Spring 44, 513 AV (Evening)
He left his horse at the inn, stabling it for a small fee. While those he had traveled with had trailed a little behind him, he'd chosen not to wait. Instead he'd fixed his morphed disguise and took to the street, swaying in-between monks and citizens like some ungainly ghost. As an outsider, he was watched at the corners of eyes...never addressed but always observed. So far, Wren knew little of the place he had found himself in. It was not to be long, a few days perhaps while he rested and looked for a trading caravan on their way up to Ravok.
He'd have preferred to go straight there, uncomfortable to make Rhysol wait, but a god was an eternal presence and perhaps he underestimated his patience. Regardless, he would not tarry here long. If Zeltiva was any indication of Vayt's power, he could not afford to get cornered in a place he had no contacts, no room to maneuver. Besides, there was little of weakness here in Nyka. The monks moved with the kind of brutal confidence he'd seen in the Daggerhands and Dragoons back in Sunberth. There's was a power won with casual violence, like a louring storm on the edge of being provoked. So far he'd learned there were four districts of Nyka, but nothing of their nature. He chose the center market place, having decided that he'd wait till the next morn to pay a visit to the crowning geographic feature of the city.
The Aperature.
In truth, he had not yet begun to truly gather information. He put it off, avoided talking. Much of him resonated with the inherent mystery and vastly differing social climate of the city. His tastes ranged to the fantastic and a part of him tugged at the desire to explore and know. But his path was clear to him and Rhysol would accept no more tarrying, not now that his work for Vayt had been completed...or at least delayed.
He was unused to walking as he did now, as a larger man rather than his slender self. While he did not expect any Zeltivan interference, it paid to be careful in this day and age. Wrenmae Sek died in Zeltiva. So he was Trente Tessyg here, an old mercenary out of Sunberth who sought to travel before the years took him.
Unfortunately, there was some doubt Wren would remember his old form enough to return to it. He'd made the decision on the boat that to be a true morpher, to really embrace his magic, he'd need to accept that his original form may be lost to him. There was little sentiment there...although he was no strange in his own body, his soul was becoming ever more the darker visitor, and each time he shifted he lost a little more of himself.
Perhaps embracing a more mercurial identity would be good for him, an abandonment of his original linear maintenance of self.
Besides, as Trente Tessyg, he felt jolly again...more of the self he'd left behind in Alvadas.
And so broad-grinning, dagger and rapier bouncing at his side, he perused the market place...seeking what he did not know, seeing what he had not sought.
And making of it what he will.
For now.
He left his horse at the inn, stabling it for a small fee. While those he had traveled with had trailed a little behind him, he'd chosen not to wait. Instead he'd fixed his morphed disguise and took to the street, swaying in-between monks and citizens like some ungainly ghost. As an outsider, he was watched at the corners of eyes...never addressed but always observed. So far, Wren knew little of the place he had found himself in. It was not to be long, a few days perhaps while he rested and looked for a trading caravan on their way up to Ravok.
He'd have preferred to go straight there, uncomfortable to make Rhysol wait, but a god was an eternal presence and perhaps he underestimated his patience. Regardless, he would not tarry here long. If Zeltiva was any indication of Vayt's power, he could not afford to get cornered in a place he had no contacts, no room to maneuver. Besides, there was little of weakness here in Nyka. The monks moved with the kind of brutal confidence he'd seen in the Daggerhands and Dragoons back in Sunberth. There's was a power won with casual violence, like a louring storm on the edge of being provoked. So far he'd learned there were four districts of Nyka, but nothing of their nature. He chose the center market place, having decided that he'd wait till the next morn to pay a visit to the crowning geographic feature of the city.
The Aperature.
In truth, he had not yet begun to truly gather information. He put it off, avoided talking. Much of him resonated with the inherent mystery and vastly differing social climate of the city. His tastes ranged to the fantastic and a part of him tugged at the desire to explore and know. But his path was clear to him and Rhysol would accept no more tarrying, not now that his work for Vayt had been completed...or at least delayed.
He was unused to walking as he did now, as a larger man rather than his slender self. While he did not expect any Zeltivan interference, it paid to be careful in this day and age. Wrenmae Sek died in Zeltiva. So he was Trente Tessyg here, an old mercenary out of Sunberth who sought to travel before the years took him.
Unfortunately, there was some doubt Wren would remember his old form enough to return to it. He'd made the decision on the boat that to be a true morpher, to really embrace his magic, he'd need to accept that his original form may be lost to him. There was little sentiment there...although he was no strange in his own body, his soul was becoming ever more the darker visitor, and each time he shifted he lost a little more of himself.
Perhaps embracing a more mercurial identity would be good for him, an abandonment of his original linear maintenance of self.
Besides, as Trente Tessyg, he felt jolly again...more of the self he'd left behind in Alvadas.
And so broad-grinning, dagger and rapier bouncing at his side, he perused the market place...seeking what he did not know, seeing what he had not sought.
And making of it what he will.
For now.
Current Disguise :
