You finally emerge from the darkness of the storm drains into a sunny afternoon—the first real sunlight light after weeks in a cell whose bars were long obstructed by grime and debris. It's so bright to be blinding, forcing you to pause to adjust, and think about how different it was to be out now. Days spent fleeing through old passages and older caves, first trying to scramble by and avoid alerting every goblin in the area, and later with the Emperor and his dwindling cadre of bodyguards.
An Emperor that was no longer amongst the living, his final request a very physical weight against your body. A single, crystalline amulet, warm and humming even through the cloth Baurus had hastily wrapped it in, hiding it as best as possible before tasking you with conveying it to its rightful owner. This, perhaps, is the one guarantee that the dark, dank underground was real, out in the humid warmth of the Nibenay Basin.
As your eyes recover, you can make out a robed figure standing just ahead, the waves of Lake Rumare lapping against the hem. Was this it, then? Had the assassins found you already, beaten you through the winding paths out of the city? No: your eyes adjust more, and it's clear that this isn't the heavy, red robes the assassins had been wearing, rather the faded and travel-worn ensemble of a travelling hedge mage or simple conjurer, its original colours long faded to muted greys and browns.
This stranger was tall—obviously of high elf descent, her skin a burnished bronze far darker than the usual high elf. Perhaps part dark elf? The silver-white braid wasn't any better a clue. And as she steps closer, it's clear that even for such an elf she's abnormally tall and lean, almost impossibly tall for a man or mer. Yet more imposing than the height is her eyes, almost-glowing shards of blue glass that fix you in place.
"You aren't who I was expecting to meet here. The Emperor, perhaps… or failing that, one of his guards. None have entered in weeks, which means… tell me, what leads you to flee the city this way? Your attire seems… ragged." The stranger's voice is sharp, and even if she weren't armed—the sword belted at her hip is unmistakeable, and of finer make than anything you've seen the city watch carrying, and that's not counting the staff—you've met more than enough magical cultists and even goblin shamans over the past weeks for the robes to be a warning of their own.
@VitaVitaAR
An Emperor that was no longer amongst the living, his final request a very physical weight against your body. A single, crystalline amulet, warm and humming even through the cloth Baurus had hastily wrapped it in, hiding it as best as possible before tasking you with conveying it to its rightful owner. This, perhaps, is the one guarantee that the dark, dank underground was real, out in the humid warmth of the Nibenay Basin.
As your eyes recover, you can make out a robed figure standing just ahead, the waves of Lake Rumare lapping against the hem. Was this it, then? Had the assassins found you already, beaten you through the winding paths out of the city? No: your eyes adjust more, and it's clear that this isn't the heavy, red robes the assassins had been wearing, rather the faded and travel-worn ensemble of a travelling hedge mage or simple conjurer, its original colours long faded to muted greys and browns.
This stranger was tall—obviously of high elf descent, her skin a burnished bronze far darker than the usual high elf. Perhaps part dark elf? The silver-white braid wasn't any better a clue. And as she steps closer, it's clear that even for such an elf she's abnormally tall and lean, almost impossibly tall for a man or mer. Yet more imposing than the height is her eyes, almost-glowing shards of blue glass that fix you in place.
"You aren't who I was expecting to meet here. The Emperor, perhaps… or failing that, one of his guards. None have entered in weeks, which means… tell me, what leads you to flee the city this way? Your attire seems… ragged." The stranger's voice is sharp, and even if she weren't armed—the sword belted at her hip is unmistakeable, and of finer make than anything you've seen the city watch carrying, and that's not counting the staff—you've met more than enough magical cultists and even goblin shamans over the past weeks for the robes to be a warning of their own.
@VitaVitaAR
