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It had been a long, arduous journey, but now, finally, he was here.
Elbion. The famed city of arcana and ordered mystery, its humble cityscape utterly dwarfed by the majesty and ever-looming presence of Elbion College. A pinnacle of sorcery and civilisation.
Rovan noted a broken, ceramic pot in the gutter. He arched his neck, glancing up at the window it had presumably fallen out of. Perhaps in the early hours before dawn, where people usually emptied their chamber-pots, someone had dropped this by mistake and simply let it rest there.
So, not quite the pinnacle of civilisation, after all. He had seen cleaner streets in the Inner City of Alliria.
He sniffed and smoothed down the collar of his black robe, feeling a fair bit of comfort at these obvious flaws. It seemed he hadn't missed out with all his years in Alliria after all - it still remained the city of cities. But perhaps this quaint sorcerer's abode could yield some promising bounty, nonetheless.
The queue ahead of him shifted, all to the shared groans and grumbles of the people ahead. Unfortunately, it was the only gate to the college, and his aching legs attested to the amount of time he'd stood here with this rabble, quietly suffering under the relentless sun. Wearing black might be fashionable, but not the best choice in moderate heat.
Climbing the steep, cobbled road to the college gate, the queue seemed to move swiftly now. Whatever had blocked the flow loosened, like a dam opening a river.
Against the tide, a halfling stomped down, growling loudly to himself:
"Those simpletons . . . Goose-headed mongrels! Don't they know who I am . . ."
When the incensed halfling had passed, Rovan dared to sneak a glance at him. He thought he had a certain nose for different fashions by now, and this one's boisterous blue joined with yesteryear's yellow all but screamed Allirian. It was the excess cloth dangling from his chaperon, a blatant show of wealth, combined with his fashionable, frilly doublet mismatched with a decidedly unfashionable pludder-hosen. All of this indicated a merchant's class, compensating in wealth where he lacked in aesthetic sense or respectable blood.
He crinkled his nose at the faint smell of dried urine trailing after the halfling. Blue cloth tended to be derived from seeping woad in piss, then leaving it to dry. An expensive colour, to be sure, with a long, toxic process. Gave rise to the term 'stinking rich,' no doubt.
Mayhaps he is here to procure a magical means for dying his linens blue, Rovan amused himself by thinking. So he won't scare the local harlots away. A quest of epic proportions, indeed.
Regardless, a fellow Allirian turned away at the gate spoke of a bad omen. He had busied himself with observing the people waiting with him, and they all appeared local. Elbion folk differed in their clothes, more akin to rich villagers, wasting no scrap of cloth and patching their old clothes where needed. No doubt these were craftsmen and other folk of profession, seeking to earn coin within the fabled college gates.
The gatehouse neared, its guards waving people through, looking bored. Rovan prepared himself, lifting his own bag-hat and pushing back his slick, oiled hair to fit below it. He stroked his triangular spike of a goatee that sharpened his chin into a shaven shard of black hair, the rest of his jawline clean as ivory. He put on his fine, silken gloves again, disguising fingertips stained with bits of ink. Thus reassured of his presentation, he strode up to the awaiting guard.
Even the guards looked different. These ones had eschewed armour for tailored uniforms and long tabards nearly reaching the ground, emblazoned with the symbol of the college.
"You there. Step forth, please," he said, indicating Rovan with a brisk beckoning of his hand. Rovan pointed at himself, feigning absent-mindedness. Some part of him irked at being summoned like some nameless commoner, and he delighted in allowing the guard to share some of his accumulated impatience. The guard nodded quickly with a downturn of his mouth and Rovan ambled up to him.
"State your name and business."
"Master Rovan Ravenhill, and I am come for a meeting with Maester Kikwi, on behalf of my liege lord, Sir Anton Briarwall."
The guard's eyes snapped up at him - sharp, grey-blue ones, like tiny puddles on a rainy day, mildly alarmed.
"What's this meeting about, then?"
Rovan's chin dipped, answering his wary gaze with an unimpressed, downward tilt of his head, his pine-green eyes clashing with grey-blue.
"I should hope that could remain between the Maester and I. Need all meetings be announced here? I would think the title of a professor at least earns a modicum of privacy." The guard's frown deepened, still blocking his entrance with his body, all while locals kept pouring in. An unspoken ban against Allirians then, Rovan concluded. A predatory smirk bloomed from him, and his voice adopted a false gentleness, smooth and light as a velvet glove patting a ruffled dog. "There, there, now, nothing nefarious, I assure you. Have no fear, my vigilant friend. I do not intend on twisting the minds of your precious students into a crazed cabal, just yet. Maybe next time. For now, my business with the Maester is strictly one of commerce, on behalf of my patron."
While Rovan mocked him with his sibilant tones, the guard had summoned more of his ilk to come over, gaining a long scroll, reading from it while sizing up Rovan. Good, he thought, more colleagues to witness your embarrassing defeat, you glorified gate-puller.
"I see none here by this name, Master . . ." the guard practically sneered out the name, looking at him askance from his scroll. "Ravenhill."
"Ah, well the answer there is quite elementary, my stalwart guardsman," Rovan said, making a little, theatrical twirl of his hand, before scooping it down into his own satchel. "I should have arrived the week before. Lamentable, but sometimes the rigours of the road can be unpredictable, as I'm sure you can understand. That scroll of names no doubt only covers this week, I'd wager." The guards widened their eyes with surprise, never knowing that Rovan had perused over hundreds of such scrolls in his lifetime. Finally, he yielded a rolled-up scroll of his own with the seal of his patron, a brown briar-bush growing out of grey wax. He handed this to the baffled guard. "Allow me to assist you, there."
The guard took the scroll, hesitant to break the seal. Rovan nudged him with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Go on, open it. I insist. We are here to satisfy your curiosity, after all. I'm sure the Maester will understand, what with your most sensible notions of security and what-not."
For every courteous word he had breathed so far, his tone had carried an opposite stamp of derision and vicious ridicule. The journey had taxed him greatly, raising his choleric humours to a point where a troublesome guard was the last thing he needed.
He steepled his fingertips before him, patiently waiting for the guard to finish squinting through the writing.
"Hrm . . . Well, this appears genuine enough . . ."
Rovan beamed a smile and reached out his hand. The scroll did not return to him, however.
"Why, excellent! Then I shall merrily be on my--"
"But the Maester is not here today," the guard cut him off, and Rovan's hand dropped. A faint smile of galling triumph emerged from the guard. "You will have to wait for his return."
"His return?" Rovan repeated, confused.
"Indeed, you heard that right." The guard's chest puffed with bloated self-importance. "He is on a field trip to catch wild Gristlehorns, if you must know. It is uncertain when he shall return."
"But I--"
"You shall have to wait for him, I'm afraid. Terribly sorry master . . ." The guard peered again at his scroll, making a great show of recalling his name. ". . . Ravenhill, but 'tis simply the way of things during academic years. No telling when he might return."
"Well, I've never--"
"No option of waiting in the college grounds either, I fear. Must have a valid pass or escort, you see. And unfortunately-" the guard didn't sound the least bit sorry for the misfortune, rather seeming to enjoy himself immensely sharing these news, "-your escort appears to be trotting around in the wilds. Ah, well, a shame. College grounds can be lovely at this time of year. But, plenty of establishments await down in the city, Master Ravenhill, even ones taking your eastern coin, I'm sure." A final coup de grace, aimed down at Rovan's slightly unpolished travelling boots, gaze half-lidded. "A few affordable options, too, I reckon. Ought not tax your lightened purse too much for a few nights."
Rovan fumed. The smirk he'd offered before now mirrored in this buffoon's face, thinking he had won this exchange.
But he wouldn't grant him the satisfaction of exploding with anger, much as he would like to. No, he'd see to it that this guard would feel the sting of crossing him, in good time.
Arranging his features into a strained and indulgent smile, Rovan layered his voice thick with praise.
"For shame indeed, but unavoidable, I suppose. Thank you ever so much for your aid. Most helpful information." The guard nodded and was about to turn away from him, but Rovan continued: "But you have me at a disadvantage. May I inquire as to your name, sir? I should like to recommend you to your superiors for the aid."
The guard's face shifted to surprise, turning to a less malevolent form of pleasure.
"Well, certainly. It's Isaac Dren."
"Isaac Dren," Rovan said, tasting the name, committing it to memory. He gave a lavish bow before his departure. "I am in your debt, Master Dren. You certainly know the daily affairs here well, both in town and the college. I see now your inquisitiveness is well-earned and has reaped many fruits."
It worked. The guard radiated briefly with smiling pride. The fool would never know what hit him, especially now that Rovan would have time to kill in Elbion.
"Yes, well, all part of our duty, sir. Good day."
Tracing the same path as the angered halfling from before, Rovan mulled over his options. An inn, certainly, would be needed. But he had seen too many inns on his way here and grown weary of their repetitive lodgings.
Perhaps he could simply saunter the town, take it all in, breathe down its dusty roads and irritate some more taciturn guards.
One never knew what they might stumble into. Directions, at least, could be useful.
Another pedestrian cut out from a corner before him. Rovan raised a hand, seeking their attention.
"Ah, beg your pardon, might I ask something of you?"
---------
OOC, this turned out a long one. TL;DR, Rovan got fobbed off for his meeting with Maester Kikwi, stuck in the city bounds outside Elbion College. He's now going to see who he meets. Open to anyone with a character that could be found in Elbion. Free-for-all premise.
Elbion. The famed city of arcana and ordered mystery, its humble cityscape utterly dwarfed by the majesty and ever-looming presence of Elbion College. A pinnacle of sorcery and civilisation.
Rovan noted a broken, ceramic pot in the gutter. He arched his neck, glancing up at the window it had presumably fallen out of. Perhaps in the early hours before dawn, where people usually emptied their chamber-pots, someone had dropped this by mistake and simply let it rest there.
So, not quite the pinnacle of civilisation, after all. He had seen cleaner streets in the Inner City of Alliria.
He sniffed and smoothed down the collar of his black robe, feeling a fair bit of comfort at these obvious flaws. It seemed he hadn't missed out with all his years in Alliria after all - it still remained the city of cities. But perhaps this quaint sorcerer's abode could yield some promising bounty, nonetheless.
The queue ahead of him shifted, all to the shared groans and grumbles of the people ahead. Unfortunately, it was the only gate to the college, and his aching legs attested to the amount of time he'd stood here with this rabble, quietly suffering under the relentless sun. Wearing black might be fashionable, but not the best choice in moderate heat.
Climbing the steep, cobbled road to the college gate, the queue seemed to move swiftly now. Whatever had blocked the flow loosened, like a dam opening a river.
Against the tide, a halfling stomped down, growling loudly to himself:
"Those simpletons . . . Goose-headed mongrels! Don't they know who I am . . ."
When the incensed halfling had passed, Rovan dared to sneak a glance at him. He thought he had a certain nose for different fashions by now, and this one's boisterous blue joined with yesteryear's yellow all but screamed Allirian. It was the excess cloth dangling from his chaperon, a blatant show of wealth, combined with his fashionable, frilly doublet mismatched with a decidedly unfashionable pludder-hosen. All of this indicated a merchant's class, compensating in wealth where he lacked in aesthetic sense or respectable blood.
He crinkled his nose at the faint smell of dried urine trailing after the halfling. Blue cloth tended to be derived from seeping woad in piss, then leaving it to dry. An expensive colour, to be sure, with a long, toxic process. Gave rise to the term 'stinking rich,' no doubt.
Mayhaps he is here to procure a magical means for dying his linens blue, Rovan amused himself by thinking. So he won't scare the local harlots away. A quest of epic proportions, indeed.
Regardless, a fellow Allirian turned away at the gate spoke of a bad omen. He had busied himself with observing the people waiting with him, and they all appeared local. Elbion folk differed in their clothes, more akin to rich villagers, wasting no scrap of cloth and patching their old clothes where needed. No doubt these were craftsmen and other folk of profession, seeking to earn coin within the fabled college gates.
The gatehouse neared, its guards waving people through, looking bored. Rovan prepared himself, lifting his own bag-hat and pushing back his slick, oiled hair to fit below it. He stroked his triangular spike of a goatee that sharpened his chin into a shaven shard of black hair, the rest of his jawline clean as ivory. He put on his fine, silken gloves again, disguising fingertips stained with bits of ink. Thus reassured of his presentation, he strode up to the awaiting guard.
Even the guards looked different. These ones had eschewed armour for tailored uniforms and long tabards nearly reaching the ground, emblazoned with the symbol of the college.
"You there. Step forth, please," he said, indicating Rovan with a brisk beckoning of his hand. Rovan pointed at himself, feigning absent-mindedness. Some part of him irked at being summoned like some nameless commoner, and he delighted in allowing the guard to share some of his accumulated impatience. The guard nodded quickly with a downturn of his mouth and Rovan ambled up to him.
"State your name and business."
"Master Rovan Ravenhill, and I am come for a meeting with Maester Kikwi, on behalf of my liege lord, Sir Anton Briarwall."
The guard's eyes snapped up at him - sharp, grey-blue ones, like tiny puddles on a rainy day, mildly alarmed.
"What's this meeting about, then?"
Rovan's chin dipped, answering his wary gaze with an unimpressed, downward tilt of his head, his pine-green eyes clashing with grey-blue.
"I should hope that could remain between the Maester and I. Need all meetings be announced here? I would think the title of a professor at least earns a modicum of privacy." The guard's frown deepened, still blocking his entrance with his body, all while locals kept pouring in. An unspoken ban against Allirians then, Rovan concluded. A predatory smirk bloomed from him, and his voice adopted a false gentleness, smooth and light as a velvet glove patting a ruffled dog. "There, there, now, nothing nefarious, I assure you. Have no fear, my vigilant friend. I do not intend on twisting the minds of your precious students into a crazed cabal, just yet. Maybe next time. For now, my business with the Maester is strictly one of commerce, on behalf of my patron."
While Rovan mocked him with his sibilant tones, the guard had summoned more of his ilk to come over, gaining a long scroll, reading from it while sizing up Rovan. Good, he thought, more colleagues to witness your embarrassing defeat, you glorified gate-puller.
"I see none here by this name, Master . . ." the guard practically sneered out the name, looking at him askance from his scroll. "Ravenhill."
"Ah, well the answer there is quite elementary, my stalwart guardsman," Rovan said, making a little, theatrical twirl of his hand, before scooping it down into his own satchel. "I should have arrived the week before. Lamentable, but sometimes the rigours of the road can be unpredictable, as I'm sure you can understand. That scroll of names no doubt only covers this week, I'd wager." The guards widened their eyes with surprise, never knowing that Rovan had perused over hundreds of such scrolls in his lifetime. Finally, he yielded a rolled-up scroll of his own with the seal of his patron, a brown briar-bush growing out of grey wax. He handed this to the baffled guard. "Allow me to assist you, there."
The guard took the scroll, hesitant to break the seal. Rovan nudged him with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Go on, open it. I insist. We are here to satisfy your curiosity, after all. I'm sure the Maester will understand, what with your most sensible notions of security and what-not."
For every courteous word he had breathed so far, his tone had carried an opposite stamp of derision and vicious ridicule. The journey had taxed him greatly, raising his choleric humours to a point where a troublesome guard was the last thing he needed.
He steepled his fingertips before him, patiently waiting for the guard to finish squinting through the writing.
"Hrm . . . Well, this appears genuine enough . . ."
Rovan beamed a smile and reached out his hand. The scroll did not return to him, however.
"Why, excellent! Then I shall merrily be on my--"
"But the Maester is not here today," the guard cut him off, and Rovan's hand dropped. A faint smile of galling triumph emerged from the guard. "You will have to wait for his return."
"His return?" Rovan repeated, confused.
"Indeed, you heard that right." The guard's chest puffed with bloated self-importance. "He is on a field trip to catch wild Gristlehorns, if you must know. It is uncertain when he shall return."
"But I--"
"You shall have to wait for him, I'm afraid. Terribly sorry master . . ." The guard peered again at his scroll, making a great show of recalling his name. ". . . Ravenhill, but 'tis simply the way of things during academic years. No telling when he might return."
"Well, I've never--"
"No option of waiting in the college grounds either, I fear. Must have a valid pass or escort, you see. And unfortunately-" the guard didn't sound the least bit sorry for the misfortune, rather seeming to enjoy himself immensely sharing these news, "-your escort appears to be trotting around in the wilds. Ah, well, a shame. College grounds can be lovely at this time of year. But, plenty of establishments await down in the city, Master Ravenhill, even ones taking your eastern coin, I'm sure." A final coup de grace, aimed down at Rovan's slightly unpolished travelling boots, gaze half-lidded. "A few affordable options, too, I reckon. Ought not tax your lightened purse too much for a few nights."
Rovan fumed. The smirk he'd offered before now mirrored in this buffoon's face, thinking he had won this exchange.
But he wouldn't grant him the satisfaction of exploding with anger, much as he would like to. No, he'd see to it that this guard would feel the sting of crossing him, in good time.
Arranging his features into a strained and indulgent smile, Rovan layered his voice thick with praise.
"For shame indeed, but unavoidable, I suppose. Thank you ever so much for your aid. Most helpful information." The guard nodded and was about to turn away from him, but Rovan continued: "But you have me at a disadvantage. May I inquire as to your name, sir? I should like to recommend you to your superiors for the aid."
The guard's face shifted to surprise, turning to a less malevolent form of pleasure.
"Well, certainly. It's Isaac Dren."
"Isaac Dren," Rovan said, tasting the name, committing it to memory. He gave a lavish bow before his departure. "I am in your debt, Master Dren. You certainly know the daily affairs here well, both in town and the college. I see now your inquisitiveness is well-earned and has reaped many fruits."
It worked. The guard radiated briefly with smiling pride. The fool would never know what hit him, especially now that Rovan would have time to kill in Elbion.
"Yes, well, all part of our duty, sir. Good day."
Tracing the same path as the angered halfling from before, Rovan mulled over his options. An inn, certainly, would be needed. But he had seen too many inns on his way here and grown weary of their repetitive lodgings.
Perhaps he could simply saunter the town, take it all in, breathe down its dusty roads and irritate some more taciturn guards.
One never knew what they might stumble into. Directions, at least, could be useful.
Another pedestrian cut out from a corner before him. Rovan raised a hand, seeking their attention.
"Ah, beg your pardon, might I ask something of you?"
---------
OOC, this turned out a long one. TL;DR, Rovan got fobbed off for his meeting with Maester Kikwi, stuck in the city bounds outside Elbion College. He's now going to see who he meets. Open to anyone with a character that could be found in Elbion. Free-for-all premise.
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