1st of Winter, 513 AV
Velkano had been staying in Alvadas for longer than half a year. The City of Illusions had confounded him, and it still did, to a certain extent; he could never fully understand why its subjects would place themselves willingly at the whimsical illusions of its Patron and of her followers in a city where daily routines were constantly disrupted, and where one could never be sure of anything he saw; and how they could actually find joy in them. It was absurd.
As for him, he had mostly been out of options. He was aware of the notoriety his people carried, and there were few cities in Mizahar that would have tolerated a Symenestra's presence. Alvadas' illusions and whatever dangers that lurked behind them were a necessary compromise he had to live with, but not a very bad one at that, if one had the right attitude to it. Velkano did: he took it as a challenge to his senses and to make himself stronger. With that, he had adapted well to the city's ever shifting pattern, although he had never grown overly fond of it.
But that day, he wanted to explore its secrets deeper. He had heard vague rumours about something beneath the glamorous city, something old and oft-forgotten, flushed like filth down the drains. Velkano refused to believe the city's joyous façade was the whole truth to it. Surely, even a small, sheltered community like Kalinor had dark, miserable secrets it wanted to hide from outsiders—and sometimes, insiders. Alvadas could not be an exception.
He might probably be feeling a little adventurous or simply curious or a mixture of both. In any case, he did not feel quite ready yet for anything intense. But there was a burning urge in him that compelled him to move. He had a feeling he could somehow make himself useful down there. And there would probably be a chance to redeem his people. A chance he could not refuse, for it was a step closer to salvation.
Hence he had waken up very early to prepare for his little intracity adventure. After a trip to the bazaar, he brought back some cheese, flour, a dozen of eggs and a hen for making soulmist. Flour first, then eggs, then cheese, and as much blood as he could squeeze out from the poor little hen's throat he had slit open. He mixed and stirred them in a bowl until the mixture became one and firm he would start kneading it. After a few good minutes of repeated folding and pushing, the dough had become smooth and elastic, and it was shaped into a ball before Velkano would flatten it with a few good punches. Once done, it would be divided into a few portions which the Symenestra would chew on one after the other.
At length, the resulting soulmist would be vomited into eight little vials, of which one would be smeared over the edge of his dagger, and another would be held in his hand after he had packed up all the remaining vials, knife, and spirit beads in his backpack, and left his house.
His first destination was the closest graveyard he could locate. As he walked, he regarded his surrounding carefully, his right hand close to his sheathed dagger. Ideally he hoped to have attracted the attention of a roaming ghost with a vial of soulmist in his hand before he even reached there. If he failed to recruit a spirit guide either on the way or at the graveyard, he would head for The Wolf's Cave for a living one.
OOCA pound of cheese and rye flour, a dozen of chicken eggs and a hen cost 182 cm in total. Gossamer said that amount of ingredients could produce about 1 lb worth of soulmist. It takes 8 vials (each weighs 2 oz) to fill it up.
Velkano had been staying in Alvadas for longer than half a year. The City of Illusions had confounded him, and it still did, to a certain extent; he could never fully understand why its subjects would place themselves willingly at the whimsical illusions of its Patron and of her followers in a city where daily routines were constantly disrupted, and where one could never be sure of anything he saw; and how they could actually find joy in them. It was absurd.
As for him, he had mostly been out of options. He was aware of the notoriety his people carried, and there were few cities in Mizahar that would have tolerated a Symenestra's presence. Alvadas' illusions and whatever dangers that lurked behind them were a necessary compromise he had to live with, but not a very bad one at that, if one had the right attitude to it. Velkano did: he took it as a challenge to his senses and to make himself stronger. With that, he had adapted well to the city's ever shifting pattern, although he had never grown overly fond of it.
But that day, he wanted to explore its secrets deeper. He had heard vague rumours about something beneath the glamorous city, something old and oft-forgotten, flushed like filth down the drains. Velkano refused to believe the city's joyous façade was the whole truth to it. Surely, even a small, sheltered community like Kalinor had dark, miserable secrets it wanted to hide from outsiders—and sometimes, insiders. Alvadas could not be an exception.
He might probably be feeling a little adventurous or simply curious or a mixture of both. In any case, he did not feel quite ready yet for anything intense. But there was a burning urge in him that compelled him to move. He had a feeling he could somehow make himself useful down there. And there would probably be a chance to redeem his people. A chance he could not refuse, for it was a step closer to salvation.
Hence he had waken up very early to prepare for his little intracity adventure. After a trip to the bazaar, he brought back some cheese, flour, a dozen of eggs and a hen for making soulmist. Flour first, then eggs, then cheese, and as much blood as he could squeeze out from the poor little hen's throat he had slit open. He mixed and stirred them in a bowl until the mixture became one and firm he would start kneading it. After a few good minutes of repeated folding and pushing, the dough had become smooth and elastic, and it was shaped into a ball before Velkano would flatten it with a few good punches. Once done, it would be divided into a few portions which the Symenestra would chew on one after the other.
At length, the resulting soulmist would be vomited into eight little vials, of which one would be smeared over the edge of his dagger, and another would be held in his hand after he had packed up all the remaining vials, knife, and spirit beads in his backpack, and left his house.
His first destination was the closest graveyard he could locate. As he walked, he regarded his surrounding carefully, his right hand close to his sheathed dagger. Ideally he hoped to have attracted the attention of a roaming ghost with a vial of soulmist in his hand before he even reached there. If he failed to recruit a spirit guide either on the way or at the graveyard, he would head for The Wolf's Cave for a living one.
OOCA pound of cheese and rye flour, a dozen of chicken eggs and a hen cost 182 cm in total. Gossamer said that amount of ingredients could produce about 1 lb worth of soulmist. It takes 8 vials (each weighs 2 oz) to fill it up.
