30th of Ashan, 717th Arc
Etzos, streets
The pain was an incessant plague on his mind. The Etzori mage liked to think of himself as disciplined, but this wilted his otherwise strong resolve not to show suffering. Neronin winced and groaned as he tenderly touched the stop in his leg that had been stabbed. It had been tough, but Neronin had convinced Tabard he had been wounded on the expedition and had to turn home. The pain had been real and Tabard had allowed him to resume his duties. Now his leg pulsed with a familiarity that was almost sentient. It seemed to relish torturing Neronin and he hated the limb for it.
He had left work early today to hunt for a distraction from the pain. All the walking and giving tours had his leg aching and his mood souring that of the patrons. Tabard had been more than willing to let him go. Even his subtle disregard for the people who came into the museum did not match the coldness with which Neronin greeted every person he had to take on tour. The Curator had allowed his assistant to leave in the interest of keeping their visitors paying. Neronin had gladly taken his leave in pursuit of less strenuous activity.
Now he sat atop one of Etzos's high rampart walls, having found a slow shuffle up the stairs surprisingly less jarring than a simple walk. He watched Etzos's population of ravens move across rooftop and between towers with interest. His hands grasped both journal and quill, whistle the traveling inkwell he kept sat next to him. He was taking notes.
He had found the bat impractical because it required too much mechanism to control. The flight was based on rigorous flapping of limbs, in other words. When Neronin looked at the ravens and crows he saw a more regal gliding. Their obsidian feathers flickered in the wind but their wings remained still and strong. Neronin liked the idea of controlling that much more than the idea of controlling some wildly flapping thing of the night.
So Neronin took notes, carefully. He wrote in how the ravens seemed to twist to turn and how their wings caught updrafts to rise. He watched one glide across a few streets and dive. It extended vicious looking black talons and caught up a rat. The bird pumped its wings to gain altitude until it could catch another updraft and circle its way to one of the tallest towers in Etzos and feast. He took notes in his journal denoting the method of climbing and the dive. He wanted to understand the mechanics of the flight.
This was something Neronin found himself enjoying profoundly. Here were independent animals, truly free of restriction. They lived amongst the highest reaches of Etzos and preyed on the city below. They minded themselves and allowed Neronin to do the same. For a while after he finished the notes he wanted Neronin just watched the black birds swoop and glide. Eventually though, he get tired of sitting atop the wall and shoved his way back down.
The necromancer’s dull ache came back as the underlying flavor to his thoughts as he walked his way back down to the streets. He felt the agitation return and the foul moodiness. The muscles in the man’s pale jaw clenched as he fought against his own discomfort. Comfort was a luxury, and he hated luxury. This was nothing to him
Etzos, streets
The pain was an incessant plague on his mind. The Etzori mage liked to think of himself as disciplined, but this wilted his otherwise strong resolve not to show suffering. Neronin winced and groaned as he tenderly touched the stop in his leg that had been stabbed. It had been tough, but Neronin had convinced Tabard he had been wounded on the expedition and had to turn home. The pain had been real and Tabard had allowed him to resume his duties. Now his leg pulsed with a familiarity that was almost sentient. It seemed to relish torturing Neronin and he hated the limb for it.
He had left work early today to hunt for a distraction from the pain. All the walking and giving tours had his leg aching and his mood souring that of the patrons. Tabard had been more than willing to let him go. Even his subtle disregard for the people who came into the museum did not match the coldness with which Neronin greeted every person he had to take on tour. The Curator had allowed his assistant to leave in the interest of keeping their visitors paying. Neronin had gladly taken his leave in pursuit of less strenuous activity.
Now he sat atop one of Etzos's high rampart walls, having found a slow shuffle up the stairs surprisingly less jarring than a simple walk. He watched Etzos's population of ravens move across rooftop and between towers with interest. His hands grasped both journal and quill, whistle the traveling inkwell he kept sat next to him. He was taking notes.
He had found the bat impractical because it required too much mechanism to control. The flight was based on rigorous flapping of limbs, in other words. When Neronin looked at the ravens and crows he saw a more regal gliding. Their obsidian feathers flickered in the wind but their wings remained still and strong. Neronin liked the idea of controlling that much more than the idea of controlling some wildly flapping thing of the night.
So Neronin took notes, carefully. He wrote in how the ravens seemed to twist to turn and how their wings caught updrafts to rise. He watched one glide across a few streets and dive. It extended vicious looking black talons and caught up a rat. The bird pumped its wings to gain altitude until it could catch another updraft and circle its way to one of the tallest towers in Etzos and feast. He took notes in his journal denoting the method of climbing and the dive. He wanted to understand the mechanics of the flight.
This was something Neronin found himself enjoying profoundly. Here were independent animals, truly free of restriction. They lived amongst the highest reaches of Etzos and preyed on the city below. They minded themselves and allowed Neronin to do the same. For a while after he finished the notes he wanted Neronin just watched the black birds swoop and glide. Eventually though, he get tired of sitting atop the wall and shoved his way back down.
The necromancer’s dull ache came back as the underlying flavor to his thoughts as he walked his way back down to the streets. He felt the agitation return and the foul moodiness. The muscles in the man’s pale jaw clenched as he fought against his own discomfort. Comfort was a luxury, and he hated luxury. This was nothing to him
Made by Kovic
