Summer 18, 512 AV
Wrenmae had run into a problem.
Ravok was a city in which the ruling elite held the corner market on power. The Ebonstryfe took commands, the Black Sun wasn't necessarily hiring, and the rest of the power was tied up in the ruling families. He had been careful about asking, and was delivered with the five main bloodlines to keep an eye on...the Nitrozian, The Lazarin, The Valdinox, The Lark, and The Galatos.
Of these, the Lazarin were most often tied up in the Ebonstryfe, the Valdinox with the Black Sun, and the Nitrozian in business. Lark and Galatos were currently a mystery to him, but it didn't take much digging to find that a great deal of establishments were maintained by the auspicious merchant family. Perhaps that's why he found himself outside their gates now, noting the guards posted outside and the others patrolling the ground itself. Once upon a time he had been a merchant with his father, traveling from Sylira through Taldera. Within him still beat a certain appreciation of the enterprising businessman, moreso the Nitrozian for their single minded push to own most of the legitimate business in Ravok.
Of course, it wasn't easy to be a Nitrozian. Most who were had the privilege of being born into the family. Blood was a strong catalyst of nomenclature. He, who had descended from no such noble vital fluid could only hope for the other way to negotiate a way into a place of such privilege...recognition and adoption.
And so what if he had belonged to a few other families down the line. Was it not the lot of a lost child to seek a place to call home? Certainly the Nitrozian estate was of the nicest he'd ever sought refuge in. Moreso, they, like so many others in his life, were a means to an end. Ravok was the sort of city that made infiltrating the guards impossible, manipulation of gangs improbable, and simple elimination of threats unfeasible. No, in Ravok things were maintained with almost Syliras style justice. He'd seen very little crime since he'd walked the streets...a feat he thought would have been championed by the peaceful Zeltiva...but no, it seemed that Ravok was safer...calmer.
And everyone suffered under the mass delusion that Rhysol was some benevolent god.
His finger trailed against the angry mark on his neck, the place where Rhysol had touched him in a dungeon far from here. He remembered the pain, the agony the dark god had sought to inflict on him in Sunberth. There had been something there...something in that action. There was chaos, and there was darkness...and for any who served such a lord without being careful, it made them a fool.
Moving around the Nitrozian estate, Wrenmae found he could memorize nothing...the walls were a formidable deterrent. Clicking his tongue against his teeth, Wrenmae removed approached the wall at a crouch, his bones already lightening, his body shifting and twisting into the familiar model he'd acquired in Sunberth. When he put his hands against it, his fingers filled with the tiny bristles of the Symenestra, allowing him to propel himself up the wall silently, and with an almost ethereal grace.
Having reached the lip, Wren peered over, his eyes flashing the yellow of a Zith to survey the grounds. Eight men patrolled, well armed...at least two of them in Ebonstryfe armor. No doubt the coin of the family paid those guards well...but the Ebonstryfe must have been a gift.
Slinging himself over the wall and descending swiftly the the grounds, the storyteller crouched awkwardly behind foliage while he evaluated his plans. It was late...and he had to break past the guard and somehow sneak into the house. There, he would need to seek out a Nitrozian to prove, at least, his worth as an asset rather than a nobody.
He eyed the dark house, running his tongue along his teeth. It would be impossible to divine the contents of that home and without that information, he was left at a dangerous crossroads. If he broke in, he risked alerting the guards...if he broke into the wrong room, he risked alerting the guards for nothing...cementing a failure.
So for now he watched the windows and balconies, hoping that he would see a figure, someone, something within the next few chimes.
Otherwise he'd need to retreat and reevaluate...perhaps even pay for more information.
But as his coinpurse protested each surrender of his wealth, he knew he couldn't last long on what he'd made in Zeltiva.
He needed an in...and by Rhysol, he didn't want to risk making on.
Wrenmae had run into a problem.
Ravok was a city in which the ruling elite held the corner market on power. The Ebonstryfe took commands, the Black Sun wasn't necessarily hiring, and the rest of the power was tied up in the ruling families. He had been careful about asking, and was delivered with the five main bloodlines to keep an eye on...the Nitrozian, The Lazarin, The Valdinox, The Lark, and The Galatos.
Of these, the Lazarin were most often tied up in the Ebonstryfe, the Valdinox with the Black Sun, and the Nitrozian in business. Lark and Galatos were currently a mystery to him, but it didn't take much digging to find that a great deal of establishments were maintained by the auspicious merchant family. Perhaps that's why he found himself outside their gates now, noting the guards posted outside and the others patrolling the ground itself. Once upon a time he had been a merchant with his father, traveling from Sylira through Taldera. Within him still beat a certain appreciation of the enterprising businessman, moreso the Nitrozian for their single minded push to own most of the legitimate business in Ravok.
Of course, it wasn't easy to be a Nitrozian. Most who were had the privilege of being born into the family. Blood was a strong catalyst of nomenclature. He, who had descended from no such noble vital fluid could only hope for the other way to negotiate a way into a place of such privilege...recognition and adoption.
And so what if he had belonged to a few other families down the line. Was it not the lot of a lost child to seek a place to call home? Certainly the Nitrozian estate was of the nicest he'd ever sought refuge in. Moreso, they, like so many others in his life, were a means to an end. Ravok was the sort of city that made infiltrating the guards impossible, manipulation of gangs improbable, and simple elimination of threats unfeasible. No, in Ravok things were maintained with almost Syliras style justice. He'd seen very little crime since he'd walked the streets...a feat he thought would have been championed by the peaceful Zeltiva...but no, it seemed that Ravok was safer...calmer.
And everyone suffered under the mass delusion that Rhysol was some benevolent god.
His finger trailed against the angry mark on his neck, the place where Rhysol had touched him in a dungeon far from here. He remembered the pain, the agony the dark god had sought to inflict on him in Sunberth. There had been something there...something in that action. There was chaos, and there was darkness...and for any who served such a lord without being careful, it made them a fool.
Moving around the Nitrozian estate, Wrenmae found he could memorize nothing...the walls were a formidable deterrent. Clicking his tongue against his teeth, Wrenmae removed approached the wall at a crouch, his bones already lightening, his body shifting and twisting into the familiar model he'd acquired in Sunberth. When he put his hands against it, his fingers filled with the tiny bristles of the Symenestra, allowing him to propel himself up the wall silently, and with an almost ethereal grace.
Having reached the lip, Wren peered over, his eyes flashing the yellow of a Zith to survey the grounds. Eight men patrolled, well armed...at least two of them in Ebonstryfe armor. No doubt the coin of the family paid those guards well...but the Ebonstryfe must have been a gift.
Slinging himself over the wall and descending swiftly the the grounds, the storyteller crouched awkwardly behind foliage while he evaluated his plans. It was late...and he had to break past the guard and somehow sneak into the house. There, he would need to seek out a Nitrozian to prove, at least, his worth as an asset rather than a nobody.
He eyed the dark house, running his tongue along his teeth. It would be impossible to divine the contents of that home and without that information, he was left at a dangerous crossroads. If he broke in, he risked alerting the guards...if he broke into the wrong room, he risked alerting the guards for nothing...cementing a failure.
So for now he watched the windows and balconies, hoping that he would see a figure, someone, something within the next few chimes.
Otherwise he'd need to retreat and reevaluate...perhaps even pay for more information.
But as his coinpurse protested each surrender of his wealth, he knew he couldn't last long on what he'd made in Zeltiva.
He needed an in...and by Rhysol, he didn't want to risk making on.
