Sundilar the Arcane
Feb 17, 2020 22:10:59 GMT
Madame Augustine (Deceased) and Marshall (Ankhet) like this
Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on Feb 17, 2020 22:10:59 GMT
Sundilar pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders, trying in vain to ward off the bitter wind that claws at him. On his shoulder, Kraw ruffles her black feathers as she is buffeted by the gale. The raven snaps its beak at his ears, protesting the wind and the privation their flight has forced on them.
“Silence.”
His voice is imperious, brooking no dissent. The glossy bird croaks reproachfully, onyx eyes glinting in the cold winter light so he snaps his fingers, dismissing the familiar, and stomps out of the muddy plaza in search of a fire and a room.
After several hours of frustration, he arrives at the ramshackle red-walled structure. The thugs on the door narrow their eyes at him, swaying gently in the breeze, but seem to think better of trying to bar his passage. Perhaps the bared fangs or the strange glyphs tattooed on his red skin intimidate them. Perhaps they’re too inebriated to bother bullying anyone. Regardless, he is granted entry and before long has negotiated the let of a filthy box room on the first floor.
Looking around the space, he sneers in contempt. To be reduced to this! He, Sundilar the Arcane, warmage to Arnok Manflayer, most powerful of the Ironskull Clan’s arcanists! These wretched accommodations would have to suffice for now, but he would not be here long. Perhaps when he left he would burn this Red House to the ground. Yes, that would be fitting.
Finding no chair, he kneels, groaning as his hasty stitches stretch, and opens the black leather pouch at his side. Reaching in, he pulls out a small moonstone, tracing the glowing glyph etched into its surface as he mutters an incantation. The tattered bedspread stirs, though no draught reaches the windowless room.
“Clean” he snaps, replacing the gemstone in his pouch and fastening the drawstring.
Counting out his remaining coins he grimaces. He will need to find some form of income soon. Beside him, the bedcovers draw back and the fat lice that swarm over them float one by one into the air before bursting, their bodies collecting in a pile by the door. The first inn he had visited, the grand structure not far from the portal, had had a board advertising work. The sheets stretch themselves down over the narrow mattress, the bed looking almost acceptable. Perhaps he could take a few contracts, just until he finished recovering from his wounds. Bit by bit the filth is swept into a pile by the door, the multitudinous vermin captured or destroyed. He absently incinerates the pile, wrinkling his nose at the oily smoke that rises from it. Yes, perhaps a few jobs for the local fools.
Then, he would see about a little revenge.
“Silence.”
His voice is imperious, brooking no dissent. The glossy bird croaks reproachfully, onyx eyes glinting in the cold winter light so he snaps his fingers, dismissing the familiar, and stomps out of the muddy plaza in search of a fire and a room.
After several hours of frustration, he arrives at the ramshackle red-walled structure. The thugs on the door narrow their eyes at him, swaying gently in the breeze, but seem to think better of trying to bar his passage. Perhaps the bared fangs or the strange glyphs tattooed on his red skin intimidate them. Perhaps they’re too inebriated to bother bullying anyone. Regardless, he is granted entry and before long has negotiated the let of a filthy box room on the first floor.
Looking around the space, he sneers in contempt. To be reduced to this! He, Sundilar the Arcane, warmage to Arnok Manflayer, most powerful of the Ironskull Clan’s arcanists! These wretched accommodations would have to suffice for now, but he would not be here long. Perhaps when he left he would burn this Red House to the ground. Yes, that would be fitting.
Finding no chair, he kneels, groaning as his hasty stitches stretch, and opens the black leather pouch at his side. Reaching in, he pulls out a small moonstone, tracing the glowing glyph etched into its surface as he mutters an incantation. The tattered bedspread stirs, though no draught reaches the windowless room.
“Clean” he snaps, replacing the gemstone in his pouch and fastening the drawstring.
Counting out his remaining coins he grimaces. He will need to find some form of income soon. Beside him, the bedcovers draw back and the fat lice that swarm over them float one by one into the air before bursting, their bodies collecting in a pile by the door. The first inn he had visited, the grand structure not far from the portal, had had a board advertising work. The sheets stretch themselves down over the narrow mattress, the bed looking almost acceptable. Perhaps he could take a few contracts, just until he finished recovering from his wounds. Bit by bit the filth is swept into a pile by the door, the multitudinous vermin captured or destroyed. He absently incinerates the pile, wrinkling his nose at the oily smoke that rises from it. Yes, perhaps a few jobs for the local fools.
Then, he would see about a little revenge.