67th Spring, 512 A.V. It was all of it new to Hadrian. He had read about Nyka, but never traveled there himself. His father had been hesitant about dealings with the monks, and as negotiations were delicate, his young children had been left in Syliras in those times. There had been classes in comparative culture in his anthropology course at the University of Zeltiva, but theory and practice were two different things. But rumors of the pub of sharp wits and sharper tongues had found him and, curious, he had found it. Pushing his way inside, he hitched his satchel over his shoulder, always carrying reading and writing materials with him wherever he went. But he had no great desire to call attention to himself, so the strange colors with which the djed storm had painted his hair and his eyes were masked with Ionu's own illusions, and his aura adjusted to hide the flare of divine magic, subtle as it was. He looked himself rather than the vaguely Vantha version of himself he had become, but his eyes weren't the only things darting hither and thither; his aura was reaching out to brush those of the people around him, just taking the pulse of the crowd. There was no need to walk into danger; but, that being said, he had not shied away from places like Ravok when the need arose. And so here he was. He needed a drink. |