49 Fall, 513 AV
Syliras was not like Sunberth.
From down the road the spires and the grey of the massive walls towered over the skyline. The black frostmarch snorted, almost as if it read the rider's intentions, and Wren placed a comforting hand on the creature's neck. "There, there," he whispered to the horse quietly, "Our purpose here is to seek, for now."
Straightening back in the saddle, Wren ran a tried hand through his hair. It had been a long and trying journey, as all his journeys were. The Wildlands had bitten at him, clawed at him, and really it was only thanks to his mastery of hypnotism that he could stave the predators off. Most, with their animal minds and simplistic aims, were easy to set upon each other or off in another direction. Zan kept watch the rest of the time when Wren slept. Truly, without any of those things, he would have been best off to stay where he came from.
Few could survive the harrowing journey through the dark lands of Sylira...perhaps it was by Ovek that he was here at all.
Vayt would have him only thank his own strength to survive. Without it, he would have perished as so many others did. The fact he was here, now, passing beneath the open gateway of Syliras was a testament to the God's choice in naming him as of his own.
Clutching the cloak around himself, Wren warded off the stiff wind curling off the wall and racing along the Kabrin road towards him. Fall was only the death throes of Summer, fading in its life even as the blood of warmer days turned the icy of death. He took great risk coming here now, before the snows darkened the sky. If he allowed himself to stay too long in the walled city, he might not escape until a Spring thaw...provided he chose not to broker passage on a ship.
He gave the Knights fare warning of his passage, a short wave and a declaration to be simply visiting the city. He was given the cold glare and the warning that no violence would be tolerated from his type. Wisely, Wren chose not to pursue the warning with sarcasm, as he certainly looked the type to cast in with mercenaries and thieves.
First order of business would be to find some new clothes and cast aside this tiresome shape. He already was fairly sure this was no longer his face. That had been lost to his journeys, somewhere in the ever changing nature of his magic. But let it go, daming thing that it was, who would care to lose the face of Wrenmae?
His sister...but then, perhaps she didn't exist at all and this journey was for naught.
Syliras had a smell to it, the kind of tapestry aromas most residents would never recognize but visitors would swallow as though wrestling with strong drink. There was fresh baked bread, spices, the acrid odor of oil on armor. Beneath it all, traces of mold and decay salted the air ever so delicately, less of a hidden truth and more a subtle warning.
Peace was maintained here at a bloody price. Tyranny and righteousness often bore the same faces and said the same words, he would need to tread more careful here than he ever had before.
The mark of Rhysol on his neck almost throbbed in anticipation, like a quiet nudge from the dark lord to press onward. Keeping his hood over his head, Wrenmae never reached up to touch it, only continued moving down the road. He, like others, was simply a single stranger in all of the walled city, another merchant of miscreant seeking safety. If memory served, he would need to find work...or risk work being forced upon him. So as he paused in one of the main streets, tracking his gaze across the brightly colored storefronts and glimmer of knights patrolling their turf, he tried to recall where his father had always gone to get his permit to sell.
An employment office of some kind.
Sighing, blowing away the last weary half-breaths of his journey, Wren moved to dismount, overcalculating the motion, and falling from his horse. One foot caught in the stirrup, while his arms only barely managed to snap into place before his face was dashed on the cobblestones.
Startled, and certainly not used to so many people, his black horse reared up and bucked the air, as if tearing at it with imaginary claws, bolting down a side alley and bouncing Wren with it.
Luckily he came lose after a moment, falling into a tumbled, painful heap on the cobblestone, and as the alley had a dead end, his horse paused, snorted, turned, pawed the earth with its hooves, and then blandly stared back at him...mildly surprised he was on the ground.
Wren could hear Zan's laughter in his head, but the pain was preventing him from snapping back.
He fell flat on the cobblestone and groaned.
If he wasn't noticed before...he almost certainly had been now.
Syliras was not like Sunberth.
From down the road the spires and the grey of the massive walls towered over the skyline. The black frostmarch snorted, almost as if it read the rider's intentions, and Wren placed a comforting hand on the creature's neck. "There, there," he whispered to the horse quietly, "Our purpose here is to seek, for now."
Straightening back in the saddle, Wren ran a tried hand through his hair. It had been a long and trying journey, as all his journeys were. The Wildlands had bitten at him, clawed at him, and really it was only thanks to his mastery of hypnotism that he could stave the predators off. Most, with their animal minds and simplistic aims, were easy to set upon each other or off in another direction. Zan kept watch the rest of the time when Wren slept. Truly, without any of those things, he would have been best off to stay where he came from.
Few could survive the harrowing journey through the dark lands of Sylira...perhaps it was by Ovek that he was here at all.
Vayt would have him only thank his own strength to survive. Without it, he would have perished as so many others did. The fact he was here, now, passing beneath the open gateway of Syliras was a testament to the God's choice in naming him as of his own.
Clutching the cloak around himself, Wren warded off the stiff wind curling off the wall and racing along the Kabrin road towards him. Fall was only the death throes of Summer, fading in its life even as the blood of warmer days turned the icy of death. He took great risk coming here now, before the snows darkened the sky. If he allowed himself to stay too long in the walled city, he might not escape until a Spring thaw...provided he chose not to broker passage on a ship.
He gave the Knights fare warning of his passage, a short wave and a declaration to be simply visiting the city. He was given the cold glare and the warning that no violence would be tolerated from his type. Wisely, Wren chose not to pursue the warning with sarcasm, as he certainly looked the type to cast in with mercenaries and thieves.
First order of business would be to find some new clothes and cast aside this tiresome shape. He already was fairly sure this was no longer his face. That had been lost to his journeys, somewhere in the ever changing nature of his magic. But let it go, daming thing that it was, who would care to lose the face of Wrenmae?
His sister...but then, perhaps she didn't exist at all and this journey was for naught.
Syliras had a smell to it, the kind of tapestry aromas most residents would never recognize but visitors would swallow as though wrestling with strong drink. There was fresh baked bread, spices, the acrid odor of oil on armor. Beneath it all, traces of mold and decay salted the air ever so delicately, less of a hidden truth and more a subtle warning.
Peace was maintained here at a bloody price. Tyranny and righteousness often bore the same faces and said the same words, he would need to tread more careful here than he ever had before.
The mark of Rhysol on his neck almost throbbed in anticipation, like a quiet nudge from the dark lord to press onward. Keeping his hood over his head, Wrenmae never reached up to touch it, only continued moving down the road. He, like others, was simply a single stranger in all of the walled city, another merchant of miscreant seeking safety. If memory served, he would need to find work...or risk work being forced upon him. So as he paused in one of the main streets, tracking his gaze across the brightly colored storefronts and glimmer of knights patrolling their turf, he tried to recall where his father had always gone to get his permit to sell.
An employment office of some kind.
Sighing, blowing away the last weary half-breaths of his journey, Wren moved to dismount, overcalculating the motion, and falling from his horse. One foot caught in the stirrup, while his arms only barely managed to snap into place before his face was dashed on the cobblestones.
Startled, and certainly not used to so many people, his black horse reared up and bucked the air, as if tearing at it with imaginary claws, bolting down a side alley and bouncing Wren with it.
Luckily he came lose after a moment, falling into a tumbled, painful heap on the cobblestone, and as the alley had a dead end, his horse paused, snorted, turned, pawed the earth with its hooves, and then blandly stared back at him...mildly surprised he was on the ground.
Wren could hear Zan's laughter in his head, but the pain was preventing him from snapping back.
He fell flat on the cobblestone and groaned.
If he wasn't noticed before...he almost certainly had been now.
