Delmechia
Stellwetter's a tough bird and she's got guards, mercs and a couple of ex-Dragoons; they can handle themselves. Whatever's going down back there, you can't see any reason to get involved. Elementals aren't particularly welcome in this part of town, anyway, and part of you knows you'd only be implicated.
Still, there was something about one of them that bothers you, the human with the green eyes who met your gaze, something familiar. You picture the moment in your mind: long, dark hair, unkempt and matted; rough clothing, worn but serviceable, nondescript; patchy, recent beard growth shadowing his facial features, though you noticed the tell-tale tracing of scar tissue underneath, a pale, jagged line just above the jaw that stood out even against his white skin. He was sweating - trembling, actually - and of course there were the eyes, those piercing green eyes that never left you. It's all you're able to recall through haze and shadow of the scene.
You try, but you can't place him; you shrug mentally and let the memory slip, though you feel certain you'll recognize the man if you see him again.
The rain is really starting to come down, and you feel the gathered water in the distant clouds calling out to you. It reminds you fleetingly of your birthplace in the lake country, a century ago and so many leagues distant, where the water was never so tainted, and you still felt like you belonged.
Your cloak hangs like a second skin, wrinkled and confining, and suddenly you want nothing more than to shed the bulky disguise, humans and gnomes be damned, and stand alone in the pouring rain. You resist the impulse, though it brings frustration and a vague, nostalgic sense of sorrow, and content yourself with raising your arms, tilting your head back, the narrow gill slits at either side of your neck expanding as you feel with every nerve the cooling balm of water, let it run across the burning, thirsting surface of your skin.
You sigh and just stand for a moment, taking it in, until a vehicle turns the corner in the distance, the slowly nearing glow of headlights shattering your brief reverie.
Resigned, you draw the hood of your cloak forward again, and scattered silvery rivulets run, falling from the sleeves. You begin walking as the car passes, an old and rusting model with the side mirror nearest you hanging loose, clattering against the flaking paint and metal of the door.
Your vision is sharper than a human's, the doubled lids of your eyes impervious to rain, and you catch a glimpse of the street behind you in the dangling mirror, suddenly mindful again of the silver dagger at your side.
There are three of them, this time. You're being followed.
Still, there was something about one of them that bothers you, the human with the green eyes who met your gaze, something familiar. You picture the moment in your mind: long, dark hair, unkempt and matted; rough clothing, worn but serviceable, nondescript; patchy, recent beard growth shadowing his facial features, though you noticed the tell-tale tracing of scar tissue underneath, a pale, jagged line just above the jaw that stood out even against his white skin. He was sweating - trembling, actually - and of course there were the eyes, those piercing green eyes that never left you. It's all you're able to recall through haze and shadow of the scene.
You try, but you can't place him; you shrug mentally and let the memory slip, though you feel certain you'll recognize the man if you see him again.
The rain is really starting to come down, and you feel the gathered water in the distant clouds calling out to you. It reminds you fleetingly of your birthplace in the lake country, a century ago and so many leagues distant, where the water was never so tainted, and you still felt like you belonged.
Your cloak hangs like a second skin, wrinkled and confining, and suddenly you want nothing more than to shed the bulky disguise, humans and gnomes be damned, and stand alone in the pouring rain. You resist the impulse, though it brings frustration and a vague, nostalgic sense of sorrow, and content yourself with raising your arms, tilting your head back, the narrow gill slits at either side of your neck expanding as you feel with every nerve the cooling balm of water, let it run across the burning, thirsting surface of your skin.
You sigh and just stand for a moment, taking it in, until a vehicle turns the corner in the distance, the slowly nearing glow of headlights shattering your brief reverie.
Resigned, you draw the hood of your cloak forward again, and scattered silvery rivulets run, falling from the sleeves. You begin walking as the car passes, an old and rusting model with the side mirror nearest you hanging loose, clattering against the flaking paint and metal of the door.
Your vision is sharper than a human's, the doubled lids of your eyes impervious to rain, and you catch a glimpse of the street behind you in the dangling mirror, suddenly mindful again of the silver dagger at your side.
There are three of them, this time. You're being followed.