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The Northside Orphanage
2 Vhalar, Arc 719
The Northside Orphanage
2 Vhalar, Arc 719
Llyr left the Commercial Ring by the time the sun had warmed Etzos. He still adjusted his coat so it fit tightly over him, though. The walk wasn’t too far and he enjoyed the momentary solitude all the same. Over the trials of the last season, Llyr started to get more and more accustomed to being by himself. Before he’d arrived to Etzos, he’d never been by himself… ever. He’d always had his father. Always had chores to accomplish while he cared for the aging man and attended to the family business. It’d only been in the moments around dawn that he managed to steal privacy in the darker, forgotten, and abandoned districts of Quacia where humans were few and rats were plenty.
Even in the season or so of solitary confinement, he hadn’t been truly alone. His father had served as his jailer and provided him with company in the form of Intended, or the targets of their clients in the torture business. But there’d been long stretches where the targets weren’t alive. That was worse than the periods of time when he was actually alone. The stench made it locked in his mind, nibbling at his thoughts during odd unconnected moments in a way that he could have sworn there was a corpse at his feet - or that he were a corpse himself - though such scents were nothing more than mere memory.
No matter how he adjusted his mask, as he walked through the North Outer Perimeter of Etzos, that stench returned to him. He dryly swallowed. Cold sweat gathered on his skin, but he otherwise ignored it. In enough bits, the scent would fade. Llyr paced along the winding streets in search of the location that his contact, Lochlann, had given him. His thoughts tilted, and he wondered in the sort of unrestrained way about whether he was a corpse or not. Would he know? Had the necromantic Revenants known what they were? He supposed so, as that had been part of what fed their anger. What if he were a thrall though? Merely following the whims of something or someone else, treated like a puppet for their amusement…
Llyr shivered. He glanced up at the clear blue sky. How could he ever know? Perhaps his thoughts were proof. Perhaps because he could think about it, and inquire about it, that meant he had freedom of choice. “And why would anyone want to send a thrall to an orphanage?” he murmured while he walked. He added, as if in conversation with himself, “Then again, why would anyone treat thralls like servants… what an absolute waste of the dead.”
“Excuse me?” asked an Etzori woman who approached from the opposite direction.
The tall biqaj looked down at her with his eyes of gray. He replied in his southern accent, “I said, what an absolute waste of the dead. There are so many better things to use corpses for than dusting and tidying a house.”
“…right then, love.” She distanced her walk and hurried her steps to continue far away from the foreigner.
Llyr clasped his hands behind him and continued on his own path. He observed the sky now, and let his thoughts flit about without regard to control any of them. He fiddled with the Ring of Paradigm on his pinkie finger, that kept his sparks suppressed. No halo hovered above him, nor did his wings show behind him. His mutations remained closed off and he walked through the streets of Etzos looking like any regular person might.
Even in the season or so of solitary confinement, he hadn’t been truly alone. His father had served as his jailer and provided him with company in the form of Intended, or the targets of their clients in the torture business. But there’d been long stretches where the targets weren’t alive. That was worse than the periods of time when he was actually alone. The stench made it locked in his mind, nibbling at his thoughts during odd unconnected moments in a way that he could have sworn there was a corpse at his feet - or that he were a corpse himself - though such scents were nothing more than mere memory.
No matter how he adjusted his mask, as he walked through the North Outer Perimeter of Etzos, that stench returned to him. He dryly swallowed. Cold sweat gathered on his skin, but he otherwise ignored it. In enough bits, the scent would fade. Llyr paced along the winding streets in search of the location that his contact, Lochlann, had given him. His thoughts tilted, and he wondered in the sort of unrestrained way about whether he was a corpse or not. Would he know? Had the necromantic Revenants known what they were? He supposed so, as that had been part of what fed their anger. What if he were a thrall though? Merely following the whims of something or someone else, treated like a puppet for their amusement…
Llyr shivered. He glanced up at the clear blue sky. How could he ever know? Perhaps his thoughts were proof. Perhaps because he could think about it, and inquire about it, that meant he had freedom of choice. “And why would anyone want to send a thrall to an orphanage?” he murmured while he walked. He added, as if in conversation with himself, “Then again, why would anyone treat thralls like servants… what an absolute waste of the dead.”
“Excuse me?” asked an Etzori woman who approached from the opposite direction.
The tall biqaj looked down at her with his eyes of gray. He replied in his southern accent, “I said, what an absolute waste of the dead. There are so many better things to use corpses for than dusting and tidying a house.”
“…right then, love.” She distanced her walk and hurried her steps to continue far away from the foreigner.
Llyr clasped his hands behind him and continued on his own path. He observed the sky now, and let his thoughts flit about without regard to control any of them. He fiddled with the Ring of Paradigm on his pinkie finger, that kept his sparks suppressed. No halo hovered above him, nor did his wings show behind him. His mutations remained closed off and he walked through the streets of Etzos looking like any regular person might.
