the green hues of the Shifter in a curious manner.
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    Phaedrus
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    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    Sometimes the best taverns were the quiet ones. Sometimes a man needed quiet, to gather his thoughts, lay low in a city that feared his kind. It wasn’t often that people accepted his Shifting, more apt to call him a demon or hold him in fear and contempt. It made him less trustworthy in their eyes, someone dangerous and without honest form; they tried to hide it, but he could sense the shift in people’s demeanors, the guarded way they approached him, never knowing what to expect. Indeed, would you trust a man without a face? He could be anything, anyone, at any time, and the possibility was enough to make the average man’s skin crawl--a fact that depressed him, weighed on the stone of his heart.

    So he scarcely bothered to mount his persona in towns such as this. Best to adapt, enjoy the city without the consequence of being tracked down or remembered, utterly present and distant at once; it gave crowded taverns a hollow air, knowing he would dine and laugh among travelers and never once see them again, nor would they ever recognize him. His faces were endless shifting tides, too many to remember -- holding on to all of them was like catching smoke. The details vanished between his fingers, the ridiculous stories and lies he’d pulled from mid-air: he’d been an Amir, and a Tamara, and a Rynaud, and a Corrigan--a sallow seafarer, a blonde, indolent fool, an ugly woman, a.... doe eyed girl who is most eager for a hot meal and strange conversation.

    Once they were at the tavern, Phaedrus looped his hands behind his back and followed Galeas to the corner of the room. A crackling fire snapped and popped behind them, lending a cozy warmth to the space. The shifter flopped unceremoniously into a chair with a luxurious stretch, looking half a cat, and gave a small sigh of relief. He hadn’t noticed, but he’d been upon his feet for a great part of the day, and many days since, roving up and down Eldahar. Nothing had come to fruition other than an empty stomach and a plucking sense of disappointment.

    He was grateful that he’d stumbled upon the mage, for now he had someone to occupy himself with. It wasn’t often that he ran into people interested in the Arts or well-versed in them, as this fellow seemed to be. An aura hung about him, tickling his consciousness now that they were alone without distraction--he had the distinct impression that the mage could sense more than he let on, and Phaedrus arranged his features into a smile, clasping his hands together upon the table.

    “A pleasure to meet you, Gale,” he responded brightly, keeping his voice down so not to attract the attention of the other patrons with the subject of their conversation. A smile tugged on his lips. He weighed the value of his privacy -- figured it scarcely mattered; the closest thing he had to a name was one he had chosen out of a book of philosophy, a man who mused on the tasks after death. “You may call me Phaedrus.” The philosopher had mentioned the path to the afterlife was strung by two horses, one black, one white -- one for feckless desire, the other reason and virtue. And the black horse must be reigned, else it would plummeted off the path, and--ah, well.

    Phaedrus traced the woodgrain with a slender finger, chuckling with a springy bow of his head. “My, you flatter me.” He was not mocking Galeas however, and weighed how to answer, chewing on his cheek. The truth was not a concept for light conversation. What would he say? That his mortal body was flung apart in an unholy dimension and thrown together like slop? In fact, he felt quite uncomfortable relating it, for it would lead to other questions, the answers of which he would hesitate to divulge to a total stranger.

    “I would say it is by Nature,” he put euphemistically, dispelling his own discomfort with a light laugh. “Of course, it has taken many years to learn how to--sculpt my features, one might say. My flesh is more of a jelly, really.” Jelly? Smoke? Thrashing horror? He wiggled his fingers, eyes rolling lazily towards them, wondering at the little working of tendons and bones. “It is as you would command your body to walk, or sit, or play pipes. The mind wills it, and it is done.”

    Phaedrus shrugged. “Of course, some faces are easier than others. The more practiced, the more in-line with the Self, the more comfortable they are to wear, as a painter holds a brush with ease, but not a sword. I cannot say I feel much like a timid girl.” He tossed his hand, voice and mannerisms clashing with his current appearance.

    “Well.” He cut himself off, lip curling up in a smile. “I scarcely mean to ramble. And what School of the Art do you profess?” A barmaid walked past their table, a tray of tankards held high over her head, skirts rustling, and gave them a brief glance. Phaedrus leaned forward and propped his chin up on his woven fingers as if they were on some date, grinning. “By your namesake, I would venture the wild guess of Elemental Arts.”
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    Galeas
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    Phaedrus. Why does it sound familiar, yet completely strange...

    The way the other took a moment to ponder on their answer made Galeas wonder if they had seen the question intrusive. The origins of their Powers must have been something they didn't talk about too often, since most they met never got to know. If any of them did.To him their skill had only come clear when they had showed up again, not even hiding the fact they were a Shifter. It had surprised him quite a bit, them coming back that is. Maybe they had trusted him on some level, for they both had an interest in common. Even with everything that had come to light so far he still couldn't make up his mind about what their colour had indicated. The darkness in it mostly meant there was some kind of a Void or that a person was on the brink of Death, but their essence had no signs that they would meet their Makers any time soon. Or was it just an illusion, created by their range of skills. The strands of blinding silver were something that mixed it all up as well. What he had seen seemed chaotic, but maybe the two balanced each other out. Whatever it was, he should study the matter and write it down for later, put thought to it. He couldn't discuss it with anyone he knew since everyone had their own way of sensing auras, his being somewhat quite literal and different from just having a feeling creeping into one's mind.

    Nature they say. Well, no matter, since they didn't really stop there like many others before. He hated when he was made to ask questions, moving more specific each time to the direction he desired. For once someone was being comprehensive with their answer. His piercing and measuring look was fixed on the other, expression not flickering or showing any signs of a certain opinion. Partially due to him not having one about the subject, neither the person that spoke. All he had was his curiousity, which he chose to express by the tone of his voice rather than as a form on his face. Phaedrus seemed to be one of those that moved about quite a bit while they explained something and noticing this made him take on a faint smile, for it looked quite amusing. Whenever he was listening to someone's words he ended up staying still, staring into the Depths of the speaker in a way that most saw disturbing. Mostly it was just due to his concentration, for he rarely used his talents to read others on an unseen level.

    Heh, Jelly. When it came to the Shifter's appearance he couldn't help but wonder if he was yet to see their 'real' form. As his gaze wandered around their facial features he pondered what they really looked like, or did they have an original form at all. That would be creepy, but oh so fascinating. One thing was certain and that was that they were definitely not a girl they had chosen to play for the time being. The generic Ashokan look had seemed a bit too obvious too, for they seemed to use their skill to blend in, but shouldn't be too hasty to hop into conclusions.

    His silent pondering was halted when Phaedrus gave him a question in turn, the way a conversation works.
    " I do posses an amount of skill in the manipulation of Elements, yes. Was my Father's way, hence the name he invented for himself and which I inherited. " The scholar answered with a dark chuckle, shaking his head slightly in amusement. His discussion partner seemed to be a bit of an analyser, for it wasn't that often when people took note of his name as literally. Not that there was anything wrong with that, for he tend to do such a thing too. Names tell a story, some of which might come out intriguing.

    "It wasn't my deepest orientation however. Most of us have a tendency that is discovered due time and that guides a caster to their Path. I always knew mine, but since my natural talents are often unseen, less physical, I was forced to put them aside by my surroundings. In my youth I learned a thing or two from many Schools, being able to cast a variety out of necessity. After a series of events that occured over the years I was able to take the time to harness and perfect my true skills, it not taking me long to master Psionicism, accompanied with minor Illusion. " He continued, giving the table a light tap as he leaned back on his seating.

    Galeas gave the top of his head a quick stroke, then folding his arms and letting his gaze wander for a moment. Such interesting decor, what was it with all the red and yellow? Why would someone cover the walls that were good as they were. His look didn't stop to look at anything in particular, just sweep the space and take in little details while his other abilities observed on the side. Five in the street, only three indoors. From the sound it seemed someone was trying to pick up a fight. Wasn't too surprising when considering the spot, but this early? Damn. Well, as long as they kept it outside. He shook his head in slight annoyance at the distant yelling and moved his head back to face Phaedrus. Someone else caught his attention mid-motion. The barmaid had wandered next to their table, looking at the two in a questioning manner.

    " Alright, what can I get ya two? " A disinterested voice would ask, dark eyes peering from under numerous strands of untamed hair. Tilting their hips just a bit, as if trying to message how busy they were, the waitress let their gaze bounce back and forth between the Shifter and the Scholar. For some reason their gaze always paused for a moment when it got back to Phaedrus, with a slight arched brow.

    Well wasn't she a treat... Galeas looked at the woman up and down for a second, frowning for he didn't quite like their attitude. In silence he shifted his look at the fellow sorcerer, wasn't it them that wanted to get lunch.
    " Just a glass of whatever strong you have. My friend here however was interested in acquiring a meal, should I not be mistaken. " He said, the cold eyes staring at the lady from under his brows as he gestured at the one sitting opposite to him. Hopefully they wouldn't mind him speaking up in their part, but the woman seemed hasty and would probably stride off as fast as possible.

    The scholar would let out a sigh and turn to Phaedrus again as soon as the formalities were off the way and the grumpy female gone.
    " What a lovely one that... Anyhow. You made me wonder if there are any restrictions when it comes to your abilities. Could you shift your appearance to resemble anyone you wanted, should you so desire? "
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    Phaedrus
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    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    My, he did have an uncanny stare, didn’t he.

    The scholar looked as if he devoted his utmost concentration to each word--it was both refreshing and intimidating at once. Perhaps there is such a thing as too much interest? Phaedrus wondered idly if the man was staring at something beyond the mortal realm-- felt his cheeks prickle, a vague discomfort gnawing at the back of his mind. Can he See me? Can he See what I am?

    Likely not; he’d made no comment on it, and unless this entire conversation was an elaborate farce, the man hadn’t recognized him as a Shifter outright. And he didn’t feel the niggling sensation that someone was chipping away at his mind or intruding on his consciousness. Alloces had done so with terrifying regularity and harshness, clawing into his dreams and hissing orders, appearing as hallucinations, making him start and drop his tea. No, no. If this mage was reading him, then he did so in a benign--or more subtle--fashion. He didn’t strike Phaedrus as the conniving or weaselly sort. More of the classic scholar, deep in thought and interested in peculiarities with such intense honesty that others were put off by it.

    Perhaps he felt uneasy because he was used to a distinct lack of interest--used to blending in and slipping amongst crowds, putting on a forgettable face, slipping from people’s minds without consequence. Now, though? He was... building an actual relationship, sort of. An acquaintanceship. An honest conversation between two sorcerers, this. From the mage’s stone slab of a face, Phaedrus wagered that he wasn’t the judging sort -- or, perhaps, he had no opinions on his condition at all, and merely wished to absorb as much information on the subject as possible. The slight smile was heartening, anyhow.

    Elements indeed. What a surprise. The dark chuckle raised some questions, though -- some familial bitterness, perhaps? Is that a note of resentment? Hard to tell when the man was so stoic. It made them all the more interesting, though -- a nut was much more satisfying to crack when it had a thicker shell. Deepest orientations indeed. A knowing smile touched his lips when Galeas mentioned it, returning the scholar’s utmost attention with a cool, clear gaze.

    He knew much about paths--his was arguably a dark one, paved with blood and Gates, the endless thrumming of souls, the lull of life ebbing and flowing from the mortal plane. It was not a tendency he controlled; ah, how he’d wished he’d been inclined to healing, or shooting ice, or gods below, even pastry-making. The Art of Necromancy was treacherous, with paths that ensnared the user and left them inhuman, unrecognizable, incomprehensible. Many forks in many roads--a constant task of searching out solid ground, trespassing outside the realms of mortals. He’d barely escaped alive--regarded the Art like a spitting viper now, foreign and dangerous. He professed a mastery of Gates, and yet? It chilled his veins to think on the course of some paths. And as it should be. A good Necromancer should never grow comfortable with his craft.

    After a series of events... How deliciously vague. A perfect euphemism--perhaps he should steal that one. It could mean anything--a series of events. Delightful, really. He felt his interest piqued by the scholar, nodding along to indicate he listened, and gave a chuckle when he revealed his Path.

    “I thought you struck me as a Psion,” Phaedrus remarked, snapping his fingers lightly with triumph. “Well, I profess. I thank you for your courtesy. I knew a Psion once, and he simply would not stop gibbering into my mind. I never mastered it, for I like the sound of my own voice too much. Now, is Psionicism your course of scholarly study, or--”

    His next question was cut off by the arrival of a rather rude barmaid. The looks she shot his way did not escape him, nor did her fiendishly plucked and arched eyebrow. Phaedrus’ mouth stretched into a wide, thin smile, and he pretended to ignore the barmaid’s attitude, clasping his hands together.

    “Ah, yes. A lamb shank and your strongest ale, please,” he said brightly, in a voice that was not quite male, not quite female--stuck somewhere in the grey zone of androgyny. “--And an apple turnover,” he added abruptly, relishing the startled confusion on the barmaid’s face, the further quirk of her brow. She stared at him like she was trying to figure out what she was dealing with, and Phaedrus batted his lashes in a grotesque parody of femininity, no doubt ushering her swift disappearance.

    “...A most gracious host,” the sorcerer tittered, steepling his thin fingers on the table. He ignored the faint yell outside--let it just be a harmless brawl--and scratched his chin, shrugging.

    “Naturally. My state of mind, for one. Concentrating on an empty stomach is woeful. A wound to the body even more so. The more familiar and studied a face, the better the results -- it helps if the person is real. I have tried to conjure a face of my own invention, and I looked like treacle pudding.” He looped his fingers under his chin, leaning forward without concern, as if it were a natural occurrence. “In theory, I could imitate our ebullient host. But I find it rude.”

    Most rude, indeed, and most startling to the person I have decided to impersonate. The face of the girl he was presently imitating was a sweet thing he’d met some taverns ago, albeit several shades lighter and with honey blonde hair. She made a mighty shepherd pie, and had thus stuck in his memory as an angel.

    “...But, yes. As I was asking, before our gentle barmaid interrupted, what is it that you research?”
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    Galeas
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    As the Shifter was placing their lenghty order Galeas could do nothing but stare in amusement. Quite an appetite, huh? The enthusiasm. Or maybe they ate just from the joy of it, something he had trouble understanding. To him the mentioned activity was something that kept him alive, readable from his looks alone. He found enjoyment in other things, mostly those of the productive kind. Damn, he wouldn't even be sitting right now if he didn't have an intriguing conversation to keep up.

    Choosing to stay silent he observed Phaedrus and the barmaid's what seemed more like a war between quirked eyebrows and calm ignorance, rather than a dialog. Having himself gotten slightly irritated by the woman's ways he had to admire the Shifter's manners, for they seemed to even confuse with their polite words and emotes. Perhaps they weren't as ill-tempered as he had thought. The fact that they had lit up the last person that had acted passive-aggressively had made him assume so, but as he looked at them he came to think that maybe they weren't as young as their appearance let out. Once one gains years and experience they learn how to deal with those that don't have such qualities, becoming the higher being and not getting upset by others' lowly feelings and problems. He didn't think of himself as someone greater than those that surrounded him, but at least he knew how to keep his own emotional issues from reaching the surface. Unlike this lovely lady right here. Such rudeness always had a reason, but it wasn't something that he put actual interest to. Due to which it strained his nerves no matter how he tried to ignore it. No wonder the place was empty...

    He stared at the barmaid from under his brows as they strode off, unremarkable annoyance reflecting from the way they walked. It made a faint smirk creep onto his face. What a pleasing detail. Phaedrus' voice grasped his wandering mind shortly after, for they had chosen to answer his question. He shifted in his seating and placed his folded arms on the table, leaning against them lightly. The expression swept itself blank while the cyan look turned to look at the speaker, his dark brows loosening up from their so far sustained frown.

    State of Mind. To the particular remark he would nod his head in understanding, for it was one of the most important variables when it came to channeling. Caster's greatest enemy and ally at the same time, depending on it's condition. Or so he would recall. He didn't channel that much nowadays, what a disgrace, but could still remember his earlier days and the War in particular. Back then he had not kept his emotions supressed, rather harnessed them to fuel his Powers into greater potency. Some things did still anger him over imagination, but he had lost the ability to use it as an advantage. He wasn't the one mastering it anymore, it was the feeling itself that took over and which he felt great shame for. Guess it was his own fault, for a smaller puddle was always easier to disturb. And once it was, the ripple took a greater meaning than it should have, for the unending stillness and emptiness had been broken.

    The mental image of treacle pudding as a face was slightly confusing and he arched his brow ever so slightly, forcing a contained smile so to portray amusement. Wonder what that mean. He did understand the ease of having a so called form which to articulate, just as an Artist needs a model to make a decent portrait. To make it look natural, in all their flaws and asymmetry that Gods had granted them. Phaedrus' words also made him think if those being imitated had meant something to the other. He knew how easy it was to forget a face, most that he remembered were somehow unforgettable. By looks or personality, maybe both. As he gazed upon the Shifter he wondered if they had tweaked the looks from the original, as in to give it their own twist for they were an Artist of sorts. He didn't know much about Art, but he sure did know the ways and thoughts of a person with imagination and vision. And wouldn't it be a bit disrespecful towards the original individual to just presumptuously impersonate them...

    The scholar nod his head in understanding when the other finished their sentence, his hazy gaze taking a trip down to examine the table surface in contemplation. He listened to the question he was adressed, then thinking on it for a moment. Letting out a humm he lifted his hand to stroke his chin.

    " There are many things. Having read numerous volumes on everything this World holds I have come to realize there are still a whole load of things that have not been documented, passed on, so those after us may be wiser and dedicate their time to new matters. I keep myself humble about my Knowledge and it's extent, but if we are to be honest I research everything that doesn't have written records of, to set it straight. Excuse me... " He stated and paused, clenching his fist and letting out a sharp cough against it as silently as he was able. Could this just pass already... The scholar cleared his throat rapidly and shifted in his place, then returning to lean on the table against his elbows, arms crossed.

    " It might seem as an unending task, for most want their work to have a conclusion, but I find it rather pleasing. To seek and find new things, learn about them and maybe share it. By the latter I don't earn anything, but it is my duty to allow those around me to know if I have discovered something worth mentioning. There is no greater waste than that of time and effort. " He said, trying to soften his words with a slight smile, althought this expression didn't reach his eyes that always staid rather still.

    " I try to focus on a certain type of things at a time, those that share the same grounds as they are easy to be studied all at once, but once in a while I notice myself drifting into something completely different. My surroundings tend to sidetrack me from my main lining, for I keep my Mind open and often get guided by my curiousity to be amongst what is of interest to me. " He bowed his head and let out a sigh, for he had noticed himself rambling. Mostly at this part people were already bored out of their skins. After a second or two of collecting his thoughts he raised his look up to the Depths of his partner in discussion, an apologizing smile breaking the empty stare.

    " But... I am sure this all is already clear to You and I suspect you meant to ask about my current research, rather than my main goals in life. For the past few months my concentration has been on a particular area of forest in the South, it's contents being examined very little in the past. The undisturbed nature is one of the few things one can consider balanced and beautiful. The solitude also offers me the peace I need, for I care little about such things as company. Not that what I like and dislike are of your concern, I apologize for my diverted words. As for You... I am forced to ask if there is something you research yourself? Since you asked about mine, showed interest towards my ways, I am to assume you are a scholarly Mind aswell. "
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    Phaedrus
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    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    As a rule, he tried to not get caught up in others emotions. It was as senseless as wading into a river when there was a clear path of stepping-stones. No, better to skim along the surface with calm and politesse. Better to be as a duck -- let their raging waters slide cleanly off his sides. Perhaps there was a more elegant metaphor, one that did not make comparisons with a honking, waddling thing, but then. He'd ever liked ducks. Particularly when roasted and served with cashews. 

    The preoccupation with food gnawed at him now that he could smell it quite clearly, wondering if the barmaid would spit in anything. He had the talent of insulting people while being perfectly polite, often with a smile or laugh. Most of the time it was unintentional, a reflex as natural as breathing. Humor built up walls, kept people out without offending sensibilities. The more morbid, the more painful the experience -- laughter took some of its edge off, made it easier to pretend it did not hurt as much.

    As the mage elaborated on his studies, the barmaid came back with their tray of drinks. For whatever attitude the woman exuded, Phaedrus found no complaint with the chef or brewery. She clinked down his glass of ale and his companion’s drink -- some kind of special liquor made in Eldahar -- and strutted off again, the empty tray wedged resolutely under her arm. A man from across the room tried to pinch her ass as she went by, undoubtedly the source of her foul mood. Phaedrus’ eyes narrowed a moment before they found Galeas’ again, and a faint smile touched his lips. A scholar of everything, then. Of lost knowledge. How dashing.

    He felt a kinship with the man, in that, at least. In everything else, he seemed terribly severe, with the expression of someone perpetually holding in some kind of fart. He guessed Galeas was not one to let many emotions to the surface, but--still lake, deep waters, no? Phaedrus took a most unladylike gulp of ale, keeping his eyes fixed on the scholar as he went on. The sorcerer put down his glass and wiped a mustache of foam from his upper lip, waiting patiently for the cough to pass. The gate of sickness niggled at the back of his mind, made him think it was something chronic and perhaps... deathly, though the sorcerer’s soul felt perfectly strong. There was no link to Death, no flux. Something clicked in his mind, then -- the severity of Galeas’ expression made sense, as did his telling comment: There is no greater waste than that of time and effort. Words of a man defying the clock, making sure to wrench productivity out of every moment before Death could snatch it away.

    He found himself nodding along to the sorcerer, taking thoughtful sips throughout the lengthy answer. A quarter of the ale had been vanquished by the time the mage cut himself off, and a crooked smile quirked Phaedrus’ lips, followed by a small chuckle.

    “Most fascinating. I think only fools declare that knowledge has an end, or announce a conclusion to what can be discovered--much better, to keep the mind searching. Ravenous,” he added, drumming his fingers on the table and wrapping his tongue around the word. “Of so many beings and forms of life, we are the few with consciousness--it would be an insult to Nature to not be curious.” A sip of ale punctuated his words, and he set the glass down again, licking the inside of his molars.

    “I know little of the No’bu forest, other than it is home to nomads and full of more diversity of life than much of the world can claim. What have you found thus?” The sorcerer smiled wryly at his next comment-- I care little about such things as company--and suppressed something of a titter at the irony of their current situation. ‘I am forced to ask?’ Oh my, as though conversation is a chore. He found himself sinking his teeth into those psychological morsels, the telling of the man’s soul through his word and actions. Phaedrus was fond of company, it could be said -- he made friends with few, but case studies of all; much as one may dislike a painting, yet be drawn to its every intricacy and brush stroke.

    “Your assumption is correct,” Phaedrus remarked brightly, giving the table a soft thump with his palm. He lowered his voice a notch, just enough to avoid being heard while not generating any suspicion. “I am most interested in peculiarities and taboos -- I understand that my main area of research is a... sensitive subject in Eldahar, as our merchant friend so politely informed me.” Phaedrus swirled the ale in his glass, tittering. “To avoid ruffling sensibilities, if you would bear with me, let us refer to it as gardening.” Winking, the necromancer took a long sip of ale, swilling his next words about in his mouth. “You could say I study the ebb and flow of life--the passage of energy from one plane to the next. When a... plant dies, I study where it goes. I do not try to bring it back -- such a thing would be... distasteful. Man should not impose his will on a soul that is not his own. But I am most interested in what happens to it -- does it live again, in another garden? Does a rose remain a rose, or does its entire property change?” Tracing the rim of his glass, Phaedrus shrugged, eyes flicking up to meet Galeas’. If one paid attention, there was something dark behind his friendly veneer--eyes that looked much older than the rest of his face let on, swimming with arcane knowledge.

    “One could say I open doors where there should be no doors. I also know which doors to open, which is the most important part. There are things no gardener wants to encounter. Weeds, poisons, storms.” A grin tugged at his face, and the absurdity of the euphemism caused him to nearly titter again, settling for shaking his head. “I hate to speak in riddles, it is terribly storybook, don’t you think? But, public courtesy, and all of that. ...Oh, sweet Dagara, the food has arrived,” the necromancer sighed in relief, attentions wholly distracted by the approaching waitress. She set down a steaming plate of lamb in front of him, laden with potatoes and whatever heavenly mint jelly the Ashokans had perfected. A fat pie came next, and the barmaid stared at him, trying to fit the ratio of food to... girl? ... and coming up short.

    Phaedrus smiled at her, extending his mostly empty glass.
    “My most gracious thanks,” he offered by way of politeness. “My friend and I would like another round, if you please.” Gods, but the sorcerer needed to lighten up some. If he didn’t want another glass... well, no loss, he had no qualms about drinking it himself. If they had to lay low for a few hours, then it might as well be with alcohol.
    Edited by Phaedrus, Feb 13 2014, 12:46 AM.
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    Galeas
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    He had noticed the barmaid stride towards the table while he was mid-sentence, just nodding as he received what he had ordered. Upon finishing his what seemed like endless ramble he reached for the small glass, picking it up delicately between his index and thumb. His elbow resting against the table he held the glass for a moment, giving it a wave and looking down at the swirling golden liquid. The circular motion captivated him for a moment, as if he paused to try and recall something, but for real it was just his absent-mindedness making him get lost inside his head and thoughts. Wonder if this was the same liqour he had at the house... In that crystal decanter on the top shelf... Assuming it was still there, one never knew if someone chose to break in their house when they were away. Well, hopefully burglars -if there was such a thing in the middle of the Jungle- would get intimidated by the twenty goats that were loitering in his yard. Damn, they better be gone when he returned. Or he would give that boy a piece of his mi-

    The scholar raised his look quickly at Phaedrus who seemed to have been saying something and then tapping the table, which was the sound that broke his ponder. Hopefully they hadn't said anything of importance, would have been such a shame to miss something. Not remembering the questions asked and words said he chose to stay silent, taking the first composed sip off his drink. The taste lingered for a moment, having a pleasant burn in the back of one's mouth. He held the glass on the level of his eyes, staring into the liqour as if it held all the answers in the Universe. Hmh, not as smoky as the other extract, what a disappointment. Shouldn't complain however, the day could have ended a lot worse for him only a bit ago.

    As the Shifter lowered their voice he leaned forward a bit, so to indicate he was listening. Peculiarities and taboos didn't really surprise him, for everyone had slight interest on that field. Even those that weren't really working among such matters. He came to realize their craft soon after however, for the Merchant was mentioned and it made the brief of today to fabricate in his head. The whole farce had started about that... book. About the Gates, at least according to what they had said back then. His eyes fixed on the other slowly, observing their moves and way of speech in a way most usual to him, not showing any signs of judgement. Or any other expression to that end, his brows were arched just slightly however. So, they are a Necromancer now? Along with being a Shifter. Lovely multimastering.

    A sensitive subject in Eldahar? Wasn't it a sensitive subject everywhere, ha-ha. Wondering how in the heck he had let that little detail with the book slip his Mind -along with not making conclusions of their connection to the said craft in the first place -he took another sip, so to break the stare for a moment. This wasn't because he was intimidated by their craft, rather disinterested, but as it was often frowned upon he chose to take a bit of a lighter approach so to not seem like he had a strong opinion on Necromancy. Which he really hadn't if one was to be honest. The fact that he didn't deliberately hang out with Necromancers didn't mean that he still didn't hold a certain curiousity towards them. In his past he had been really strict about his connections, so to not end up doing something stupid for his motives had been very different back in the day. Not that he had met too many, since most of them that meddle with the so-called Dark Arts tend to keep it to themselves. Not this one however. Guess they were comfortable with telling everything since they had special abilities that allowed them to disappear any given moment, dismiss problems caused by others.

    Upon thinking on it a bit more an unpleasant thought crossed his Mind. What if they weren't telling everything. Maybe they had lied all along, about everything else than being a shifter. He had seen their skill on that field too after all, them being able to conjure a story and convince those around them of it's truthfulness. The possibility creeped in the back of his head as he listened the Necromancer go on about the nature of their research. He lifted the glass onto his lips once more, his gaze returning to meet the eyes of the other. Upon peering into their old soul -just as he had suspected before- he saw no lies, but yet again he could be mistaken.

    The scholar exhaled sharply in an amused manner as the other chose to use the gardening terms, his face reflecting a type of indecisiveness as he let his gaze wander around, his hand still holding the glass of liquor as he waved it about in a small circle. To his relief they seemed to be interested in studying the Arts rather than executing the hideous parts of it, which made him think if they had possibly got discouraged from such a thing. A careful Necromancer? Hah, most of them were too ambitious. Wait... His brows arched in realization all of a sudden as he recalled the Colour, shifting his observant hues at Phaedrus. So... Is that what the darkness had meant? Had they accidentally lost a piece of themselves, gotten a snap on the wrist as their casting backfired, leaving a Void of some sort upon exploring The... Gates. As they called them. That could explain the faint presence, yet some had a natural resistance to certain Psionic powers so one couldn't be sure.

    Hmh, so many questions. He had thought on many things during the long hours of the night as he stared at the fire, noticing himself wondering ; What waited on the other side? When it came to the Afterlife he sure as the Gods were his witness hoped that there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. He needed rest when he was done with this life, dammit. Some believed they would meet their deceased relatives, but he wasn't quite sure if he wanted that either. He had gotten over their Deaths, what was up with meeting them again after one had finally accepted their absence? Did it bring comfort to those that were incapable of moving on? Yet another reason why he didn't delve in the matters of the Dead, he didn't really want to know. Thus why he formed a faint smile at the Shifter's pondering words, then dipping the rest of his drink down his throat. He put the glass on the table's edge, so to indicate he was done with it, then bringing his hands together before him.

    He couldn't help but keep up the slight smile as they mentioned the pestilences, in such familiar terms that now had a greater meaning. At least in his head, for he believed he had reasoned an unspoken fact about the other. The barmaid's quite foul presence was shaking the Web of his Mind and he knew they were approaching a bit before Phaedrus was cut by the sight of them. He let out a sigh that could have meant anything, leaning back on his seating and folding his arms against his chest.

    From his comfortable spot he gazed upon the two, the lady's face portraying slight confusement at the false woman's direction. And as expected, the Shifter would do nothing to react to their glare, just ask for another round as polite as ever. To this Galeas wouldn't object, since it would have been rude and the barmaid would probably be more than happy to drive him out if he had no business to be in their premises. The liquor served hadn't been phenomenal, but it hadn't killed him either. Not yet... As the woman picked up the empty glasses and strode off once again the scholar's gaze followed their swaying figure for a second, seeing their so called true colours. What was that Red doing there, for so far he had not seen such a quality to reflect in their deeds. Was his head broken, senses malfunctioning... Hmh, must be the city air that mostly gave him a headache if he staid for too long.

    He shifted his gaze from the woman, not been staring noticably long, and reached his hand to rub his eyes briefly. Upon facing Phaedrus and their extensive meal he forced a smile, peering from under his brows.

    " Having not studied your craft too extensively I am intrigued by these... Doors. For as my own talents are able to be channeled, directed to a certain point, more accessible and at my reach at all times. How does one access these doors, along with choosing the right ones. Does it need a natural talent? Do they have a certain location or are they everywhere? Also... Have you come across these unpleasant doors? Or it is your book knowledge talking, rather than experience. " He asked, his expression somewhat not as stern as usual, for he had pure interest overrunning everything that sustained the things that happened on the outside. Intrusive? Maybe. Did he care? Not really, for if a question was raised into his Mind he would surely ask it. He needed to know.

    " And as an answer to your question from before that I just recalled, I can say that I have found many things. Documenting the flora and fauna of the area, along with the natives that inhabit it. They are a people that have the sort of sincerity and honesty rarely seen in those of the big civilizations, but also the curiousity that overruns even my own. The latter isn't considerably a good thing however... " He said and paused, letting out a disappointed sigh as he stared to the distance.
    " ... One of them likes to park their goats into my back yard... " He added, partially just to himself since he had almost fallen into his own world again.
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    Phaedrus
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    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    He waited, eyes cold and still behind his friendly mask. Waited for the barest flinch, a twinge of mistrust, of anger, even -- all the various emotions he had come to expect upon declaring his Art. For some, no fouler deed existed than that of necromancy; the priests spat upon it, for it challenged their notions of god; the healers shied from it, for they thought it only about the bringing of death, the defilement of life. Mages of all walks had expressed their disdain and fear for it, and it terrified the common people. Tales of shambling dead haunted their myths, their campfire stories, howling in their imaginations. Wendigoes, ghouls, things wrenched from a Void that should not be. To declare oneself a necromancer was to invite hatred and inspire fear. And for what? Curiosity?

    But the scholar gave no flicker of opinion. No sudden disgust or threatening manner twitched his features. Phaedrus wasn’t sure whether to feel relief or suspicion -- there was a certain cold comfort in being greeted with disgust. At least, then, he knew where he stood, how they would act towards him. But the sorcerer was so chilly, betraying nothing but irritation and smiles that did not reach his eyes. Only a sigh grazed the surface, but it could have meant anything, after all.

    My, my, Phaedrus, you are being so chatty. Perhaps too chatty, in Eldahar, of all places. And yet, there was a certain nihilistic immunity he felt due to his changing skin -- the social structures and fears that confined others had no effect on him, for he could simply rip off a face and smile with a new one. The wizard might know his name, but he had no image of his common face -- and even his “name” was a farce on its own, a familiar avatar he clung to, not a true identity. It doesn’t matter, in the end. If I so will it.

    He felt grateful for the timely arrival of the food, not only because he was starving, but it gave him an excuse to mull a bit. After all, it was hard to speak when your mouth was full to the brink of politeness, so he watched instead, eyebrow quirking when he noticed Gale’s wandering eye. Fan of the angry and the well-rounded, are we? The mouthful of lamb silenced his titter, and the necromancer cut another piece, admiring the way it separated from the bone. He loved meat -- the rarer, the better, but leave it too bloody and people turned queasy. For some reason, the myth that necromancers enjoyed human flesh stuck like a burr in people’s minds. Then again, it seemed that necromancers enjoyed everything vile and storybook, based on chats he’d had with people on the topic, nodding along and swallowing his bafflement. It was refreshing to have an honest conversation about it, without the pervading undercurrent of fear.

    At Gale’s many questions, Phaedrus took a long, deliberate sip of ale, looking the sorcerer in the eye. The faintest unease squirmed in his belly, accompanying the surprise of being asked a question so direct. Blunt, are we. He saw the interest in the man’s face, chewed the inside of his cheek as the rest of the food went down.

    “Well.” The word hung there, an underwhelming preamble. “You understand my hesitance to talk of the details of the practice in public.” His eyes glittered with something dark and hard, a not-quite-smile curving his lips. It made the appearance as a youthful girl even more alarming. “A natural talent is helpful, yes. Some feel the pull of fallow land at a young age, as I did. They wish to cultivate it, to understand how to control it.” Scrape, scrape. He forked a bleeding piece onto his utensil, twirled it around idly in his delicate fingers, watched it drip into the plate.

    “Some are born with green thumbs, you might say. Others have no inborn talent for gardening, so they use other means. They sacrifice to gods of ‘fertility’. Bathing plants in blood. Using unnatural, crude methods to bring life from their fields.” He stuffed it into his mouth and chewed, shrugging. “Barbaric, awful practices. Gives the rest of us a terrible reputation.” Bathing in blood. Hoarding human skulls. Fucking them, even. Who does that? Truly?

    “For the talented, the First Door is always in reach, for it is closest to us. It mingles with sleep, with sickness. In fact, I sense it now.” Chew, chew. His blue eyes flicked up lazily to some space above Gale’s head, hand waving idly. “The others cannot be accessed easily from this realm, if at all. They require... payment.” He felt his throat go dry on that word, didn’t intend to sound so hoarse, and masked it with a cough, throwing down some ale.

    A beating heart, flung into a sacrificial circle. I can still feel the chains chafe my wrists, still see those furious eyes. He beat his chest lightly, waving off the momentary sputter. The necromancer tittered to dispel the cold feeling that had crept into his gut, smiling. Always smiling, smiling, making pretend at his composure. “...Excuse me.” Phaedrus dabbed his mouth with the dainty politesse of a princess, trying to wipe the memory away.

    He found himself hyperfocusing on Gale’s every word, slashing back at the brambles of memory with every bite of meat and sip of ale. He probably avoided a question or two, but didn’t care -- he’d rather be seen as a clumsy conversationalist than air his dirty laundry in the midst of a tavern.

    “Goats!” The necromancer smiled, feeling a perverse exuberance at the sight of Galeas’ apparent dislike for the animals. Such a heavy sigh. So world-weary. Whatever for? “I feel a kinship with goats. I was once compared to one. They eat everything and have frightening eyes.” Shaking his head, the sorcerer shoved the pie towards the sorcerer. “--You know, if you’re going to have more of that liquor, eating might be wise,” he tittered by way of friendly interjection, noting what short work he was making of Ashokan liquor. One moment, you were perfectly fine. Another, and it all hit you at once, until you were as dense as a slurring wall and trying to mount everything. In his experience, at least.

    “--Anyway. Natives. No’bu. Most interesting. Have you found any ruins in the area? I’ve read on the supposed ‘lost civilizations of Ashoka,’ some texts mentioning cults most involved with astronomy and... gardening.” He stabbed a potato, smiled wickedly as he twirled it on the fork.
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    Galeas
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    Hesitance in talking the details? What a shame, but only a minor setback, since he wasn't really too interested in their actual Craft as much as he was towards the person wielding it. He wasn't sure why he bothered, why he asked questions of this man and felt intrigued by their very essence. Why? Working on individual level wasn't something he did too often since one person mostly mattered little in the face of the earth, but for some reason he felt the need to get an answer for his suspicion caused by their aura. Being quite sure of it's meaning didn't count. What if he came across more of the sort? He would always be left with the possibility of misunderstanding. No, he had to be certain.

    As expected, one could have natural talent in anything. That of Necromancy being somewhat... Dark? To discover at young age at least. Or this is how he saw it, wondering how did one notice they had a tendency to such a craft. Was it the same as in his case, being able to sense certain things? Or was it a feeling of attraction and interest towards Death. He wished for the one before, but it could have been both.

    The description over matters that fell under the title of Barbaric, by Phaedrus' words, gave him the image that they themselves didn't take part in such action. The ways mentioned gave him a faint chill, having witnessed aftermath of so-called Savage Necromancy once. As for the conversation he was yet to make up if this 'acquaintance' he was slowly gaining was being sincere or not, since some Shifters were deceiving by both their talents and nature. Should they not have been -which he was yet to decide- he might as well forget about the whole change of words from the instant it had begun. Being the honest kind himself, he didn't mix well with Liars. One tells a lie, followed by more, was his logic. He didn't wish to read minds since some thoughts were not meant to be shared in the first place, along with most of what goes on in one's head being utterly pointless and of no interest to him. This is why he prefered to observe them from the outside and making conclusions from how others emoted based on what he had seen and learnt over the years. The way they waved their hands, paused during a sentence or shed a look at him. However, one can only tell so much when it came to expressions and the like. Some didn't share much with their face at all, not even in their eyes that were mostly able to reflect even the faintest feelings, no matter how supressed. He saw the Kind more as a challenge and a way of improving his skill, rather than an obstacle.

    Hmh, like he had suspected they were indeed able to Sense overwordly matters. These being the Gates. According to what he could read between the few lines, since the other seemed to like avoiding details along with leaving loose ends, he made up that these Doors were constantly around and so accessible from anywhere, by someone with knowledge on how to reach out for their Power. The way Phaedrus casually mentioned being able to sense the First Gate at the very moment they spoke, waving a hand around, he wasn't sure if they were trying to incline something and arched a brow in a manner most subtle. For all he knew they had just told him they were somewhat experienced in their Field of 'research', in a bit of an intimidating note to that. And he didn't like the creeping feeling of a shadow of an abstract gateway being shed upon himself, in any form.

    Galeas let his gaze wander around the interior, trying to shake off the chills he had been given, while his hearing was still concentrated on the fellow sorcerer. Hah, such an amusing word for giving out a piece of one's soul, payment. He felt the need to chuckle on that, but kept from doing so for the other seemed a bit put off by their own sentence. In case they had executed a payment of the sort it would have been rude to laugh. To him it just seemed overly absurd, giving out more than one would eventually gain, with no option for a refund. Once it was gone, it was lost forever. Poof.

    Goats!

    His look, hazy from being lost in thought, returned to Phaedrus upon their somewhat sudden reaction that had an unexpected tone. Well, guess one should be excited for being able to drop the subject they seemed to not have enjoyed in the slightest, by dodging most of his questions and answering a few in a manner most vague. But goats? If they were going to make an actual conversation about the said animal and get caught up into it he might as well take off. Not that he thought they would, having an amount of intelligence, but he kept from putting his hopes too high. Too many disappointments in the past.

    He formed a smile to their jester about being called a goat, since it would probably have been rude not to. The Necromancer sure had presented themselves as a person that enjoyed discussion of the cheerful kind, having started with disguising their craft as gardening to make it have a slightly ridiculous ring to it. Galeas saw joking as a way of distraction, something those around him used to get their mind away from unpleasant matters. In a way he understood why Phaedrus had taken such an approach, for if they led a life just as Dark as their craft they had all the reason to. Not that it made it justified in his eyes, since it was a waste of time and breath.

    ...Eating might be wise.

    A conversation over things most unappetizing and then they shove food at him. Interesting combination of action. Guess they were trying to lighten up the mood by expressing a type of friendliness, but to Galeas it felt like they were patronizing him. In a way. Nrgh. He didn't really eat in public - if he did at all most days -, nor had he been offered anything in ages which gave him a dilemma of bigger multitude than it probably should have been. His Politess had a quick change of words with his Honesty and they clashed, engaging into a sword-fight after Honesty slapped Politess in the face with a gauntlet. He really didn't want pie. But it was rude to say No when offered something out of friendliness, which -as a sidenote- had gotten him into quite a bit of sticky situations in the past. Weight on the word sticky.

    As Politess and Honesty dueled -the latter currently throwing foul insults at the other whilst kicking dirt into their eyes- Galeas formed an indecisive smile, his measuring gaze meeting the Necromancer's eyes. They started yet another discussion, this one over what he had mentioned before about the Jungle. He brought his hands together before him and listened, this giving his Reason enough time to separate the brawling duo inside his head and plot Honesty to thinking they had wanted the pie all along. It was better to accept, since what the man had said had been true. In case he didn't want to end up in a state worse than he already was he'd better take their offer. Accompanied with a forced smile, if one didn't feel like forming one otherwise. His almost defeated Politess reminded him while Reason helped their beaten up figure up from the ground. Seems legit.

    " The locals have been reluctant to give me a Tour through such ruins, but I have heard of the sort, yes. " He said and paused, placing his left hand flat on the table whilst his right one reached for a clean utensil from the Necromancer's side of the table. He didn't want to lean over the wooden surface like a savage, thus why the fork jumped the rest of the way when his hand was almost above it, like his palm had been a magnet. The move was subtle and swift enough for those that didn't have their eyes fixed upon it to not notice, not that he was worried about such a thing. The barmaid was nowhere to be seen and the two 'customers' indoors were swaying in a way that suggested their skills on observing had been disabled. Upon leaning back to his seating the Scholar took a better grip of the silverware, cutting an overly modest piece of the offered dish with the edge of it.

    " Most of said ruins that are described in books have been destroyed over the years by the weather and the superstitious natives that seem to think every single one of them holds a Monster that makes it their right to unassemble the historical sites held in their grounds. " The scholar said and paused, gazing at his discussion partner upon impaling the pie slowly like it was his archnemesis that he wanted to suffer as much as possible.

    " That soil belongs to no Man on paper, but they have Claimed it as their own, so making any objection invalid. " He added and shook his head in dismay, throwing the piece in the end of his utensil into his mouth like it was on fire. Giving out a nod he placed the fork to rest against the edge of the plate, trying a smile of humble appreciation.

    " In a way it is better for them to be the self-righteous owners of the area however, for they sure value it more than most that would be able to buy it off. Even a greater shame than that of ruins being swept away would be that of an entire community of beings living in balance, such as the Jungle. " The scholar looked at the other, his hand gesturing as he leaned against his elbow. Couldn't say he had enjoyed the pie, but at least he had accepted it. Damn Politess.

    " The fact of Nature being quite fragile and sensitive to the constant threat of unbalance caused by outsiders I have dedicated more time on researching it, having my thought upon things happening at the very moment rather than those that took place in the years past. I can't say I don't have curiousity towards the ruins, but they are something I am yet to approach in Depth. "

    He moved his gaze upon finishing his sentence, for the barmaid had chosen to grant them some of that lovely presence once more. Refills it seems.

    " As person with seemingly extensive knowledge upon this... Gardening, I am to presume you are also familiar with Herbology. I have read they are often related in certain means. Why I ask is because there could be quite a bit for such an observant man as yourself to be discovered in the No'bu and it's surroundings. Just an advice to provide you with direction, should you have interest on the said field. "
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    Phaedrus
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    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    He was eager to get over that particular subject of discussion. The wound was still fresh, he supposed -- would always be, so long as he remained in this State, ill of mind and body, plagued with nightmares from what happened on that particular night. Or was it day? How curious, that a memory could be so blurry and viciously sharp at the same time, its details honed to a fine knife, the rest of it bleeding out in a smear of impressions and fear. Payment, a hollow euphemism, so absurd in its understatement that he might have given a chilly laugh. If the damn memory had not come swimming up with part of his lunch, that was.

    Shaking himself of the thought, the necromancer focused on his companion, amused by how long it took for Galeas to take up his offer of pie. It was as though he'd thrown a wrench in a fine machine, left its parts spinning and broken, popping off every which way, grinding to a catastrophic halt. Is he hesitant to take it because he thinks it's poisoned? Spat on? With that barmaid, no wonder. Or is it me, perhaps, he is so wary of? Whether he declined or accepted made no matter to him; he'd have shrugged it off if the sorcerer declined it, simply loosened his belt, or been happy to share had he accepted such a thing. But it was the awkward hesitance that made him curious, fanned a spark of offense. Perhaps he'd thought incorrectly, and the man had been judging him the entire time. Unless the mage was taken so aback by such a basic gesture of kindness that he simply could not form a response--which was saddening, in a way. Phaedrus didn't know what to make of the man's weird, indecisive smile, keeping a neutrally pleasant expression on his face to the best of his ability. What a strange, awkward man. And then another thought -- Oh, damn, but he is a Psion. Can he hear this? Is that why he is looking at me so oddly?

    At last, the immensely awkward silence broke, and a fork flew gracefully into Galeas' palm. To fill the quiet, Phaedrus had shoved another large piece of meat into his mouth, chewing much like a cow at the mage's response. The necromancer nodded to indicate he listened, watching the man cut a sliver of pie so wretched he could not fathom even giving it to a prisoner of war. The necromancer frowned, wondering if he played at politeness, and swallowed.

    "Don't be shy," the sorcerer assured him, twirling his fork around. "There is plenty more." He'd noticed the faintest arch of the man's brow at the mention of the Gate; perhaps he'd been too forthright about it. No one wished to hear about their own mortality, after all. But sensitivity was not particularly high on his scheme of things -- it tended to elude him with regards to matters of Death and the unknown, for his views were so warped, his experiences so apart from normal peoples', that he never knew where to draw the line. Still, it did not lessen the fact that Galeas looked unwell, built more like a lich than he was, and he suspected that his neglect of eating had much to do with the fact. Phaedrus swirled his ale as the mage went on, frowning at the mention of vandalism at the sites.

    "How barbarous." Much the same could be said of the way he stabbed the pastry. Truly, how could a living being not enjoy pie? "Is there any legitimacy to their claims of… monsters?" Phaedrus took a draught of ale, peering over the edge at the man's bizarre behavior. It was like very act of living was an inconvenience to him. An arduous toil to keep the body moving. He could not fathom it, for every physical sensation and attachment to humanity was a small blessing -- the feeling of summer warmth on his skin, the crispness of an apple, the feeling of contented fullness, of a good drink. All vanquished in Death, snapped away on a chill void. Those moments were precious, a thing to cling to, a buoy in the endless sea.

    "I see. Priorities, of course." He traced idle shapes into the table with his finger, eyes flicking briefly off Gale to notice the other customer swaying in his seat and making sloppy eye contact in their direction. Ah, splendid. Another reason I do not often take the female form. "I am not of a mind to study plants and animals, exempting ones with ritual purpose. There are a few plants linked with my Art, plants that alter a mental state and allow the soul to wander." He lifted his dancing eyes to the mage, a smile perked on his lips as the barmaid refilled their glasses. Perhaps because they had yet to hit on her, she made swifter rounds at their table, preferring to linger towards customers that didn't want to slap her unmentionables.

    "Why, yes." A titter. "I am quite the herbologist. I know what soil such creatures grow in, and how to care for them, and how to send them back to the earth, if need be. I grow them to my own needs, send them as care packages. That is the very specialty of my gardening." A wink. In his periphery, he noted the customer lurch to his feet, swaying by his seat. "Well. I am quite interested in ruins, myself. Perhaps I may have to pay a visi--"

    And then the dreaded happened.

    The slopping drunk had intruded on them quite abruptly, putting one meaty hand on the table and leering into his face.

    "Heyyyy sweetcake," the man slurred by way of charming introduction, his scruffy face and greasy hair mere inches from Phaedrus'. The necromancer had paused mid-word, mouth snapped shut, sitting deathly still with a half-sneer frozen on his face. The drunkard got dangerously close to putting his hand in the pie, and Phaedrus' eyes leapt with a sulfurous, territorial fury, snapping sideways at the vile intrusion. Hiccuping, the drunk lifted his chin at Gale, squinting at the gaunt, stern-faced man. "Whassa pretty girl like you doin' with sssome old pissant like 'im, ey?" He lifted his brows at Gale as if to challenge him, and Phaedrus wasn't sure whether to roll his eyes or burst into cruel, hysterical laughter. Best not. I don't want to trigger yet another moron into a piglike rage. I would like to finish my lunch first, at least.
    Edited by Phaedrus, Mar 12 2014, 12:07 AM.
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    Galeas
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    Phaedrus indeed wasn't a stereotypical practicioner of their Craft, along with their additional skills and ways of speech. Necromancers were often taken as dark, hostile, completely stuck in their own Cult of sorts that made them drift away from the society that dreaded them, maybe even Life itself. Not this one however. They seemed to treasure every breath, enjoying food and drink like it was their last day and emoting with such cheer and open manner it almost annoyed him. There was nothing wrong with the Joy of another, he just saw it pointless to exhaust oneself with considering what happened on the surface. Unless they were a natural. Wonder what that wink was for. Or that smile that seemed so wrong on that false, sheepish face. They were lively by their presence, but there was a shadow to them that made him wonder if it was all just one big show.

    Galeas himself had always been quite expressionless, or so he would remember, for to him it was like his inner was separate from the external. When he got lost and wandered in the infinite library of his thoughts, deep in ponder, he sometimes dismissed the visible realm that surrounded his incarnate form. It was like a cage within which an intellectual being resided, vulnerable to the surrounding outside it's bars that disturbed it's slumber. Interaction wasn't a chore to him when his curiousity was satisfied and the conversation productive, so feeding the trapped creature with new ideas and thoughts, but as for sudden interruptions caused by those that had nothing of interest to offer... Well, it was like being poked with a stick. Even if it was just a friendly hand that reached between the spires of iron, probing inquisitively and carefully, the attention it gained was still negative. Every touch was a spear, torturing something that was unable to die and awakening it constantly from the Dream in which it wandered across dimensions of reasoning, feeling somewhat liberated from it's unbreakable captivity. With all the inner struggle and roar of the forever sleep-deprivated Beast, the face which was a lake above it's prison staid still. It was too deep. One calculated ripple in occasion, here and there, should it's conductor choose so.

    He sat still, his hues observing the Necromancer from under his dark brows as they spoke. Again, he had been correct. Wandering souls, what next? There were also two options on the meaning of Own Needs, either they were a user of certain hallucinogenics and sedatives themselves, or then they used them on others. He wasn't sure which one was worse. Considering their Art the latter was most likely, but they didn't seem like the sort that would abuse others in their search for discoveries. They had mentioned it themselves, without a single glimpse in their eyes that would have suggested a Lie. The next question would be, why did they need it themselves then? Nightmares, mental issues...a painful past? Something burdening their concious Mind. He had already assured himself with the other having been involved in Necromancy in greater scale than they did today, maybe having confronted something demoralizing that had backhandedly punished and made them retreat. The consept of them having been a victim to the Art had crossed his Mind once or twice, for the way they left others outside their research could have been an act of compassion, rather than just kindness. The fact that they were still involved with what had tainted their very essence made no sense however. Mostly those having been tormented staid away from what ever had done it to them, as a basic instinct out of fear that protected their survival. Had they been sickened by it on some invisible level and now pursuing to 'fix' their broken existence by what had shattered it in the first place?

    Picking up the filled up glass from the edge of the table he detached his piercing look from Phaedrus, giving the barmaid a quick nod. They didn't deserve it, but he wasn't one to show ungratefulness just because they had acted like the spiteful woman they were. As he rid his grip from the glass, placing it to his side for later, he noticed the Necromancers voice die out and his look darted up to their direction. What he had expected to see was blocked by another figure, the more unpleasant kind if one was to trust the smell and looks. Whilst his hands reached up before him for the digits to interwine, he couldn't help glaring at the man that was busying themselves with the Shifter and leaning over the table like they were the owner of it. And Phaedrus, who was in the form of a Lady. His look glided slowly to glance at his partner in discussion, taking in their expression with a hint of dismay pouring from his cyan eyes. Wonder if this happened to them often. For if it did, why were they genderbending and making themselves awkward? Unless they liked it. Thank Gods the fantasies of another were none of his concern and he sure as heck wasn't going to ask about the peculiar behaviour. Them being attractive like a fresh carcass to a bunch of vultures wasn't his problem.

    However, it was about to be. The so far overly tittering and outspoken Necromancer had chosen to turn into stone, petrifying to indecisive muteness upon the thug's arrival. Since the 'lady' was acting somewhat unresponsive, the intruder of course noted him in-between. Well wasn't this just perfect. His hateful smolder leaped to the slug of a man as they spoke, every inch of him desiring to flip the table and rid the ground they plagued from their presence. The feeling got stronger as they challenged him, first with their look and then with a little thoughtful gesture of drinking his liqour for him, reaching for it in swaying motion and downing it shortly after in a self-assured and pretentious manner. He frowned and traced their movement, but wouldn't flinch otherwise to present them with a reaction they were obviously going for. Instead he stared into their half-lidded eyes, the little tuned cogs and strings inside his head wondering what foul they would come up with next. After a brief staring contest the newcomer grunted at the immobile sorcerer that staid silent, then turning to chat with the Shifter in attempt to fondle their ah so lovely and silky hair on the side. Whilst muttering obscenities.

    ' Move along. I would Hate to unleash my rage upon you. '

    For some reason, the director leading the Scholar's theatrics had started to get somewhat tipsy. On a day at the job, so letting his sensitive talents run loose at the worst moment possible. Unforgivable.

    " Whatcha ssay? " The man halted whatever they were doing to the 'lady', straightening up like they had been struck by lightning and taking a hasty, tad bit stumblish, step over to Galeas' side of the table. He had not said anything out loud, just thought, but his psyche had taken it a step further on it's own. How fitting. The person receiving a special message had not been facing him at the time, so being unaware of the nature of the transmission and so getting startled only by the words. He looked up at the approaching figure, measuring. They were a bit shorter than him, but seemed they would have quite a bit of strenght, if one was to judge their warrior-like looks. Not that he was actually going to fight them.

    The drunk's behaviour was getting more hostile however, the way they grabbed him by the chest being somewhat rude. Excuse me, you are invading my personal space... He suspected it would probably be a waste of time to propose a conversation over their escalating actions since their people skills seemed to have been disabled. Without leaving him time to say a word, the intruder pushed his back against the wall, the chair on which he sat letting out a loud creak as it collided with the stone along with him in quite a bit of force. Ouch? Staying seated, since the man was holding him still by his garment, he glared at them in a manner that wanted to melt their hideous face out of this world. But lets not be hasty, shall we.

    " Dun ya bosss me around, geezer! "

    Delightful. Now all that needed to happen was for the Necromancer to set the man on Fire. Since that is what they did best, as of late. He felt like smiting the living hell out of the man that now had sticked their stinking face close to his, complimenting his appearance with a couple of insults. And how they would rearrange his features soon. Good thing he had self-control, otherwise the ignorant bastard would have been dead already. By his modest calculations. In silence, even a bit bored by the rant that spat on him currently, he shot a look at the Shifter.

    ' Use your womanly charms... or something. Not necessarily Fire. '
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    Phaedrus
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    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    Perhaps he would have been better armed with an appropriate insult or response, had this sort of thing happened more often. It was painfully awkward, and intrusive, and above all, hilarious -- in its own disturbing way, of course, a grand irony that only he and the mage were aware of. And perhaps the barmaid, if her confused stares were correct. Still, it did not forgive the fact the drunkard had so rudely intruded on their conversation, currently whispering vile things into his ear. Disgust welled in him as the man put his dirty fingers through his hair, stroking it in a way that tempted him to wrench his arm and pin him to the table. Truly disgusting. And I had just washed it this morning.

    Clicking his tongue, the necromancer opened his mouth, finally gaining enough of his bearings to respond. But before he could say a word, the drunk shot upright, stumbling over to Galeas. What? The sorcerer hadn't heard anything, and stared in brief puzzlement before the obvious conclusion struck his mind. Ah. Whatever he said must have been delightful, from my lovely suitor's reaction. When the man grabbed Gale's chest, Phaedrus' eyebrows shot up, and he made a move to stand, magic boiling beneath his fingertips. You are getting too violent for my taste. The murderous look on the mage's face didn't bode well, either, and he half-expected the drunkard's head to burst open at any moment, splashing brain matter on the walls. I pray he holds his temper.

    "Gentlemen, please," the necromancer called out, palms out like a frightened doe, piping his voice to an almost comical pitch. Still, the man looked too drunk to raise any brows about it, and he snarled at Gale, lifting his chin in an aggressive gesture. Phaedrus looked over the drunk's burly shoulder, making brief eye contact with the mage, and raised a brow when his deep voice rang out in his mind. A smirk suggested that he had heard, quickly vanishing from his face when the drunk swung around to face him. "There's been a misunderstanding. We're not together, you see," he lowered his voice to a sweet coo, staring innocently into the drunk's eyes. They were squinted and bloodshot, screwed up in an ugly street rat face. I have encountered a professional drunk, I see. Phaedrus swallowed his revulsion and trailed a delicate finger up the man's collarbone, smiling viciously into his eyes. "He's just a family friend. I hope I haven't caused you any trouble." He almost gagged on the words, but smiled nonetheless, smiled, smiled, hated. The man weaved around, forgetting his anger as Phaedrus' touch traveled up his chest.

    "Aye," he grunted, his head bobbing around, gaze swimming. "Aye, it en't no problem 't all." His grubby hand moved, emboldened, to his waist, then slid down and squeezed his ass. Phaedrus started, eyes widened, and a muscle jumped in his face, almost shattering his brittle smile. Oblivious, the drunk kept murmuring slurs into his ear, shamelessly copping his fill. "So," the thick words dropped off his lips. "Whyssa girl like you sssingle…" While the drunk buried his face into his neck, Phaedrus looked sideways at Galeas, eyes narrowed. They had flashed a viperous yellow, and a hideous rictus stretched too far over his features, making his face look too hollow and irregular. A titter dripped like poison off his lips.

    "In a place like… this?" He moved to plant a sloppy kiss by his ear, and the necromancer craned his neck as far away as possible, his hand slowly moving somewhere under his emerald cloak. The drunk swayed, still muttering senseless nothings. "Great.. ass…. you're pretty… tall fer … a girl…" He hiccuped quite loudly into his ear, still fumbling and groping, moving dangerously close to his inner thigh. Violation and revulsion surged up in the necromancer, and he choked on his anger. He debated lighting him like a torch right then, doing something hideous to his innards--sending a Shade to hunt him until he collapsed in a cold gutter--but no. No fire, to respect the wishes of our mage friend.

    Hidden in his sleeve, the necromancer drew out a strange-looking dagger, its blade an unearthly metal, runes shivering under his touch. The mask of friendliness had completely dropped off his face, baring its naked wrath, his dead, extinguished eyes. Grinning hideously, Phaedrus wrapped his arm around the drunk like he meant to embrace him, and slid the blade into his ribs. The metal instantly rippled, becoming incorporeal, feeling only like a cold punch or twinge; the drunk grunted in discomfort, rolling his shoulder with a grimace.

    "Ow," he muttered absently, shaking his head, and snapped his eyes open in surprise. A shout strangled in his mouth as he looked into Phaedrus' yellow stare, a girl's face draped like a thin veneer over an atrocious darkness -- the man loosed a yelp, and the necromancer laughed, his voice dripping like oil from his pretty lips.

    "Somnis," Phaedrus hissed, felt the Gate bloom like a cancerous flower in the back of his mind, the warmth of the man's life thrum through the searing runes, and surge into his arm. The man's eyes bulged, showing their whites before they rolled into the back of his head, and he made a deflated noise, sagging in the sorcerer's arms. Undoubtedly Galeas could feel the rolling cold of the aether, a thing that sipped at energy, drawing it into its Void and disrupting the magical aura of the place. Phaedrus slipped the knife from his flesh and returned it to his pocket, holding the drunk's limp form with a disturbing tenderness before he let go. The man dropped to the ground like a sack of turnips, a snore rumbling deep from phlegmy lungs.

    Phaedrus dusted himself off with a vaguely disgusted looking expression, one brow arched poisonously. His yellow glare flicked sideways to Gale, lips pursed, eyes gradually fading back to an innocent blue. He felt vaguely dirty, now, the memory of that slimy touch still defiling his rear, and grunted in disgust, wiping his hands on his pants. "The First Gate," he informed Gale cheerfully, sliding back into his chair while the drunk twitched in his stupor. "Associated with sleep, and comas, and drunks, evidently." Some of his good humor had returned, but it seemed suddenly vicious and hollow, perhaps because he was still revolted by the man's intrusion. LIke nothing had happened, Phaedrus returned to his food, thoughtfully cutting off a piece and shrugging. The barmaid had long gone, thankfully, and was just returning from the kitchen, yelping in shock when she saw the sprawled patron.

    Before she rushed over, he had to at least ask one thing, and twirled his fork, looking curiously at Galeas and pointing it at him. "Are you sure you don't want more pie?"
    Edited by Phaedrus, Mar 12 2014, 10:47 PM.
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    Galeas
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    The man had used their extensive strenght in an uncontrolled measure, just as he had calculated, and as they withdrew to deal with the Necromancer, who had restored their sunshine and rainbows and lured the drunk away, he let out a sigh of relief. Would have been a shame if he had been pushed to the limit of actually having to counter attack, which on his scale resided right before them killing him, since he was patient and left people plenty of time to make the Right choice. Which was to retreat, preferably apologize. If they refused the latter... Well, they might discover a blizzard emitting from the ceiling of their personal quarters in a week's time. He usually wasn't revengeful, but neither did he get angered by discusting drunks in daily basis. Or drink in public, thus getting sloppy with his talents that seemed to have caused him trouble when combined with the one before. Along with many other types of people he despised heavy drinkers for their blurred state of Mind, which was a disgrace to any dose of intellect that might have resided inside their thick skulls. Had he not been weakened earlier today by the ghost of his past that forced him to change his ways years ago, he might have struck them down. With all his Might. His weakness was not something that supressed his powers, it was rather the aftermath of such unleash that chackled him. Such bounds could have been breached, should he not have been sober enough. Hah, the perfect finale. To wipe the drunk out of their miserable existence only to face his own Death soon after. The Necromancer might have seen it amusing however, maybe even tittered upon the event.

    Together... What an absurd idea....

    As he was finally let loose, Galeas cleared his throat against his fist and corrected his position on the chair that had turned most unfomfortable by digging into his back. Likely leaving a bruise and an ache for a while. Again, he wouldn't complain, for he could have ended up a lot worse. He let out a faint grunt, rubbing his spine briefly before his cold look shot over the table to observe the two that were currently getting to know each other, in mild terms. The smile that decorated Phaedrus' feminine features was like a perfectly traced portrait of treacherous, for he suspected they weren't upto any good. Guess he wouldn't be either, in their shoes, thus he could forgive them in occurance of certain barbaric acts. The expression they had thrown his way before had indicated they had heard his mute request, but there was no guarantee of their obedience. Or manners, since they had already unnessecarily ignited one arse today and might do it again out of a habit. If executing something twice in a day could be called such.

    He couldn't really see much behind the figure that only recently had attacked him, therefore not sure what Phaedrus' was doing and what they planned. Not that he wanted to know, honestly. The very voice of the hostility slurring their disgusting thoughts out loud made him want to gather his bones and drag them out right this instant, but due to his current enraged state he was distinct to hurl a table or two on his dignified way out or perform some other conciderate changes into the interior and exterior decor of the Tavern. Should he even be allowed to leave by the drunk that would no doubt happily welcome another opportunity to strangle him. He didn't want to get himself involved again, even by accident, so instead of getting up his seat and conjuring a little bit of mayhem towards the back that might as well have been taunting him, the Scholar leaned heavily against his seat in somewhat forced silence and folded his arms as if to keep them from chanting. Turning his look away he tried to swallow his Pride and Rage, the closely knit couple whose embrace had always been quite hazardous when given a type of fuel. Was better to let the 'ladyfolk' lead their storm calming ritual until the tempest had passed and the waters were clear, since he would hate to interrupt with his own example of a bit more wrathful persuasion.

    Great.. ass…. you're pretty… tall fer … a girl…

    Against usual expectations, since he was far from ordinary, his Anger didn't leave his vessel. It lingered, maybe even rising an inch or two as the Necromancer sure took their time with their words and little gestures. Had it been any other lady he would have halted the horrible disgrace happening before him long ago and taken the battle outside. And as sure as he still lived he swore the heavens above if it had been his daughter receiving such attention he would have made the intruder more than distantly aware of their own mortality. In a manner that wouldn't kill them, since it would end their shame and suffering, but that taught them how to behave properly, presumably removing a piece of their valuables in the side if needed for greater effect in the field of memorizing the lesson. Toast for that. He had tried to calm himself in vain by turning his look down at the table surface and when it returned to the couple that had pressed against each other the sight made him arch a brow. Wonder if that twisted Shifter was feeling violated at all by the groping and fondling that took place under their cloak, which he was able to guess by the soft rustle the fabric made when disturbed. He shook his head in disgust. No, was none of his business, goddammit.

    Is that... ?

    The glimpse of Phaedrus pulling a knife made him stop the tune he had been tapping against his sleeve. In a split of a second he arranged a somewhat questioning glare and launched it to meet the Necromancer's eyes, making him note their radical change of hues the first time. He sensed hate, which wasn't too suprising taking the circumstances, but it was that of a different type, overwordly strong. Were they posessed? He doubted, but as he wasn't exactly an acolyte of the Dark Arts he couldn't be sure. When they took the final step and shoved the blade to make friends with the drunkard's insides he levered himself up from his seating out of a reflex. Should've known. He didn't get far from his spot, for the same instant as he stood up he was struck by light confusement and a chill, feeling a significant disturbance in the grounds of unseen energies upon the collision of flesh and metal. It was more like a burst, unlocatable, all around, tingling like a sudden cold breeze that blurred his psychic senses, shook the edges of his vision and the very seams of the walls that surrounded. Had the realm been breached? The very idea froze him, letting him do nothing but stare at the plot twist that made itself known before him. His frowning, yet not judging look traced the beaten opponent as they made contact with the floor and upon harnessing his dozed out talents he came to the conclusion they weren't dead, since he was able to see their whirling shades and tints along with their now unconscious presence.

    Well, that was unexpected.

    Having soothingly gained their previous lovely self, Phaedrus took a seat. Unceremoniously, similar to the way they had just performed Necromancy in public without a fiber of hesitation. By his experience the day was still too young to be defiled by opening Gates, since most what he had witnessed had taken place in the Dark of the Night. But, Phaedrus was quite the piece of work, thus an exception in more several levels than he would ever have dared to suspect. Not that he could really blame them or feel sorry for the person that had been somewhat disabled. Nevertheless, Galeas mimiced, reaching for his seat and pulling it to be reunited with it's spot around the table before slowly lowering himself down. His gaze, empty from the Mind that wandered in a hazy dimension, was fixed upon the sleeping figure that twitched and breathed heavily under their slumber.

    The familiar barmaid threw themselves to examine the drunk, their eyes widening from confusement and darting up to bounce between the two sorcerers for a moment, until fixing into him. He shifted his hues to stare back. Upon submerging to the Depths of dark mahogany that had been offered to him on a silver platter of their dwelling look, it came clear to him they were terrified. Probably by the both of the furious duo, judging the way the raven woman was so hasty to stumble off whilst shooting petrified glances over their shoulder. Had they felt it too? The creeping cold, reaching the skeletal fingers of Ice from beyond? On second thought, they had been staring at the Necromancer the whole evening. Maybe they knew nothing, just presumed, so over-reacting? Sensing their Craft would have required the Lady to be aware of a few variables in fields of magic, to be able to make up what it was related to. Maybe even be a chanter themselves. However, he wouldn't shed his hopes on such a fact. One couldn't really trust anyone these days, not even their own Kin.

    He had completely dismissed his accomplice's joke of sorts, something they had tossed out to loosen the tense atmosphere. For the love of Gods, no more Pie. His features had fallen to the familiar state of calm unreflectiveness and he reached for his gloves that had fallen to the floor due to the recent incident. Upon regaining his posture he leaned his elbows on the table, slipping his hands to their leather covers in a way that couldn't really be called rushing. The Scholar turned his look slowly at Phaedrus, who seemed to have busied themselves with their food. Once more, letting out the order in which a certain priorities laid in their pyramid. On which stair Decency resided was a bit blurry for the moment. His digits stretched in a wave along the table surface.

    ' Something is telling me the Storm isn't over yet. Thus why I- '

    A lighting with red sails shot past his head in a loud whistle of a roguewind. He had been too distracted to even flinch as it did, but as it hit the wall behind him in a loud thud it made itself known in all it's unpleasantry. Or the opposite, since it had just missed his head. Someone had a real bad aim, or then it was a warning. In such an environment as this, both were almost as likely. He didn't have to search for the person shooting bolts at him for long, since there was only one holding a crossbow in the distance. His frown shifted quickly from them at the 'Lady' across the table.

    ' Better get a move on then. '

    The Tavern owner themselves had chosen to play the minor part of a surprising villain in the comedy of his day, having emerged from the door in the back of the room. They didn't look like they were up for conversation, seemed to be reloading whilst cursing. Maybe they were expecting a reward for catching a pair of sorcerers. He stared into their eyes that were about the same level of utterly annoyed as his own, neither of them saying word. No explanation then? Fair enough, guess the weapon talks for itself. For all he knew he was going to be able to leave a Tavern without paying for the first time. Not feeling a pinch of guilt. As they finished their swift reloading and aimed, poorly but into the Necromancer's general direction this time, he stood up in a loud creak of his chair and snapped his leather coated fingers.

    In the next few seconds a bolt was shot, a table flipped and a pair of curtains caught flame. Trinity at it's best.
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    Phaedrus
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    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    Well, someone wasn't in the mood for joking.

    In all fairness, neither was he, but how else was he to deal with the bizarre change of circumstances? Humor was a crutch, a thing that let him hobble along this broken world. Still, the feeling of violation lingered, the dimming outrage, the mingling of fear and annoyance that the barmaid might have seen what happened. She looked absolutely terrified -- while most people couldn't sense the Gates, one could never be sure… no, she was likely more disturbed for another reason, and he felt a sinking dread as she retreated back to the kitchen.

    ' Something is telling me the Storm isn't over yet. Thus why I- '

    The deep baritone rumbled in his mind, echoing his own thoughts, and was cut off by a sudden twang, a flash of red embedding itself into the wall of the tavern. Phaedrus almost choked on his food, eyes going wide, and instantly leapt from his chair, sending it flying onto the cobblestones. A few inches over, and the mage would have been skewered. Anger bloomed in his chest, sending magic flooding through his veins, down to the tips of his fingers. His eyes fixed malevolently on the man who tried to kill them, and the sorcerer raised his hands, mouth moving, forming a shimmering ward around him and his newfound accomplice. Phaedrus' grip on his face slackened, and the owner stared in horror while the so-called girl's features shifted into a male's, eyes narrowing, nose becoming sharper and longer, a cruel sneer blooming across thinning lips.

    The tavern owner started so badly that he released the bolt, and it grazed the ward, flying off and embedding itself into a wooden beam. A moment later, the table flipped, sending plates and glasses flying; they shattered against the stone, raining glass and splattering food everywhere. Phaedrus flinched, feeling a pang of annoyance and regret -- truly? Was it so hard to sit down and enjoy lunch without interruption? -- and snapped his fingers. The owner's yelp of surprise became a howl as smoke curled from his pants, and he dropped the crossbow to bat it out; the curtains had inexplicably roared to life as well, flapping and belching smoke. What a mess.

    He didn't need much prompting to turn and bolt out of the tavern, cloak flapping. Thankfully, most people on the street hardly cared-- a few drunks were sprawled on the ground, and two men were shouting in the midst of a heated argument, looking ready to come to blows. Phaedrus ran down the backstreet, expecting Gale to follow, and weaved through the zigzagging alleys, avoiding the startled looks of hunched beggars or people sourly sweeping their dirty porches. His mind raced to find a place where they'd be safe; with the mage dressed like that, they'd attract stares wherever they went, and ---

    Dressed. That was it. He stopped in his tracks, looking over his shoulder to ensure that the old man had been following in the first place; he hoped he hadn't keeled over in some coughing fit again. A stroke of inspiration lit the necromancer's face, which had become entirely roguish, a grin peeling at his lips, dark hair still curled and long as a woman's, eyes a dancing blue. "I've an idea," he informed the mage, looking past Galeas to ensure that no one had been following them. There weren't any guards around, and undoubtedly the tavern owner was a bit… busy.

    "This way," Phaedrus called over his shoulder, gesturing to follow before he wedged himself into another alleyway. If he remembered correctly, the way to a certain brothel was not far. Renowned in Eldahar, full of all types, a place where nobody asked questions or cared whether you were a mage, an elemental, or a murderer-- so long as you had the coin, and the fashion. And they had drinks, which was nearly as important. Some muffled shouting sounded from behind them, and he prayed it was just another pair of drunks having a senseless argument, but the necromancer upped his pace, still annoyed at the afternoon's turn of events.

    Lots of wine and a sweet woman will make it better. Seems my companion is in equal need of those as well. The alley snaked into other side streets, and the necromancer took off his dusty traveler's cloak, folding it over his arm and beaming over his shoulder at the mage. He squinted for a moment, as if in appraisal, then tittered.

    "Good. You are dressed the part already. I feel like quite the peasant." He tucked the cloak away into his bag and dusted off his dark embroidered tunic, smoothing out the wrinkles recently acquired by their mad dash through Eldahar. "Perhaps I should consider getting a feathered hat," he breezed, shrugging and sauntering towards the entrance. "There are more drinks inside," the necromancer assured him, opening the door into a choking swathe of incense and music.
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    Galeas
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    // I am so sorry. //

    // Sigvard //

    Before the tall windows of the Peak she stood, basking in the high afternoon Sun. The rays were partially shed through a cloud of green, a breeze making them dance upon her robed figure and giving her a flickering halo in the unlit room. At this hour her house was hardly booked full, since most of her clientel arrived after Light of the Day had departed, but she was still able to hear the faint laughter and music of the Surround. The classy drunks and nobels alike had no problem staying around the clock, so keeping the Bar occupied at all times. Good thing her doors were always open, otherwise they would have nowhere to go. Sigvard wasn't well-known in these parts yet, by her own appearance at least, but her premises had gained some reputation by the success of the business that was executed within. A whorehouse only for the wealthy had been something this city had craved and along with blessing it with one she also got a second spot to call as her headquarters. The other resided deep in the outskirts of Eldahar, in the lands of her opium fields and mansion, the place where her life had changed forever. To the better, in her case, but as of late she had grown tired of the slumberlike easiness she had spent in the solitude of it all for years. Taking her endless riches along with her delightful person to the Capital had thus felt like a refreshment, it being even greater if she could gain a few acquaintances and Pets in the side. Which she had, without even having to force it. Having an army of Courtesans made her quite the likable General by default, should she not refine the image with a few exquisite brush strokes of her own.

    She inhaled the lavender of the air, then turning on the heel of her silken slipper rapidly. The light knock accompanied her step that took her through the satin curtains that divided her quarters, the other side being a bit more official and on which she had her desk and a round table in the middle with two heavily cushioned chairs. Pausing her stride, she reached her index to dab her lips in contemplation whilst letting her look wander towards the items on her workspace. Now what. Judging by the commotion on her desk, she sure had papers to sort and letters to write, but did she feel like doing such things currently? Not really. She glanced behind her at the outdoors that shone through the thin veil of the spacedivider, as if awaiting the view to give her ideas. Maybe a walk? She sure loved the warmth of a bright day. Yes. The Brothel mostly handled itself, not to mention she had her Trusted Ladies, Thea and Nim, to look after the place. Should trouble emerge, she would hear about it soon enough and return. In the end, what was the worst that could happen in a whorehouse? It is not like someone was under the hazard of getting molested. Breaking her posessions was probably the greatest damage that could take place, but she had already had people entering through the roofing, which was unlikely to happen in a daily basis. Or at the current at least, since the Inquisiton hardly set their course towards her house this early.

    A stroll around the Market it is then. Maybe I will be able to find a couple of new and shiny things.


    Resuming her flowy movement, the Snakeling took herself to the door and beyond to the corridor that led down to the second floor. On her most dignified way she stroked through her hair, the strands chiming in an unstopping orchestra along with the rest of her attire. Upon reaching the balcony she glanced over the railing, seeing the excellently populated Bar and nodding to herself in acceptance. She loved the sound of a blooming business. Tracing the banister with her gold coated fingers she took a few steps forward, about to reunite herself with the outdoors, but halted as a familiar creak of iron hinges reached from an unusual direction. Someone was entering through the backdoor. Why? Wasn't that entrance locked anyway... Her brows knit together in annoyance. Must have been one of the girls that left it open at times, so unintentionally letting in a few pests in occasion. She was their Boss, not their Mother goddammit, wasn't her job to clean up the mess after their ignorance. Such children. Her steps were a series of thumps that demanded explanation when she approached the staircase that submerged to the floor of the second storey, being the gateway to the backyard. She inhaled in a hiss, about to yell unwanted Guests right out, but what she came to see wasn't anything of the sort.

    She blinked. The sight that stared back from under made her freeze for a moment, her confused gaze bouncing between the two that had made their unceremonious way to her House. In a somewhat mischievous hum she tilted her hips and folded her upper arms over her chest. A pair of the sneaky kind, eh? Or where they running from something, alike to what the dust in their boots inclined? Whatever their reasons were, they would be treated equal to the rest, with hospitality. Since they weren't exactly the type that she had to shoo from her doorstep, more the opposite. According to what she could make up by their appearances from this distance, one was a chubby nobleboy and the other... she had to lean a bit to her side to see... A scholar? She tilted her head. Lost are we? Not that the occupation really mattered, since all that she saw was possible transaction. In her favour, most importantly.
    " Well, my Gents. I am not even going to ask what brings you to my not-so-humble abode in a way most questionable, rather welcome with open arms. " Her voice chirped. All four of them. The frown had completely disappeared from her face and she ascended down to greet the newcomers. Which meant for her to plant herself between them and grab them both by the waist, her hidden arms snaking from behind her back to join the other pair into a sturdy grip. Such contrast in one duo, almost ridiculous, she thought to herself as her fingers made contact with their bodies and her look with the features of their faces. She hummed and shook her head in amusement. Having both of the fishes in her net, she led them upstairs, dragging and pushing if needed, without greater introduction.

    " This way, please. " Her smile was wide, somewhat malicious as she took the bunch through the corridor to the right, curling the long locks of the other around her slender index in an unshameful and possessful manner. Whilst walking she tried to remember if she had seen either of their faces before, but her thought didn't grasp a single image from the Sea of short acquaintances. There were too many coming and going, impossible to recall. Finally she came across an open door, releasing the two in the same instance and sliding behind them swiftly to give a little push on their backs. With two hands each, since sometimes one wasn't suggestive enough. Upon this she gave the feathers of the Scholar's hood a little counteraction, pulling softy and so making it flip off their head. No reason to veil oneself indoors, even less in the environment they currently were in. Once the prey was sealed in the cage, she caught the door handle whilst bringing her upper hands together in a loud, delighted clink. Her plotting look measured them for a moment. They obviously weren't related, much, or anything of the sort, so one room shouldn't be a problem. The void that marked the distance between them might be however. Were they not friends? Yet again, what did she care. They would inform about details, should something important rise up.

    " Someone will be with you shortly. By all means, shed a glimpse upon our other goods in the meanwhile. " The somewhat hissing, yet motherly voice said and she pointed with her only free hand towards the cabinet in the corner. And then Sigvard withdrew, closing the door in a faint click. Maybe giving them a moment was in order, for them to get acquainted with the expensive booze and other treats. First she would have to send a pair of girls to probe, ask questions over what they preferred, then organize the main product. She was familiar with many request, not everyone came for the one and same thing either. As she turned her back and begun to walk towards the next destination, she flicked her braids, a giggle rising into her throat. What a success.


    // Galeas //

    It was a blur.

    The Necromancer, no matter having been in the middle of most important processing, was fast to react and had cast a ward of some type, so deflecting the bolt that this time had been a bit better aimed than the last one. The literal Shift of their features was quite the sight, the only thing he was content about witnessing in the current circumstances. So that's what it looked like... Fascinating. After recovering from his slight amazement his attention darted back to the matter at hand. His instruments of destruction were ablaze, perfect portrayal of his rage, and as he threw the table to it's side to shield the becoming escape, the flame spread through his grip to the wooden surface like a living wave of uncontrolled wrath. Something else caught fire too, this being the Tavern owner. As the man tapped their backside he couldn't contain his amusement, shooting a grin at Phaedrus' that had now turned to flee. Seems they indeed had taken it as their cause, summoning Fire to where it least belonged. However, the recipients had all so far deserved it. More or less. What a noble act of Justice they shared. Exhaling, he hoisted his hood atop his features and brought his hands together in a clap mid-step, casting a spell to catch up with the other swiftly.

    And then they ran. Left, right, left again. And another right, passing quite the amount of houses and people that melted together, for one had little time to note details. Wasn't really the time for sight-seeing, thus why he kept his look in the swaying cloak of the other. Wonder where they were heading, not that he would have any idea. This was yet another time today that he was running from something, it was starting to get tiering. Literally and figuratively. Mostly it was only his Mind that was racing away from things, neglecting thoughts and fields that it pushed aside, in a way being on the run around the clock, but at least it wasn't painful into his external. Unlike this. His throat went dry, his chest stiffening from the cough he contained, since he wasn't about to just drop in the street and give up. Not anymore, not to those people. On second thought, not to anyone in this damn city. Pfft.

    An idea? Delightful.

    As they stood still for a couple of seconds, the Necromancer having probably received some sort of lovely vision of a destination according to their look and words, he had time to take in a deep inhale. Damn. He indeed wasn't supposed to be too old for this, but his medical history disagreed with the physical strain that had taken place throughout the day. Wonder if it was only to get worse. He resumed his pace to follow the other, having not the faintest clue where they were leading. Guess it didn't matter much.

    The Necromancer stopped again and so did he, keeping a somewhat overly civil distance from them. His brow arched some upon the words that were said, wondering what the heck did they need to dress up for now... Didn't concern him, since he had a magnificent headpiece. Glancing over his shoulder he cleared his throat. The pain had reunited itself with his old wounds, along with giving him a headache and making his vision somewhat hazy. It was only upon actually slowing down that all the symptoms hit him at once, along with his trusty friend nausea. None of this would he let to reach the surface, not in the slightest. He held his posture even if he felt like collapsing, choosing to keep from saying anything for now due to the tickling pressure that lingered in his throat.

    They had also mentioned drinks. Another Tavern? Wonder if that was a good idea in the shadow the recent trail of events, look how that great idea had worked. His Reason gave his Politess a kick, trying to wake it up from it's fever dream and snatch the reins it had been given before, yelling something about the mess it was probably striding to. But it wouldn't listen, leaving the words of warning to echo in the back of his head in vain. Then he heard the hinges creak and in the very instant the heavy, smoky scent of incense hit his senses. It was no doubt meant to cover something else. As he stepped in like a sheep on a leash and closed the door behind himself, he recognized the many shades of the air. Was that... tar? And something sweet. Opium. Where the hell... He shot a glare at the Necromancer's back.

    ...

    Seriously?

    ...

    Before he had time to turn on his heel and take his royally misdirected arse - which was way too dignified for the sort of place they had just arrived to - along with his remaining decency out the same way he had just arrived, a voice halted him. It was that of a Lady, but what he raised his gaze up to meet was not of the exact kind he had seen before. Or sensed, since he could hardly sense their presence. Their aura was somewhat tingling, like little electric shocks that indicated them being of magical origin, but nothing more than that. They certainly weren't a caster. What a relief? As they addressed him and his treacherous accomplice, he wouldn't say anything. Not like he had to, since the Matronly Snake had already made their way between him and Phaedrus. When did that happen again, he must have been missing out. With no further announcement whatsoever a slender arm curled around his waist and.. Wait what. There were two. His gaze shifted slowly to examine the woman's features up close. Hmh, guess they made up to the somewhat undeveloped face with having extra limbs. How very practical. Yet highly disturbing. In his normal state he would have showed interest to the being, but his ashtonishment towards the situation was filling all the space inside his head for the moment. The Lady didn't need to use too much force to bend him under her will, so leading with ease. Like he had a choice...

    Oh, shut your piehole Politess, you got us to this mess in the first place.

    Don't blame me, Honesty was the one getting hammered during his day at the office...

    ...Excuse me? I was jogging.

    Alright then! But don't complain when the ye olde Reason takes my side again!

    And then he was pushed into a room, again with no explanation, not even introduction. Must have been a thing around here. Taking the suspected nature of the place he presumed it to be preferred, rather than frowned upon however. His gloved hand reached to smoothen his hair as he turned to give the woman a glimpse before they took their somewhat annoyingly open and playful manners away. In the same instant as the door clicked, he reached to try the handle, like making sure he was provided with an escape route. He wasn't. What a lovely establishment, locking doors, though it was hardly to keep people from leaving. He turned in a sharp exhale, folding his arms and letting his defeated gaze wander around. For some reason, it felt unbelievably wrong to be in a room so... Red and murky and suggestive as this with such a person as the Necromancer. He wouldn't shed a look at them, just throw his numb body to the armchair in the corner next to the door, resting his elbows on the spots provided to them and reaching to rub his eyes out of mental exhaustion. What did he do to deserve this again?

    Self-Pity, get the heck out. You are not supposed to be here at all.

    Come on, the last time I had some fun was a year ago.

    No, that last party you had with Grief left the rest of us disabled for weeks.

    Two doors were opened. The figurative one upon the dreaded feeling leaving the building that was his head and the more materialized one that resided right next to him. He didn't shift his gaze that he had buried into his palm due to the headache plaguing behind his hues, but he heard two footsteps. Light to that, the smooth and silky rustle accompanied with a faint chime of jewelery suggesting females. The other chirped something to the Necromancer with probing words, since this seemed to be no ordinary Brothel. They weren't straightforward or intrusive, more of the considerate and request taking kind. Their purposes were many, not pursuing any in particular. Thus why he might be able to convince them to leave him alone. If that wasn't too optimistic? Guess it was, for before he had collected his scattered thoughts and fabricated a polite refusal someone took a seat on his lap. Dear Lord... He flinched and leaned back abruptly on his seating like their touch had been a sword to the gut. The rapid withdrawal was a bit too forceful, therefore slinging the chair backwards and making the reaction somewhat ineffective for the lady landed on him. Their digits grabbed his garment by the chest and their face buried itself to his neck when the back of the seat collided with the floor. Ouch? He grunted and exhaled through his mouth, trying to dismiss the strands of the lady's hair off his face. Perfect... Note to self, never trust a Necromancer.
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    Phaedrus
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    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    He hadn't visited the Goodnight Kiss himself, only heard whispers through the grapevine of its… strange owner, and the fine establishment she ran. A bit of a surprise that the back door was open, but then, he supposed they were visiting at an odd hour. The heady smell of incense and its peppering of opium boded well, he supposed, but he did not expect the brothel owner to grace them with her presence. She appeared like some foreign queen, sweeping all in red, announcing her arrival with an endless chime of gold upon gold, everything dangling, ringing, catching the Ashokan sun in a brilliant gleam. How curious.

    He'd never seen a being like her before, with so flat a face, her gait and manner some eerie mix of reptile and human, milk-white and moving with a sinuous grace. At her greeting, a smirk spread across his features, far less than innocent, and he stifled a titter. "We graciously accept your invitation," he returned, caught somewhat by surprise when she grabbed their waists, practically floating along the corridor in her vivid reds. I like red, the necromancer reflected, not protesting at the finger in his hair. My, it is popular today. I will need two baths. Though I am hoping our new acquaintance is more hygienic than the troglodyte in the tavern. The place seemed to suggest so, with its polished floors and silks, sweet incense drifting through the air. She was very direct, wasn't she? Made him wonder where exactly she was leading them to -- a private room, or a torture chamber? With their luck today, devils knew. The thought cut off prematurely when he felt a second hand at his back. What? The necromancer started just a little, eyes flicking over to their strange host, and noticed the hidden sleeves. A-aaah. Very interesting.

    He did not have much time to ponder what species she belonged to -- or what those almost menacing smiles meant -- before the door snapped behind them, and with a flourish, she was gone. Leaving them in a most wonderful room, draped with lavish curtains and dimmed to a sultry flicker of lanterns, plush chairs and tasseled pillows laid out invitingly. Phaedrus glanced sidelong at Gale, noting he went straight for the door, and quirked a brow, sweeping to one of the chairs. Hmmm. He wondered idly if the mage had ever stepped foot in a brothel before -- wagered not, and the shadow of a smile came to his face as he flopped into a chair, sinking into it with a satisfied sigh. The necromancer closed his eyes and tilted his head back, arms behind his head, and crossed one leg primly over the other, content to breathe the musky air and listen to the muffled beat of some bellydancing melody downstairs. A bit awkward of her to put them together in one room, really. He'd expected something a bit more lively, milling with people, a bar, perhaps? Still, the break from unpredictable drunks was much appreciated, at least at the moment.

    "You look like you've seen a ghost," the necromancer remarked, cracking one eye open to see the mage hunched, hand over his eyes like he'd just witnessed something traumatic. The man refused to look at him or speak, and Phaedrus lifted his head, vaguely affronted, and rested his chin on his fist, other hand drumming an absent melody on the arm of the chair. How dramatic. He shut his eyes again, let a sigh flutter through his lips. I need a drink. Thankfully, the door opened shortly, and Phaedrus looked up to see two beautiful courtesans enter, their silks floating around their hips and arms, bracelets clinking as they chimed into the room. A smile perked his features as one chirped into his ear, her raven hair hanging inches from his face.

    "It is ever so early," he murmured, as she slid onto his lap, silks trailing, her warmth and softness making him relax further into the chair. Perhaps the air had a sedative effect too, for he found himself relaxing into the posh cushions, feeling at ease for the first time in the day. "My friend and I have had a most trying day. I was thinking drin--" He broke off as an enormous clang sounded, and the necromancer jerked his head past the courtesan's sheet of raven hair and chiming earrings, staring at the mage with an aghast expression on his face, as if the man had erupted into a violent fart at the Queen's dinner party. And in a way, he had, committing a faux pas just as awkward. Was the man afraid of women? Or had he just died of a stroke? The mage's grunt told him no to the latter, and the necromancer froze a moment before bursting into a high-pitched peal of laughter.

    The courtesan on his lap brushed her hair out of her eyes, blinking, and -- to her credit -- the one who landed atop Gale had gracefully saved herself, sliding to a sultry position atop the mage. She straightened to a sitting position, knees on either side of the sorcerer, and smiled into his face, trailing one finger down the man's collarbone.

    The raven-haired woman giggled shyly behind her hand, looking sideways at Phaedrus as he regained his composure, unable to believe the absurdity of the situation. Perhaps he shouldn't have laughed, perhaps, but one could only suffer so much insanity in one day. He hoped the man wouldn't take it personally, for he wasn't laughing entirely at him -- he was laughing at Eldahar, more like, at the world, at the precise series of events that had landed them here.

    "I am entirely too sober for this, and my friend has not had nearly enough to drink," he announced, playing absently with the courtesan's hair as a grin hung like a half-moon on his tan face. Eyes dancing, the necromancer leaned in again, to all appearances whispering something seductive into the woman's ear. On the contrary, however…

    "I do not think my friend has ever been to a brothel before. I am also not entirely sure he is of… the female persuasion," Phaedrus purred, which gained him a sly look from the courtesan. Her painted lips curved knowingly, and her dark hand trailed down his cheek, bracelets jangling.

    "There is no judgement here," she nodded, casting a glance over at Gale. The courtesan was playfully sliding off of him, offering her assistance to get him up. "Our job is to satisfy whatever cravings you might have." She walked her thin fingers across the necromancer's collar, made a smile curve across his face. "Just tell us what you want." Her body was most definitely pressed up against his now, more like draped, and he tried to control himself for the sake of his acquaintance's sanity, curling the woman's hair around his finger and tracing her jaw.

    "Just wine for me, at the moment. Red. Whatever is your favorite." His eyes narrowed, not cruelly, expression one of cheekiness. "I cannot speak for my friend. But I daresay something strong." He emphasized that word, laughed mockingly. Very, very strong. Strong enough to dissolve whatever stick is still up his ass. Unless the problem is that he desires an entirely different sort of stick.
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    Galeas
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    He felt like throwing up. The collision with the floor had only fueled his headache, along with making the nausea rise up to his throat as his insides flipped. His ears rang for a moment and for a split of a second he thought he had maybe snapped his neck and died, but as his blackened vision slowly returned into the familiar bluriness it came clear he hadn't. Yet. The lady seemed to be quite comfortable laying on top of him, giggling into his collar and due to his own terrible state he wasn't going to say a word, just stare at the ceiling. As if the fact that he had a person, that might aswell have been his daughter, lounging on him wasn't embarrasing enough, the Necromancer had the nerve to brace the air with a burst of Joy. He couldn't say he hadn't expected it from them however. Of course they tittered, what else, the whole consept of the events that had taken place during the day was ridiculous. Along with actually ending up here, from all the locations in the city. Should he have not been too busy clenching his digits around the armrests and biting his teeth together out of annoyance and pain he might have joined them for a laugh. Grunting for the second time he swallowed heavily, trying to dismiss the bad taste and ready himself physicly to getting up. Since mentally it was nearly impossible.

    Obvious enough for an idiot that I am too sober for this. What are you, a detective?

    Like said, there were a couple of reasons why he didn't drink in public. He wasn't sure if this counted for public anymore, therefore he wouldn't object to anything the Necromancer said. And since he had executed a few simple calculations that made it clear he was pretty much stuck for the rest of the day. Might have to get familiar with a bit more than alcohol however, should his company be the same for the next few hours. He worked above the options when The Snakelady's words rang back to his head, along with the image of them gesturing around the room. Wonder what was in that cabinet... His Mind was interrupted from it's most productive ponder over things that would release it from it's prison, preferably make him forget about everything later, this time by movement on his figure. The girl shifted to sit on his chest and brough their hands to their hips in a playful manner, looking down on him. His cyan hues looked back in light questioning. What was that taunting grin about? They thought this was funny? Hardly.

    They stroked their carefully combed hair, the colour reminding him of the bark of a pine tree, animating the twin waterfalls that framed their delicate face and flowed all the way down to veil almost half of their form. Amidst all this, two beads of ebony shimmered above a cunning smile, their stare deep and measuring. As silent as he was, the girl looked at him with the somewhat piercing pair of eyes, whilst their nails tapped a cheerful tune against the silver buckles of his garment. He took a deep inhale, the ache stabbing his chest and making his brows knit slightly. For some reason this made the girl giggle - wonder what was so amusing - and reach for his hand, then slide off his figure fluently and with quite a bit of snakely grace, which somewhat surprised him. Upon gaining a footing, they gave his arm a soft, probing pull. He returned the grip, levering himself to his feet with their help between the flipped chair and the wall slowly. He cleared his throat and gave the lady a humble nod, correcting his robes with his free hand, since even with him having loosened his grasp the other hadn't. What now?

    Not caring that the girl was currently playing with his gloves and brushed up against him like a baby deer, Galeas gazed over to the Necromancer who seemed to be in the very middle of something. Good thing they seemed to be containing themselves for now, he would hate to give up to his urge to regurgitate.Their joking didn't really surprise him, however the mocking tone wasn't too appreciated. Staying silent still, since he had little of significant intellectual value to say, he let his gaze meet the one of the other courtesan that was currently shooting some weird looks at him. What had he done now? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He wasn't even paying attention to the little woman before him that was attempting a dance of sorts against his crotch, twirling around his arm every now and again. Or was that the problem? Not that he gave a damn. Too much.

    Phaedrus' fresh seductress turned on their jeweled heel after they had finished 'dicussing' the details, gesturing the humming brunette to follow. Obediently they let go of his arm and went after their sister in trade, twirling and jumping out of the room like a summer fawn. The door closed as soon as they disappeared through it, letting out the malevolent click. Gods have mercy... He gave the top of his head a stroke and exhaled, bending down to restore his chair back to it's feet. Now then... Wonder if he should say something? His exhausted look bounced to the Necromancer. No. They would probably become more awkward if he opened up about anything related to the circumstances. Or so he suspected, not really sure how.. freaky... they were on their deepest. Neither did he want to find out.

    In deep silence he removed the headpiece from his shoulders, throwing it to sit on the back of the chair in a somewhat careless manner. The Scholar turned on his place in a faint snap of his boots, walking across the room to the cabinet mentioned before whilst slipping his index to loosen the folds of his collar. Giving the ornate doors of the fine piece of furniture little to no merit whatsoever he opened them in a faint creak by the glimmering, gemmed knobs. Lets see then. The lighting being somewhat poor, he wasn't sure what he was looking at first, but on the top shelf he spotted a set of pipes. By the smell the cabinet had all over he could tell what the instruments had been filled with, so further extensive inspection not being in order. Had been quite some time, no time better than this to freshen up the acquaintanceship. Picking out one by it's long stem he straightened up, his gaze shifting over to meet the flickering lick of the candle above the cabinet. The scented wax had been forged to the shape of a waterlily, white in colour and emiting a faint fragrance faithful to it's form, making him wonder how much money the host had wasted on such a disposable item. Women... He shook his head and reached to tilt the polished chamber above the flame, withdrawing it as soon as it puffed the first curls of smoke. Wonder if the Necromancer wanted any. Not that they needed, they seemed to be on a cheerful mood by default. And they were an adult, sure they knew how to help themselves. Standing still and taking a moment to examine the lower shelves with his blank gaze, he brough the bit to his lips and took a contained drag. Hmh, seems the host had gone cheap on the ingredients, but the sweetness was strong and recognizable nevertheless.

    Biting the stem and exhaling a cloud of fog through his teeth, he turned yet again, leaving the cabinet doors open as he distanced himself from it and returned back to his spot in the corner. In a way least generic to him, like most of the recent action, he laid himself down on the armchair, leaning back heavily whilst letting the smoke snake in the air, veil everything. His thoughts really didn't need hallusinogenics and other sedatives to be able to wander, since he was absent-minded by nature, but at least his headache would be gone. The heavy shadow of the bars dispersed, the empty look in his cold gateways fixing to the swirly patterns of the carpet that had been given a life of their own by the swaying illumination of the room. The time slowed down...


    It was cold. The streets were slippery from the ice, layers of white coating the rooftops, their crystallized halos glimmering as if trying to brighten up the morning that even with being sunny, was Dark. On the back of the carriage, rough planks, laid a figure.

    There were no colours, tints, shades, that used to circle about the being, they had fused out long ago. The Winter reached it's fingers, caught the pure veil, sheding light over the features. Familiar, but foreign. The Doors to the Realm were shut, clouding the Blue of the Skies on the other side, in the world that had gained it's Nightfall.

    Wind twirled, making the Winter shiver in it's robes. It swept over, releasing strands of weaved Snow from the bonds,whipping the frozen lake that had taken the pale of Moonlight...



    The images stopped racing for a moment. Seems he had fallen deeper into his seating, resting his chin against his knuckles, elbow on the armrest. He raised his half-lidded gaze up at the Necromancer, his face the same misty mirror as usual. One might see something in it, but the image was too unrefined to give out who or what stared back.

    ' I apologize for the trouble. ' He thought out loud, before letting his look wander away from them. Guess he had been unthankful, narrow-minded. They had saved his skin from quite the bit of crap, not even knowing him. Twice. The ember in the chamber of his pipe illuminated his face as he took in the smoke.


    The Moon...

    " Father, who is the Man on the Moon? "
    " He is no one, it is a fairy tale. "
    " But... There was a picture in a book... "
    " Precisely. A creation of bunch of artists. There is no truth to that story at all. "
    " Please? "
    " Alright then... "
    " Yesssss! "
    " Many thousands of years ago, there was a man, a priest to be exact. He lived in a temple of white stone, dedicating his life to his Goddess, that of the Stars and Loneliness . She was a powerful being, one of the greatest, granting - "
    " Why Loneliness? "
    " Alasia, why do you always interrupt when I am telling you something? It is rude. "
    " But... I wanted to know. "
    " The Stars are lonely. That's why. They are far apart and unreachable. Anyhow. Like any man, he got distracted from his noble cause by none other than- "
    " A lady! "
    " Alasia! "
    " But Love is so sweet! "
    " I am not going to finish the story if you can't restrain yourself. "
    " Sorry... "
    " As you already guessed, a Lady appeared. A Soulmate to the man, crafted in the Forges of Darkness himself from Shards of Stardust. Fate brought them together, Her guiding hands making them glide close, meet and eventually fall in Love. The priest didn't overlook his duties, but his Goddess got jealous nevertheless. In her wrath She blinded the man, hoping it would make him leave the woman that was known for her Beauty.

    ' It doesn't matter, I can still hear the music of your voice. ' The man said and their life continued unchanged. But the Goddess wasn't one to give up. As her next act, She took away his hearing. To this the priest said the same as before, for he could still feel his Wife's touch that was smooth as silk and warm as an ember. So, The Goddess chose to raise the very ground, separating the lovers by bringing the temple closer to Herself and far away from the other living. Women are strong-willed however and the Wife took it as her task to climb the mountain, to be reunited with her only one. And she climbed. It took years and years, and when she finally reached the top, she was an old woman. The exhaustion and age consumed her, making her perish into her Husband's arms.

    They were so close to the Gods that the Divines witnessed what happened along with their Overlord, Darkness, who reached out to pick up the woman's Soul and Body. What had been done to them was a great injustice and so, as an apology of divine scale, He granted the Lady a new life and an honour with no other. He animated the fiery Locks of the Maiden, breathing Warmth and Light to her reinforced being, placing her as one of the Immortal Guardians of the Mortal Realm. In her Kindness and Persistance she had more than deserved the position. And so, she became the very Sun, her Husband being able to still feel her warmth daily. "

    " Aww... But, what about the Moon? "
    " I am not finished yet... "
    " Oh..? "

    " Loneliness, who thought She had already won, got enraged by what Darkness did, so ripping the priest's temple from the ground and hurling it to float in the Oceans of the Sky. In her spite She placed him and his home to the other side of the world than his Lover, making sure they would never meet. Thus why we see Her during the Day and Him during the Night, the White Stone of the Temple shining amidst the Stars. "

    " But that is a sad story! "
    " Not all stories end happily... "
    " Sure they must have met later? "
    " Well, some have added that the Man was somehow able to paddle and find her in the endless Skies, only to me moved further away again by the jealous Goddess, never gi-



    The crackle of the burning wood. Smoke. Flame. Why?


    The creak of the hinges turned the stream of thought to stone. How long had it been? Not for too long, if one was to trust the state of the room. On some level he had hoped it all had disappeared magicly, but optimism in his case was quite foolish. He didn't raise his look to see what was happening, but guess it was the same as before. A tray clinked, guess it was the Necromancer's order coming in, once again. His body had gone numb, this time in a bit more pleasing way than before and a curtain of smoke hung before him for a moment as he exhaled, which made him not notice someone approaching. Until they placed a glass in his hand. Without question he downed it all at once, better not waste time with such bad liquor as this Eldaharian extract. It burned, delightfully, if not stinging a bit on it's way down. Ah well, the pain would die out soon enough. A chiming figure laid itself on his lap for the second time today, but he didn't show any reaction. Sit all you like, just keep your hands to yourself...

    Obviously, they didn't. Don't stroke my hair. His exhausted look turned to look at the person that was again disturbing his daydreaming, his tongue readying itself to spit out a few words, but what he saw halted him. His vision wasn't at it's sharpest, taking the circumstances, but it was clear enough for him to almost get a heart attack. The glass in his grip spontaneously deepfroze and shattered.

    WHAT IN THE SEVEN HELLS!?

    He bolted up, making the BOY that had approached him to take a stumble as he ejected them from his personal space, which had just gotten a few feet wider in radius. They obviously didn't get hurt, he wasn't a barbarian that shoved people around with force, but it made the youngling to land on their bum on the floor. And they laughed.

    ' Silence, please! ' His hazy glare messaged the Boy and they nodded, taking a comfortable position on the floor, staring at him. The Scholar rolled his eyes. How did these people keep laughing? Didn't they get tired of it? Anyhow. To the matter at hand. He corrected the bit between his teeth, shooting a blank look at Phaedrus.

    ' I take it this is your doing? Well, to provide your with a little bit of trivia, Necromancer, I am not into boys. Should this be an act of ill-will, however, I apologize for burdening you with the useless information. ' He took another drag, calming himself down the same instant. The boy was still staring at him and his measuring look turned to them. Hmh.

    ' He is the one that ordered you, Boy. Chop chop. ' His hues signaled and he tilted his head at Phaedrus' direction who was most likely occupied by the female that had entered the room with the other. Shouldn't leave the young man hanging, after all. Neither of them.
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