Ryden Zenta
100 Gold
[hider=Spell Book]
Fireball
Ravage
Arc
Forceful Gust
Umbra Ice[/hider]

[hider=Inventory]
Dagger
x1 Chocolate Milk
x1 Canned Sardine
Revive Tome
Magic Pickaxe
Rope
Torch[/hider]

[hider=Equipment]
Head: N/A
Chest: Leather Jerkin
Gauntlets: Leather gauntlets that cover his magic ones
Pants: Leather Leggings
Greaves: N/A
Feet: Leather Boots[/hider]

Ryden sighed as he wrapped himself quickly with a velvet, violet cloak to shield himself from the chills of the nightly breeze. The city of Zorrodawn was a gangly, chaotic mess right now because of the festival: drunkards roamed the streets and tried to get their grubby arms on the fair maidens who chatted about, only to get poked in the bum by the local city guards as a warning. He saw groups of friends surrounding a food stall, laughing the night away, genuinely enjoying each other's company; he felt a small pang of pain upon laying eyes on this bittersweet scenario, but he quickly looked away to cut off the source of his sadness. He spat onto the ground, tied his cloak harness on his chest, and threw the fabric behind him, creating a soft rippling effect against the wind, as he made his way through the crowd with unease. He decided that mulling over companionship would be a pitiful distraction in his quest for powerful, ancient magics and their applications. [i]I left the college for this very purpose, I cannot stand to lose sight of my goal this early into my journey,[/i] he reminded himself sternly as he pushed his way roughly through the crowd. Apparently, the Festival of Belda was being held, according to the locals, in honor of his heroic triumph over Zhiena, some evil goddess from the underground. [i]Pssh, what a load of hog wash,[/i] he thought to himself with an audible, condescending huff as he recalled the reason for celebration. No one really knew whether or not these stupid gods and goddesses really existed, and these sorts of stories ALWAYS had some sort of hidden twist in them. Ryden knew that the victors wrote the scrolls of history from their glorified point of view, and completely hacked off the monstrosities they committed against the opposing side; he becomes sickened at the idea of a twisted, exalted story declared as truth, as much as he didn't care about much of anything other than his own advancement in magic. 

The cat boy took a deep whiff of the air, taking in all the scents of the festival, when suddenly, his pupils slit themselves sharply in a disturbing realization. There was an odd, disconcerting scent floating about, the smell of anxiety and worry. He noticed that all people except the mentally incapacitated, whether through alcohol or something else, had a look of nervousness on their faces that was alarmingly widespread all across the plaza. Of course, being one of the few Sabers in Argonia, a lot of the humans and elves from the crowd sourced their unease partially from the eerie sight of his abysmally dark hair and threatening scarlet eyes. He sensed, however, that he was the least of their troubles, as he noticed several blue coated, mysterious figures coming through the city. He tried to blend himself as hard as he could within the horde of people, trying not to draw attention to himself as he drew the hood of his purple cloak lower to cast a deeper shadow across his face. He skittered across the narrow spaces of the crowd, gracefully sidestepping the bodies, minding the drunks, the whores, and the hyperactive festival goers. He was so focused on speed maneuvering through the crowd, that he could not stop himself in time from bumping into this huge, hulking golem of a man, both figuratively AND literally. Ryden saw several prosthetic parts of unknown yet exotic material that replaced the organic limbs of the man. He gawked at him, rather rudely, in awe at the expert application of this magical procedure. Several thoughts coursed through his mind: he wanted to ask how he got those parts, who attached the limbs, how he put the man together, what kind of magical spells were used in his creation, and so many other insensitive inquiries that would earn him a knuckle sandwich if he dared to open his mouth and ask. Instead, he stood strong, looked the man straight in the eye, and offered his apologies for his clumsiness. "My name is Ryden. Ryden Zenta. I was dashing through the crowd and didn't really look at where I was going, so I'm sorry for bumping into you," he said apologetically with a small smile.