Location [City Entrance] Southern Trading Post & Lakeshore Linkmap

[Minnim]

60th of Fall, 516 AV

Minnim stepped away from the caravan, leaving behind him the horrble smell of oxen and the dirt that was caked on the wheels. He pulled his backpack of things from the rear of the wagon (clothes and cloth, his journal, and his writing utensils) with one hand, and his loom lugged out with the other.

"Be well, sirs." He offered as he moved off to the side. The caravan unloaded a few other merchants and their goods, and then began to move away, leaving Minnim to bask in the glory of the city.

Even here, technically still outside the city, it was the perfect temperature, and the scent of baked goods and fresh, natural water in the sun wafted out to him. The merchants of his caravan sorted through their goods, getting ready to catalog them with the guard on duty, but Minnim pressed forward impatiently.

"Name, reason for being in Ravok?" The guard asked, not impolite.

"Minnim." He supplied his real name, wishing to remain on a clean slate with the local authority. And besides, what power did a name have when there was a very real chance he would change his body?

"I have come to register for citizenship in Ravok and pursue my arcane abilities."

The guard looked up, watching Minnim's sunken eyes stare into space as he spoke, and smelling the hints of death rolling off his skin. He supposed that lots of people looked that way when they were done travelling, though.

"Please claim your weapons and show them to me." He commanded.

Minnim removed his knife from where it was hidden in his sleeve. "One wrist knife." The guard nodded in approval, then gave his long black cloak a once-over. "Is that all?" He asked suspiciously. When Minnim confirmed, the tired guard simply waved him through. If he wasn't a Human, or he was hiding more weapons, the city would take care of him eventually. This, the guard was certain of.

Minnim, on the other hand, pushed his loom through the gate happily, trying his best to get it onto a boat for travel into the city. Finally, he was here. And already, he felt as though the place could be called home.

[Xen]

The Lakeshore Outpost

The first thing Xen saw was a large stone tower. It overlooked a massive lake which gently cradled a large city above its crushing depths. Xen could see various ships docked in calms waters from where he walked and a multitude of tents at rest. He did not see any people at the current hour; it was dark and the night called forth things that detested the day and light. So, the absence of human's and kith was understandable and natural. But Xen could hear activity and voices within the tents and structures, revealing that the night time hours were not always as desolate as they seemed.

In silence, Xen continued. He did not possess profound thoughts of worth nor words of wisdom about some abstract thing or concept, he just thoughtlessly pushed on through the night and took note of his surroundings. In his current state, this was all Xen felt like he was capable of doing. He felt like the whole of his existence consisted of suffering endless loneliness, emptiness, and destitution. It was maddening: a life without self-worth, purpose—aspiration.

“ Halt, ” A guard says sternly; his deep voice broke the quietude Xen enjoyed.
“ State your purpose, occupation, and possessions you carry, ” The guard continued before the giant, wooden doors of Lake Ravok. Xen's hair billowed slightly in the wind as he listened to the guard's question. It bothered him; he had no purpose, Xen felt the hollowness within had more significance that his existence. However, he replied to the guard in accordance.

“ Mercenary, Sir. I seek refuge in Ravok, ” Xen said sorrowfully.
“ I have a few weapons and other miscellaneous things, ” Xen stated as he presents his luggage to the inquisitive guard.

The guard took Xen's belongings and then carefully looked through it.
“ I see nothing of value here. Where do you come from, Traveler, Syliras? ” The guard's question carried curiosity and hostility, his words suggesting he did not have the city of peace in high regard. Xen noticed the slight shift in the guard's tone and answered truthfully.

“ Nay, Nyka city, guardsman, Syliras is too distant, ” Xen responded.
“ Okay, will you be applying for citizenship or are you a citizen of Ravok? ” The guard's questioning persisted.

“ I have never heard of this. I thought once you stepped into a city you were considered a citizen. It seems this will not be the same here, ” Xen whispered in his mind.

“ Nay, I will apply for citizenship during my time here, Sir. ” Xen answered sensing that it would be best to follow the flow of things.

“ You have answered every question without hesitation and while remaining compliant the entire time. Once you answer my last question, you may pass, stranger. What is your name? ” The guardsmen said.

“ Xen Jori, ” Xen uttered to the guard.
“ Not a very human-like name but you may pass, Rhysol be with you, stranger, ” The guardsmen and his companion step aside to let Xen through as the wooden doors open inward. Xen walked through the threshold and after a few steps he stood at the docks.

[Baran]

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5th Spring, 517 AV

It had been a long journey. Tarra, his travelling companion on the ship they'd bought passage on, thought so too. The two had grown closer over the course of the journey, and then as the time had kept on ticking, grown further apart again. The truth was, even if they were friends (which they were, or so Baran thought), being in close proximity to another for a long time tended to make one a little jaded. Such was the case here.

But all that was forgotten as they arrived closer and closer to Ravok. He had heard snippets of tales from Tarra, but she was a woman who spoke little of herself. It was a city on a lake, that much he knew. The actual reality of this would sink in, given time.

Their approach, on the 5th of the new season, was a glad one. The merchants they had travelled with had been uneasy, as their voyage had been plagued with bad weather. On a few separate occasions, the ship had to stop along the coast to conduct repairs and gather fresh supplies. Although battered and bruised by the elements, the merchants were eager to sell their wares and as the tower came into view they departed to deal with customs.

Baran was left with his pack of belongings and his gamba, all his worldly possessions, in fact. Tarra stood beside him, fumbling with her bag. Baran watched her for a few moments, smirking with amusement, before turning his head. The delights of fresh scenery were more interesting than his companion's blustering.

The place was smaller than he had expected, but then it was Tarra's explanation that this wasn't the city proper that left him in anticipation. He let her know that he was going to the dock, and walked in the direction of the tower. A few moments later though, the woman caught up, holding papers in her hand. She grinned, and winked transparently. "I knew I still had 'em, somewhere."

Baran tilted his head but didn't say anything, and they were soon stopped by a guard. He was a tall fellow, with greasy black hair and a lean figure. Baran was at eye level with him, but felt himself cowed by the guard's expression- one of eagle-eyed watchfulness. He stopped walking, and enquired, "Yes?"

"Name and intention please. Present your weapons to the guard ahead." He was brusque and immoveable, so Baran felt obliged to do what he said. It all made such a change to Sunberth, but then it was an entirely different place, full of mystery and intrigue as Sunberth had once been to him.

"I'm Baran, visiting with a friend, hoping to entertain the people of Ravok with music." He gestured expansively to the instrument, and then to Tarra, but if he was hoping to get a reaction then he wasn't to succeed. The auburn woman in question answered in a similar vein, and presented her papers. The guard gestured them on and the next one, blonde, scruffy, with a purple bruise on his cheekbone, smoothly asked for their weapons.

He only had a cutlass buckled at his hip and a dagger, thrust in his belt. He showed both of them to the guard, who noted them down. Tarra produced more weapons that he thought she had, and he raised an eyebrow, but again said nothing. The two of them were directed past the guards, and down to the ferry. Baran got in and seated himself next to a fierce-looking woman with long, grey hair, as the oars of the boat dipped into the water like swans drinking.

They were off.

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[Zark]

It was a terrible day. The deluge had started since before he woke up. The meager shelter he had managed to make was not enough to truly protecting from the waterfall that appeared to run from the canopy. The trees themselves proved no cover now from the sheer downpour of cold water. Zark stood up, feeling the cold as he brushed the sleep away from his eyes. He picked up the cloak from the ground; it was wet but not soaked through. He sighed in relief and slithered into the warmth. He picked up his meager belongings, tossing the burlap sac over his shoulder and he began to walk, not looking back. In the night, he had seen light in the distance. It was a clear sign of civilization. And he had followed the previous days the signs he interpreted were Myri given. Birds of prey watching him intently, branches forming shapes and symbols, the way the horizon stretched with the trees interrupting the panorama. He followed them blindly, not hesitating in his step. He was on a quest that was more important than himself; the hunger in his belly was tossed aside, the cold water that seeped through the fabric of his thick cloak was ignored, the squelching sounds of his boots trekking over the terrain while waterlogged was mostly ignored. The Myrian could take them off and walk barefoot, but he figured the added layers provided a little resistance to the cold. He would not spit on that. After several hours of trudging through forest that was now mostly a bog, he reached the end of it. He sighed in relief, squeezing the neck of his burlap sack and marched on towards what appeared to be an entrance to a large city. Zark was a Myrian soldier, trial by fire was something he was used to. But the loins in his belly burned up at the many scenarios that ran through his head. What were the opinions the people would have of him, a Myrian? Would he grow weaker over time, if he spent time with mere humans? Would he end up on the streets, poor and starving? Would he be cut down for being an enemy soldier? Or worse, enslaved? He took a deep breath and began to prepare for the thousand different scenarios, he steeled himself, opting for a stoic approach to it all. His body was not important, the opinions of others did not matter. His ultimate goal, his ultimate purpose was the fabrication of a legendary weapon. It was the only way he could go home, it was the only way he could truly be accepted once more into the embrace of the Taloban people. He looked down the lake, and saw the large tower with fortifications and makeshift… camp? He wasn’t sure. But he saw that the people were traveling from there to the main part of the city. Even in this tempest, the place was full of people.He hoped the bad weather would ease the duty of guards and let him through more easily. Perhaps they would be grouchier, give him issues with his entering the city. But there were always other options. His common was not well suited, but he figured if he spoke little, they wouldn’t catch onto his accent. The rain might cover the sound of his voice as well. Maybe the storm was a blessing of Myri herself. Was it her way of camouflaging the young Myrian in a den of wolves? He cared not, and he was reminded of the horrid shower as his movements were stiff with the cold. He was used to warmer climates, where even the rain was warm on naked skin. Here, it was as if each drop was cool enough to chill the very marrow of your bones. As he grew nearer, he began to feel different. The people from afar were many, like ants milling on an anthill. With the rain, they were less folk, all huddled beneath roofs and inside buildings. From a distance, he was afraid of them. But as he came to see them from this perspective, he realized they were all humans. He had nothing to worry about, he told himself. He squeezed through the many stalls that were mostly empty, save the few brave merchants that remained even with the downpour. Some had large oil lamps near them to keep them warmer, and thick cloaks they wrapped themselves in. The luckier ones had built wooden flooring that let the rain drain down below them. Zark did not make eye contact. He merely walked on, wading through the path that was mostly mud. He was exhausted at this point, but his pride did not allow him to relent. He would find shelter here, he would find a proper master for artistry. He ensured his hair was all hidden in his cowl and that his face was mostly hidden beneath the fabric. He took deep, slow breaths, calming himself and focusing on the task ahead. He saw a gate and he approached it. A man in armor halted him. ‘What is your name?” He asked, speaking in a clear common that sent the Myrian aback a bit. This was the first time someone actually addressed him formally in as many weeks. He coughed in his hands, told his name quickly and coughed again, before wiping his nose dry of the water that dribbled down from his cowl. “Your purpose in the City?” He asked, before leaning forward and inspecting the young soldier. “Blacksmithing.” He replied quickly, hoping the speed of his speaking would confuse the accent and hide the fact he was a Myrian for now. “Blacksmithing? You want to buy weapons and armor?” Asked the guard, crossing his arms over his chest. “Make weapons.” He replied, using as few words as possible. “Alright then. Have your weapons checked in with Albert; he’s the guy over there. Welcome to Ravok.” The guard looked at the tanned ‘human’, before walking away and meeting the next in line waiting for entry into Ravok. Zark walked up to Albert, tilting his head slightly. The chestnut eyes inspected the man quickly and easily, before opening the flap of his cloak and drawing his dagger from the sheath on his chest. He did not give it over, but he did show the weapon in the palm of his hand. He remained silent, Albert noted it down before waving him off. Zark put the blade back into the small scabbard and he walked off, looking for the nearest ferry available. He dearly wanted to get out of the rain now that it had served its purpose. As he waited, he prayed to Myri and all the other Myrian gods. He was finally here.

[Coryn]

The sudden stillness of the wagon was what woke Coryn, and for several chimes she could not remember where she was, why her back and neck ached so painfully. Wincing, she shifted her weight to try and face the front of the wagon, but her movements were limited by the deadweight shackles and chains attached to her ankles and neck. The best she could do was strain her ears in hopes she might catch the words of the slaver who had bought her from Kenash.

He had a silky voice, an accent that she hadn’t come across before and one that Coryn presumed came from wherever she was being taken. Ravok. A city in the middle of a great lake, so the other slaves had told her in grave, grey voices. Coryn was sceptical of this fact, but she’d remained silent, allowing her peers to tell her all the titbits of information they thought they knew. People had a habit of not sharing information with a person who questioned them, she had learnt.

“Name, please.”

It was a voice she didn’t recognise, but Coryn could hear the similarity in accent. Wherever they were, whoever this person was, she guessed they were outside the borders of Ravok.

“Voron. I’m a resident of Ravok. Here are my papers.”

There was a moment of silence, in which Coryn found herself full of unexpected anticipation. Was she hoping for him to be rejected, turned away from his home city? It would certainly give her some pleasure, given how much the slaver had bragged about his city, his God Rhysol and the wonderful life provided by the two. But refusal for Voron would mean nothing good for his wares of which, along with six sacks sugar, two of tobacco and four other slaves, Coryn was one.

“Please surrender your weapons and state the produce you are bringing into the city.”

Footsteps followed, and from the corner of her eye Coryn saw her master and two well guarded men amble around the side of the wagon. The men who were unknown to her eyed the contents of the wagon carefully. “What’s in the sacks?”

“Tobacco and sugar. Here are the specifics of each item.”

Voron had a habit of going over and above the requirements of his job. He had examined each one of his slaves carefully, perversely (”For signs of wear and tear, like you would any item of trade.” He had explained patiently to his apprentice) and documented any features of note. In Coryn’s case, her list of features included the black Sitai rose that had been tattooed onto her right cheek, her gnosis mark from Nikali and her nocturnal horned form.

The guards skimmed through Voron’s papers, their eyes glancing towards the sacks of goods and the slaves with the same bored, careless expression. Voron in the meanwhile unsheathed the mean little blade he kept at his hip and gave it to the guards. “All in order?”

“All in order. Welcome home. Ferry’s departing in ten chimes. Need a hand with your goods?”

“No thank you. Between my apprentice and I, we can manage.”

The wagon shifted as Voron reclaimed his position at the front. With an authorities click on his tongue, the horses pulled forward and marched through a set of large steel doors.

And for the first time in three seasons, Coryn felt a glimmer of hope, excitement. Somewhere in the depths of her history, unknown to the Ethaefal and not remembered by the Svefra was the open sea, a small boat. Whatever lay beyond their journey on the ferry, Coryn felt at least the worse was over, for now.

[Belugnir]

24th of Fall, 517, Midday:

''So, Trevor. Is that the oh so fine city you kept babbling about for hours on end?'', Ein skeptically glanced upon the southern outpost as they were approaching, before giving a disapproving look to the rider next to him. Einar had built himself up a rather rugged look during his half a season long trip over from Sahova, having grown a rather thick beard and worked up a darker tan, and while he guided his grey mountain pony, loaded with his gear and camping equipment by the reins, walking beside the small caravan that was coming over from Nyka, Trevor, by far a fairer, just barely better dressed man, went beside him, atop an older, but sturdy looking Colorsplash. Man was a worker for the Barton's Wood and Wares, on his way back from Nyka after making some big-arse delivery. He and Einar managed to get along across the month spent with the caravan. Well enough so that Ein wouldn't consider robbing the man blind the first chance he got at the very least... though that would also depend upon how coinless and, or hungry the Sunberthian fellow happened to be at a given time.

''Nay, you silly bastard. That's just the southern outpost there. I've told you the city proper is afloat the lake.''

''Right. Right. Then how long 'till we get there? 'cause petch me but I ain't seeing a city atop that lake from 'ere.'', Einar was by far too worn out from the road to gape in awe at the sheer size of the water body before him, and his tone remained monotone, if a bit impatient.

''First you'll want to leave that poor pony of yours over at the stables. And join me for a drink at Sheng's over there.'', Trevor gestured toward the modest inn they had just passed by. ''

Having placed his Pony in the care of the Elderbays, Ein now hauled his camping equipment over his back, using his poleaxe as more of a walking stick. On the road, he made it a habit to keep his armor on, with all the buggery lurking in the wildlands, it was only reasonable to do so, as such, he still wore it.

''Mora, two mugs of ale for two tired men, if you would.'', Trevor spoke fondly to a fine looking woman behind the counter as the two travelers entered the inn. No doubt the two already knew each other.

''Pitch of wine for me, lady.'', Ein spoke before the woman could've moved a muscle.

Moraya gave her customers a narrow, warm smile in greeting and nodded at their order.
''Right away.'', Ein noticed her gaze lingered on him for a longer moment, but couldn't quite read make anything of it, and frankly, he didn't rightly care at the moment.

''Took you for a stingy fellow. You do know that wine's a fair bit more expensive than ale, yes?'', Trevor teased as they sat down at one of the sparsely distributed tables, Ein left his poleaxe leaning against the wall behind him, and his bags piled beside his feet. The only other soul in the lobby was an old man some paces away, mulling over a half empty mug.

''Petch off, man. Yah, I've spent the better part of the year among talkin' corpses, but that don't mean I've not been to an inn before. Sides, I like my drinks sweet. Life's enough of a bitter twat on it's own. Not to mention that you and your buggering rush to leave Nyka didn't let me do so much as wash my face let alone stop for a drink.''

As Einar's sentence was coming to an end, Moraya came over to place their drinks upon the table, and was more than able to overhear what Einar was saying, seeing as the room was absent all other sound, if one wouldn't count the old man's tired sighs. Had Ein cared enough to look at her for a moment, he could have recognized the glance as a curious one this time. He was a rightly odd stranger, after all. Yet he was focused on Trevor, who nodded in smiling agreement to what Ein had said.

''Either way, you never told me how much longer 'till we're in the city proper.'', Ein proceeded to lean his pitcher up as Trevor would reply.

''Four bells, maybe more if there's not a ferry waiting ready when we get to the docks. And you'll need to get permission to get into the city before that too.''

For a moment Ein froze, holding the pitcher to his mouth. After a moment's pause he took a large gulp and swallowed it with a sigh. He set the pitch in front of him, and gave Trevor a long look, with one brow risen and the other frowning. Without a word to Trevor he turned to the barmaid.

''Lady have you any rooms for rent? Single rooms.'', he added after a glance back at Trev.

''We've a few, good man.''

''You've one fewer. Let me ditch this rancid bastard and I'll settle in.''

The lady just replied with a nod, and a faint smile at the just barely playful tone with which Ein spoke of his fellow traveler.

Turning back to Trevor, the rugged lad continued to speak.

''You and your four bells can go do bugger all and drown in the lake for all I care. Ain't crossing one more mile today.''

With a disapproving glance, the lumber worker cracked a quiet laugh.

''Fair enough...'', then, briefly turning over to look at the old man for an instant, Trevor leaned a notch toward Einar and lowered his voice. ''If you'd like to make that wine and that pony hurt a bit less on your shallow pockets, I'll come around in a couple days to give you a shot at some easy work.'', he leaned back and emptied his mug in a single breath before setting it onto the table again. ''Deal?''

Ein snorted. ''Come two days from now, you and those pansy merchants out there will forget what I look like.'', Ein was alive and around the wrong people long enough to know that lowered voices and leaned over promises of easy work or easy money meant shady business. ''But sure. We'll see.''

''We'll see, aye. Well my man, I'll have to leave you to Mora now. Careful you don't tell her too much about your exploits lest the whole town knows about it by the week's end.''

Ein rose his pitch with a sour smile, giving the man a quiet goodbye. Meanwhile Mora gave Trevor a scolding glance as he placed two coppers on her counter and left the inn smiling.

Then, several chimes later, when Ein finished his wine, Moraya walked over to present him to his room and help him settle in.

''How long will you be staying good sir?'', she asked on the way upstairs.

''Time will tell.''

[Akhen]

The guard's eyes shifted up and down the figure of the man before him and even he had to admit that he wasn't impressed in the least. He'd seen all sorts of types waltz in and out of the outpost in his entire years of service and he was sure he'd forgotten half of them by now; but the man in front of him, who stood with a dark, almost calculating gaze emitting from him had something about him that made his skin crawl just a little bit. A sense of familiarity he was sure he'd seen once or perhaps twice before. And that harsh, though ethereal smell of Blue Vision that hung over him didn't do much to help either. “Name?” the guard asked pedantically, leaning delicately into his chair in a sort of crude balancing act; a mark-book and sturdy quell in hand. He was seated at a small desk; nothing too exquisite or telling, and it was lined with neatly assorted stacks of paper and a small ink-pot dipped his writing tool in every so often. Behind him, the other guards were watching intently though moved about as to not arouse any kind of suspicion. He sighed dismally as he peeked the man's shoulder, where he saw a sword-hilt protrude, with an incline he saw the rest of the queue of people, things and their blighted pets. As he scrunched up his nose and turned back to the man he was currently attending; watching as the latter unwind his posture ever so slightly while his dark eyes moved, as if measuring the officer as well; as if preparing a well crafted lie. “Akhen,” the man replied softly – his voice, withal, was rough and heavy and surprisingly rang nothing but truth. Akhen's calloused hand moved to the sword-harness running diagonally across his chest and clasped it gently, before he proceeded to strip it. The guardsman, whose doleful eyes never quite moved away from the man, “What's your intention for visiting our fair city and the bastion of lord and high divinity, Rhysol, hisself? asked as he took down the details and notched his head to one side in a quick gesture; three guards came and one took Akhen's longsword, weighed it recklessly in his hands, while the others began patting the afro-haired man down to see if he had anything else on his person. “Work,” was a simple reply from the mercenary, “I heard rumours that they're looking for anyone capable up North, so I came.” the men had down their task by the time the last word left his lips. And besides feeling a pang of anger well up because of the one guard that kept running his hands through his hair, Akhen was glad they were finally backing off. “There's always work up North, and I'm sure those stationed there are more than capable of handling whatever comes their way,” one guard boosted. Two of them chuckled and the first guard merely rolled his eyes, saying: “Doesn't matter. I'm sure they'll need as many competent hands to get things done quicker anyway. Besides, isn't your brother – you know, the flat headed one – Roderick, stationed up there, with all the rats and other flat heads?” The guard, Roderick's brother, sneered and turned back to Akhen. “You any good with this sword here?” he inquired. Akhen shrugged without turning his head to him, “Good enough,” he sighed. One of the other guards nodded to the initial guardsman curtly and Akhen was handed his sword back without any further complaints it seemed. The cortège soon left as quickly as they'd come and Akhen began to strap his armaments back onto himself. The guard watched the man, and felt that strange sense of familiarity throb along the bridge of his nose. “Tell me, and I hope I'm not prying a little too much here but, have I ever met you before?” the guard asked lowly. Akhen looked down at the seated man and shrugged, replying, “I dunno, maybe you have, once or twice before.” The guard nodded solemnly, and sighed. “Well, I suppose you're right.” he mused. “And seeing how we're done here, I'd like to formally welcome you to the city of Ravok. May you enjoy your stay and please, if you can, stay out of trouble.” “I intend to,” Akhen stand, as he left for the city. The guard, who was still watching him, mused heavily as he watched the man stride through the outpost. It was when he took a deep breath and the lingering scent of Blue Vision hit his nostrils that a memory, or the fragment of one, came to him dimly. He remembered... a young man, no... a boy who came with a merchant caravan guarded by mercenaries. The boy came through that very outpost, his eyes were dark and the scent he exuded, so thick and overwhelming at the time was that of the very same thing... Blue Vision. “Now, what was that boy's name again...?” he asked himself. Though the answer never came, and he was sure that it never would...

[Andral Mydrafi]

The Wagon rolled to a stop.
'We'r here lad!' The wagondriver shouted at his occupant, who rolled over, roused from his deep sleep.

'Lad, I don't know why that Old Hermit sent you here, but you'd best do whatever it is and leave quickly'
The Wagondriver jumped down from the front of the carriage.

'...people here don't take kindly to strangers. Especially purists like you and That Hermit
I've even scarcely ever stayed here a fortnight myself'

Andral rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and patted the straw out of his cloak.


The two walked up to the guard who let them pass into the tower for registeration.

'Name?' Asked the guard.

The wagon driver answered the questions for him.

'Andral Mydrafi'

'State your reason for entering the city, whether you will be applying for citizenship and any possessions you have with you.'

The wagon master nudged Andral, who drew a long dagger, a heirloom, and also removed his pouch of meagre supplies.

'He will be taking lodging in one of my friend's home, they've gone for a while. He may or may not apply for citizenship.'

The guard nods and scribbles it down.

'Everything is in order, except...'

'Except?' The wagondriver wipes a sweaty brow with the sleeve of his tunic.

'Why ARE you here. You still haven't told me what you aim to do while staying here.'
The guard looked at him with an expression that bordered on suspicion.

'Oh. He's just here to take in the sights and-'
The guard cut him off with a wave and nodded at Andral to speak.

Andral Opened his mouth to speak, but paused.

He thought of all the things he learned at the Hermit's place. His skill at pugilism and Projection.
The long arduous lectures on the nature of soul and of the duality of good and evil.

He thought of all the times he imagined how it would be to venture into the vast dangerous world.
Maybe engage in a legendary quest, like in the fables. Or perhaps gain a friend that wasn't the stars of the night sky or the birds that flew too high to reach.

Some way to finally experience the life he sought after. To make a difference in the world at large.

He looked at the Guard, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

'I guess...I guess Im just chasing happiness'

The guard looked at him warily. Another hopeful traveller. He won't stay long, will he?

'You may now enter the city if Ravok. Stay out of trouble traveller'

[Elijah Wylder]

18th Day of Winter, 517 AV It seemed a busy day, merchants selling goods, people staring, Ravokian guards patrolling. The saying that Ravokian people don't like outsiders was clearly true. As he passed through the stony road, every Ravokian citizen whether merchant, guard or commoner, everyone had hatred in their eyes for Elijah. But he didn't care, he's experienced this look since his childhood, it was the same everywhere. But what was different was the whole scene in the tower entrance. Guards patrolling and keeping trouble out of sight. While merchants shouting and quarrelling. It was quite a scene. A mixture of order and chaos one would not expect in Ravok. Being famous as the home of the God of Chaos, Ravok had more order than any other city Elijah has been to. And of course with more order comes less crime, which was going to change, Elijah grinned as he thought to himself. In front of the heavily fortified tower was a queue, people standing in line just to enter the city, guards checking all their belongings. But what was amusing was the view of the docks of Ravok. It was the most massive collection boats and ships he had ever seen in his entire life. As he approached the queue, he noticed the heavily fortified tower with all the archers at the battlements watching everything. There was a guard at the entrance of the tower inspecting everyone and another guard checking all the goods and luggage. After waiting for quite some hours, it was Elijah's turn. The inspecting guard had a register. "What's your name boy?" asked the guard. "Elijah..." he paused, "...Wylder" he continued. The name Wylder brought all the memories of Alvadas back, the cons, the thefts, the crimes. Elijah looked away. The guard didn't care, didn't even bother to look. " What is your business here?" the guard replied coldly. "Looking for employment" answered Elijah. "What kind of employment?" the guard asked. "Anything to fill the stomach but gonna try sculpting" Elijah smiled as he answered. The guard noticed his shortsword. " And what kind of a sculptor uses a sword?" the guard looked at the other guard and then to Elijah. " Well please do tell us more about your skills as a sculptor." both laughed. Elijah grinned " Well gentlemen Ravok is a dangerous place, I don't think a hammer and a chisel will protect me from you dimwits". The guard's expression turned cold, "Indeed" he said. Then he turned to the other guard, " Check him!". He snatched Elijah's backpack and searched it thoroughly. He threw the backpack to Elijah. The guard with the register came towards Elijah, face-a-face, " I'm watching you" said the guard, " I'm counting on that" grinned Elijah. The guard gestured towards the large wooden entrance. Elijah went through a series of doors down to the docks and got on-board a ferry. He looked at the floating city, it seemed beautiful, it seemed like a new beginning, it seemed like an opportunity.

[Shane Wallsly]

Timestamp: 2nd of Spring 518 AV

Shane trembled ever so slightly as he marched up the hill. He groaned every ten to fifteen feet as well. His head hurt, his neck hurt, his back was stiff. “This must be the legendary ‘hangover’.” He muttered to himself with as much contempt as possible. “Well done, Shane, you did it. You really petched yourself over.” He punctuated this self-loathing with a long, low groan as he trekked up the hill.

When finally he had scaled the hill he looked up at the foreboding tower atop it. He immediately shielded his eyes and looked down again. The sun was far too bright this morning. He stepped into the tower. There was a small queue, possibly due to the early time in in the morning, ahead of him. Shane was happy for the shelter. It had been uncomfortably hot outside.

Shane supressed a groan as the guard called up the next in line. Something told him he ought not to show weakness in front of these people. Of course, whether that was paranoia or instinct was clearly debatable yet it was a debate for another, less hungover time. “Next.” The guard shouted again, Shane looked around himself. The people in the queue behind him were all staring at him and there didn’t appear to be anyone in front of him. “You. Here. Now.” The Guard said pinting at him and the in front of himself.

“Oh, s-sorry.” Shane said surging forward in a panic. He noticed another guard put a hand on the hilt of his weapon. Shane put his hands up and stopped dead. “S-sorry, just nervous.”

The guard leered at him. “Name?” Shane told him. The guard digested the name with a look of someone who was carefully committing it to memory even as he scribbled on his clipboard. “Reason for visit?”

“Employment, new opportunities.” Shane replied.

“That so?” The Guard replied even as he wrote. “Alright, Mr. Wallsly, make sure you drop in to the citizenship office when you make it on to the Lake. Next!”

Shane did not breathe a sigh of relief until he was out the other side of the tower and making his way down to the docks.