Rain spat down in sheets, striking a staccato rhythm against the low slate roofs of Elbion. Commerce never rests in the city of merchants, and the busier streets were far from empty. Many of the shoppers perusing the lesser-traveled Altuhk lane, however, were driven by the weather’s dramatic downturn to seek out shelter in the numerous cafes and taverns that dotted the street. One man remained on the stretch of cobblestones that wound to its dead end, nearing the final shop before he would invariably need to turn and walk the winding path back to his temporary place of residence.
Soaked robes clung to Faurosk like a blanket of sleet, sending cold chills scampering up his spine with every heavy drop that struck across his back. He’d been quick to transmute a heavy cloth hood from his outfit before the rain could wet his hair too much, but he silently damned his father’s fashion choices. Silk? Perhaps it was fashionable once, but really? What about cold, or water, or anything that doesn’t lend itself to an outermost layer of silk?
The mage uttered a low grumble as he entered the final store before Altuhk lane reached an impassable wall, drawing his hood back from his head and shaking loose what water had reached his already unruly hair. The man there had been surprised to have any customers this far off the beaten path, and Faurosk could immediately recognize the stranger’s somewhat shifty behavior, as if he’d nearly been caught in some clandestine act. Their business was brief. The mage was looking for a knife-- a Templar-made knife, to be more precise. The saying went that one could find anything in Elbion, but for every weapon store and second-hand armorer Faurosk could find, not one had even a shred of Templar weaponry, and the mage was nearing the end of his rope.
It was some good fortune, then, that this shopkeeper had recently come into contact with someone looking to get rid of one such dagger. The mage tried to hide his relief, but it must have been evident on his face; When the shopkeeper requested a “finder’s fee”, the mage laid two copper pennies across his palm without a trace of irony. The shopkeeper had grumbled something to himself about ungratefulness, but he accepted the payment nonetheless, simply happy to have made some profit on the inclement day. Faurosk exchanged some words with the shifty man, telling him to send the seller to the Familiar Tower Tearoom on Rohrssen avenue. Without any further sense of ceremony, the mage threw his hood back over his head and left for the rainy streets once more. From there, it was a short walk to the tearoom, and it was made even shorter by his brisk pace-- To be fair, could really, really use a coffee.
Soaked robes clung to Faurosk like a blanket of sleet, sending cold chills scampering up his spine with every heavy drop that struck across his back. He’d been quick to transmute a heavy cloth hood from his outfit before the rain could wet his hair too much, but he silently damned his father’s fashion choices. Silk? Perhaps it was fashionable once, but really? What about cold, or water, or anything that doesn’t lend itself to an outermost layer of silk?
The mage uttered a low grumble as he entered the final store before Altuhk lane reached an impassable wall, drawing his hood back from his head and shaking loose what water had reached his already unruly hair. The man there had been surprised to have any customers this far off the beaten path, and Faurosk could immediately recognize the stranger’s somewhat shifty behavior, as if he’d nearly been caught in some clandestine act. Their business was brief. The mage was looking for a knife-- a Templar-made knife, to be more precise. The saying went that one could find anything in Elbion, but for every weapon store and second-hand armorer Faurosk could find, not one had even a shred of Templar weaponry, and the mage was nearing the end of his rope.
It was some good fortune, then, that this shopkeeper had recently come into contact with someone looking to get rid of one such dagger. The mage tried to hide his relief, but it must have been evident on his face; When the shopkeeper requested a “finder’s fee”, the mage laid two copper pennies across his palm without a trace of irony. The shopkeeper had grumbled something to himself about ungratefulness, but he accepted the payment nonetheless, simply happy to have made some profit on the inclement day. Faurosk exchanged some words with the shifty man, telling him to send the seller to the Familiar Tower Tearoom on Rohrssen avenue. Without any further sense of ceremony, the mage threw his hood back over his head and left for the rainy streets once more. From there, it was a short walk to the tearoom, and it was made even shorter by his brisk pace-- To be fair, could really, really use a coffee.