Season of Winter, Day 46, 510 AV
To say that Magnon felt like a metaphorical fish out of water would be an understatement. He was also, albeit understandably, in absolutely no mood for it either. His father and mother dead; at who's hands, he hadn't even the slightest clue, his love and future bride at home awaiting his return with news of satisfaction with what he hoped was not to intense a worry, HIS FATHER AND MOTHER DEAD; AT WHO'S HANDS HE HADN'T EVEN THE SLIGHTEST CLUE. The thought burned within him like the raging fires of a forge, licking the edge of a battle hungry sword, fresh from the hands of a smith. The only clue that he had to go on was that mark, that infernal mark written upon the wall in what he could only assume was his parents' blood. It was a mark that he had never seen before in his life. This was a concept that had not come as a shock to him, as he was indeed an Isurian and therefore, as one might put it, "didn't get out much". The mark was of no Isurian group that he had ever seen, and so he needed to assume that it was the work of outsiders. Someone brazen enough to invade the walls of Sultros and murder his family of all people. But who? The who continued to stoke the fires of his heart as the buildings all around him shifted and changed.
"Good lord, I can see how this town could become infuriating after a while..." muttered Magnon quietly to himself as he strolled down the roads of Alvadas. The trek down through the mountains was nothing to him, he knew those mountains well enough. He even didn't mind the continuous rolling valleys and thickets that was the countryside of the land of Kalea. He was not ignorant, he knew of other continents, empires and races beyond that of his own. However, the warmth of the hearth, the love of the family and the embrace of Izurdin was all he needed. He could only pray that his Lord would steer him right; that he would see him just in this journey and usher him to those who had wronged him.
Still, it seemed, for all his problems, the hustle and bustle of the Bizarre continued around him, segregated from his problems and continuing along it's merry course in spite of his brooding, Magnon saw people of all shapes, sizes and races shouting and calling of their wares. He even spotted the occasional member of his own ilk, shouting and advertising their own wares of exotic seeming weapons and sturdy looking armors. He had no need of such things, with a hearth and some time he could create works of similar splendor, he was sure. Still, the hustle and bustle distracted him, and he did not wish to be distracted. He pulled his cloak about himself and continued to walk. Turning his head slightly at the sound of heels grinding against the cobblestone path that was the street, he almost invisibly turned his gaze behind him, only to see the crowd that followed, nothing more, nothing less. To follow someone in a crowded Bizarre was good tactics, but as the son of a soldier, Magnon had many things stricken into his head when he was young, and the first was knowing when he was being followed. Pulling the hood of his cloak onto his head, he turned at the nearest break in the kiosks and ducked into an alley. If he was to be confronted by his pursuer, he would dictate the time and place.
"If you have business with me, then spit it out, while you're still capable of spitting."