42 Vhalar, 716
Sol busied himself from the corner of the Inn, a bowl of stew and mug of water poised among a few tomes and scattered parchment. Situated as he was, locked away from most prying eyes, the vantage point allowed the scribe a unique perspective of the typical clientele, one that sequestered him from their antics. They came in droves on a nightly basis; the smiths, cobblers, shopkeepers and students, the lot of them wiling away the evening hours to avoid sheer boredom. Tonight, though, the usual roar of drunkenness rose no higher than a dull buzz. Some chattered about the work in Lowtown, extra jobs and coin to be had for all - a notice Sol summarily avoided, he held no love for manual labor. Still, it remained a rare occasion that he found such solace in his nightly visits to the common room, the rustic, wooden finish allowing a sort of nostalgia to wash over his otherwise persistent irritation.
The creak of floorboards in rapid succession drew his attention up from his own incessant scribbling. A gaggle of folk made their way into the inn - four, in total, all men, unwashed, unshaven, and already a point of annoyance. Their voices rose in a chorus of vulgarity and laughter as they deposited themselves a single table away from the mage himself. Damn it all. Some immortal somewhere found Sol's persistent plight a point of amusement. A brow arched at the thought. He paused his own self-pity long enough to jot down a note.
...do the Immortals bother themselves with trivial pursuits? Another point of interest to investigate, perhaps the library has anything to say on the subject?
Almost lost to another fancy of thought, Sol's countenance softened to a placid meditation before the ruckus took his attention once again. His brow furrowed and he tapped the steel nib of his pen against the wooden table-top. The click calmed his ruffled sensibilities. Still he found himself falling back into a pattern, his ear dipped to better eavesdrop on the random prattle of the common day. Most of it was hogwash, a waste of time that held less important than a stable boy at a grand ball.
"I heard tell that there's a fella going around killing horses. Reckon that he's got some ulterior motive, but don't know what it could be."
What a waste of- hm. Sol's tapping ceased. Something stuck out in his mind. Was it the city yokel's diction containing the word ulterior? No, despite his impressed opinion of the fellow, something caught Solsarin's attention beyond the words themselves. The conviction in which the man spoke, perhaps, piqued his own curiosity. Why kill horses? Better yet, would horses make for a suitable source of ether to flay? Easier than humans, and maybe. Sol's thoughts drew to a more nefarious purpose.
"Excuse me." The black-cloaked scribe rose his voice, it's raspy tone cutting through the jovial chatter like a knife. All four men craned their necks back to eye the interloper. "A man killing horses? Might I inquire as to where, exactly, you heard tell of this, ah. Oddity?"
Sol busied himself from the corner of the Inn, a bowl of stew and mug of water poised among a few tomes and scattered parchment. Situated as he was, locked away from most prying eyes, the vantage point allowed the scribe a unique perspective of the typical clientele, one that sequestered him from their antics. They came in droves on a nightly basis; the smiths, cobblers, shopkeepers and students, the lot of them wiling away the evening hours to avoid sheer boredom. Tonight, though, the usual roar of drunkenness rose no higher than a dull buzz. Some chattered about the work in Lowtown, extra jobs and coin to be had for all - a notice Sol summarily avoided, he held no love for manual labor. Still, it remained a rare occasion that he found such solace in his nightly visits to the common room, the rustic, wooden finish allowing a sort of nostalgia to wash over his otherwise persistent irritation.
The creak of floorboards in rapid succession drew his attention up from his own incessant scribbling. A gaggle of folk made their way into the inn - four, in total, all men, unwashed, unshaven, and already a point of annoyance. Their voices rose in a chorus of vulgarity and laughter as they deposited themselves a single table away from the mage himself. Damn it all. Some immortal somewhere found Sol's persistent plight a point of amusement. A brow arched at the thought. He paused his own self-pity long enough to jot down a note.
...do the Immortals bother themselves with trivial pursuits? Another point of interest to investigate, perhaps the library has anything to say on the subject?
Almost lost to another fancy of thought, Sol's countenance softened to a placid meditation before the ruckus took his attention once again. His brow furrowed and he tapped the steel nib of his pen against the wooden table-top. The click calmed his ruffled sensibilities. Still he found himself falling back into a pattern, his ear dipped to better eavesdrop on the random prattle of the common day. Most of it was hogwash, a waste of time that held less important than a stable boy at a grand ball.
"I heard tell that there's a fella going around killing horses. Reckon that he's got some ulterior motive, but don't know what it could be."
What a waste of- hm. Sol's tapping ceased. Something stuck out in his mind. Was it the city yokel's diction containing the word ulterior? No, despite his impressed opinion of the fellow, something caught Solsarin's attention beyond the words themselves. The conviction in which the man spoke, perhaps, piqued his own curiosity. Why kill horses? Better yet, would horses make for a suitable source of ether to flay? Easier than humans, and maybe. Sol's thoughts drew to a more nefarious purpose.
"Excuse me." The black-cloaked scribe rose his voice, it's raspy tone cutting through the jovial chatter like a knife. All four men craned their necks back to eye the interloper. "A man killing horses? Might I inquire as to where, exactly, you heard tell of this, ah. Oddity?"
