He sipped wine from his glass, as the lens that made his sight gently narrowed until his eyes could hone into the fungal moss. He could see it - strands of green, like thread or hair, weaved together from within the wound. An odd infection he'd noted to be somewhat unique to this place, which thrived upon the flesh and grew into a mess of painful, leech-like fungal bacteria. The mage frowned, noting how unfortunate it was that the infection could even grow in seasons of cold. Luckily the prey in this particular situation was a rodent he'd found creeping in the yard, but uncertain as to the contagious nature of the illness, he decided it would be preferable to have his undead frequently sweep the perimeter to ensure no such pests brought illness into his home.
Quacia was mired in filth, as he'd always said. Even in the Gleam, even in Ashvane, a mere block from the structure of Fortress - the home of the Nobility. Considering many of the institutions had been rooted underground, it made sense that they were entrenched in insects and rodents, though he did not understand why the city hadn't thought to utilize their resources more effectively. The mage noted that the city scarcely utilized magic to improve their standards, whether by ignorance of its potential impact or by hesitation. It was clear that they'd preferred to use the Domains for warfare, and had considered that in itself to be enough.
There was much about the city that frustrated him to no end, and he often wondered how they'd gotten to this point of desperation in the first place. If they were not so attached to the foolish zealotry of the Wounded God, they could have even beseeched an Immortal for aid. Why did they...
The magister sighed, an aggravated breath escaping between the chasm of his lips. It was stressful for him, a man who enjoyed micro-managing his surroundings so explicitly, to be encircled on all sides by risks and enemies that piled onto one another. There was always some variable preventing progress - the piety of the Theocratum, the ignorance of the Heaps, the weakness of the military... the infection of the Creep. Spending these trials pondering, even for the purpose of his position, had been infuriating. The mage needed to do something... else, other than sitting at a desk observing his own fury.
He wondered what Abaddon might have been doing. The man brought him the immediate sensation of calm whenever the two shared one another's company, and so in moments of frustration he'd often found himself seeking him out. Stepping through the thick, stone-metal door that separated his room from the upper hall, Alistair once again knocked against the surface of his partner's doorway before pressing the structure inward.
"My light?" he called to him. "I do hope I'm not intruding, but I'd like to take a break from my studies for a time. Would you mind joining me in my room? There's a lot I'd like to discuss with you," he stated, almost shyly. Despite the serious-sounding nature of his words, he didn't intend for their words to contain all too much insight or brevity. At least, not at the beginning.
"I also have something for you - a manual I wrote down and bound together, like a book. It's exercises, techniques, dietary suggestions. I even customized it to suit your body and what I've noted of your metabolism. I can show it to you, a bit, in the room. If you'd like me to."