Winter 87, 512 AV
"Ignotus!" Wrenmae opened the door to the nuit's haunt with little more ceremony than he might have barged into a whorehouse. His Waveguard uniform clung to his skin, sweat pouring from his forehead and neck, staining the blue a darker blue while his weapons danced at his waist. The hypnotist was in no mood to be deterred or denied and shut the door behind him with a slam.
Outside people craned their heads toward the sound, but already Wrenmae was pacing, rubbing rough fingers along coarse hair...stubble peeking through his flesh. He had been thinking all night, backed into a corner. That bitch, Maria, she knew. She knew and he had failed to mark her in the Ball. Although Trente's reputation was in tatters, Maria would soon set her hounds on him...and he had left a trail, an irrevocable trail.
All night thinking, pondering, reflecting. There was his arrival in Zeltiva, likely recorded when he was fresh from Shroud's control and innocent to the danger...from there he had left and returned, sickness followed him like the ever present finger of accusation. Now Zeltiva keeled away and those Waveguards who had left and returned were dwindling...soon there would be only him.
Unless the Blighter was killed.
"Ignotus," he said, turning on the nuit, eyes frenzied and thinking, dashing around the room, "How would you like to be a hero?"
"Ignotus!" Wrenmae opened the door to the nuit's haunt with little more ceremony than he might have barged into a whorehouse. His Waveguard uniform clung to his skin, sweat pouring from his forehead and neck, staining the blue a darker blue while his weapons danced at his waist. The hypnotist was in no mood to be deterred or denied and shut the door behind him with a slam.
Outside people craned their heads toward the sound, but already Wrenmae was pacing, rubbing rough fingers along coarse hair...stubble peeking through his flesh. He had been thinking all night, backed into a corner. That bitch, Maria, she knew. She knew and he had failed to mark her in the Ball. Although Trente's reputation was in tatters, Maria would soon set her hounds on him...and he had left a trail, an irrevocable trail.
All night thinking, pondering, reflecting. There was his arrival in Zeltiva, likely recorded when he was fresh from Shroud's control and innocent to the danger...from there he had left and returned, sickness followed him like the ever present finger of accusation. Now Zeltiva keeled away and those Waveguards who had left and returned were dwindling...soon there would be only him.
Unless the Blighter was killed.
"Ignotus," he said, turning on the nuit, eyes frenzied and thinking, dashing around the room, "How would you like to be a hero?"