Wikus, whimsical and demanding as he was, felt no need for introductions or further interaction with any of the present as he awaited someone's aid in silence. Truth was, he wanted to be on his way already, for there was no interest in the company of the eccentric group that had gathered nearby the gates. The social differences were far too great for a bond to form, and even friendship would surely require long and exhausting effort that, fortunately for himself, he lacked. At this moment, what mattered most is stomping away from the city that was nothing but a fake paradise.
While the cur that stood near the Drykas didn't feel threatening in spite of his size, the 'Blubble' that stared cross-armed certainly did. Weeks were spent amongst them, tho the few poor interactions he's had didn't provide any clues as to what their culture considered acceptable or not, and perhaps he himself had committed something inappropriate to cause resentment. Not that he cared, for that matter, but some knowledge for future references would be useful. Never the less, he'd glance towards the generic Akalak then and again, mostly because of distrust rather than interest.
But his interest quickly focused back on the Drykas he had in-front. He was the one to perform the first movement, hopefully reaching for a match or some other device that wasn't a flint and steel or, miraculously, pull out a lit branch from a covert camp fire. Being realistic, he did expect a match, leaning forward in order to give the Drykas the honor of lighting his pipe. Yet what he did not expect was the sudden focus the Drykas acquired - and the flame that afterwards spawned in his palm. The humble flame danced above it's owners palm like a taunt.
It was at this moment when Wikus, angry enough for his poor luck on this day, finally brought his eyes up to the younger male he had refused to look before, but now candidly confronting with a gaze. Even from the distance he had recognized his origin, not as much from the characteristic blond hair and the animal company, but instead for that proud attitude and childish features. Once you sniff the wolf, you see through the disguise. That was what that Drykas was wearing - a disguise of humbleness and good will when instead he gloats and snickers as he adorns himself with the flesh of his victims. Both him and his people were all the same, a copy of one another, where only mattered the titles you throw on your backs instead of the ones you earn.
Seriously he considered the possibility of taking him by the wrist and rubbing the flame on the mage's face, in order to taste the magic firsthand. Even if the cur tore apart his leg, he believed to be capable of dragging his kin to the edge and tossing him over it, hopefully to land on the same spot the bucket of excrement landed before, so that he and his cursed species could have a proper burial for the lies they spread throughout the world. Magic and healing, they assured, were not lies. It wasn't charlatanism, they swore. But it was - nothing but lies and deceit to play with people's hope.
But he didn't. Wikus, despite once being one, held great hatred for the Drykas, but even more for the magic users. The man that stood before him was both. More than anything in this world he wished to inflict him pain, even if that meant his own death, yet he was clearly overreacting perhaps due to the stress of the bizarre routine acquired in Riverfall. So, once again, he'd regain his calm, collapsing facade, as he merely stared the mage and awaited his flame. His body was mostly still, yet his hands were shaking lightly as they held the pipe, and the soft features in his face steadily turned grave and harsh as the lips below the bushy beard quivered in anger. Certainly, it looked like he was about to shout his lungs out.
And, yet again, nothing happened. The blue giant was suddenly gone, perhaps slipping out of the reach of his peripheral vision as his mind shuffled the options in his mind, the tense white noise that had surreptitiously taken over gradually letting the sounds of the nearby city resonate once more.
OOC noteWikus is Blight Gnosis Marked, which directly opposes Rak'keli. Perhaps Aoren can sense a bit of antagonism since he has a Healing + Divination? I'll leave it in your hands.
While the cur that stood near the Drykas didn't feel threatening in spite of his size, the 'Blubble' that stared cross-armed certainly did. Weeks were spent amongst them, tho the few poor interactions he's had didn't provide any clues as to what their culture considered acceptable or not, and perhaps he himself had committed something inappropriate to cause resentment. Not that he cared, for that matter, but some knowledge for future references would be useful. Never the less, he'd glance towards the generic Akalak then and again, mostly because of distrust rather than interest.
But his interest quickly focused back on the Drykas he had in-front. He was the one to perform the first movement, hopefully reaching for a match or some other device that wasn't a flint and steel or, miraculously, pull out a lit branch from a covert camp fire. Being realistic, he did expect a match, leaning forward in order to give the Drykas the honor of lighting his pipe. Yet what he did not expect was the sudden focus the Drykas acquired - and the flame that afterwards spawned in his palm. The humble flame danced above it's owners palm like a taunt.
It was at this moment when Wikus, angry enough for his poor luck on this day, finally brought his eyes up to the younger male he had refused to look before, but now candidly confronting with a gaze. Even from the distance he had recognized his origin, not as much from the characteristic blond hair and the animal company, but instead for that proud attitude and childish features. Once you sniff the wolf, you see through the disguise. That was what that Drykas was wearing - a disguise of humbleness and good will when instead he gloats and snickers as he adorns himself with the flesh of his victims. Both him and his people were all the same, a copy of one another, where only mattered the titles you throw on your backs instead of the ones you earn.
Seriously he considered the possibility of taking him by the wrist and rubbing the flame on the mage's face, in order to taste the magic firsthand. Even if the cur tore apart his leg, he believed to be capable of dragging his kin to the edge and tossing him over it, hopefully to land on the same spot the bucket of excrement landed before, so that he and his cursed species could have a proper burial for the lies they spread throughout the world. Magic and healing, they assured, were not lies. It wasn't charlatanism, they swore. But it was - nothing but lies and deceit to play with people's hope.
But he didn't. Wikus, despite once being one, held great hatred for the Drykas, but even more for the magic users. The man that stood before him was both. More than anything in this world he wished to inflict him pain, even if that meant his own death, yet he was clearly overreacting perhaps due to the stress of the bizarre routine acquired in Riverfall. So, once again, he'd regain his calm, collapsing facade, as he merely stared the mage and awaited his flame. His body was mostly still, yet his hands were shaking lightly as they held the pipe, and the soft features in his face steadily turned grave and harsh as the lips below the bushy beard quivered in anger. Certainly, it looked like he was about to shout his lungs out.
And, yet again, nothing happened. The blue giant was suddenly gone, perhaps slipping out of the reach of his peripheral vision as his mind shuffled the options in his mind, the tense white noise that had surreptitiously taken over gradually letting the sounds of the nearby city resonate once more.
OOC noteWikus is Blight Gnosis Marked, which directly opposes Rak'keli. Perhaps Aoren can sense a bit of antagonism since he has a Healing + Divination? I'll leave it in your hands.
