Late evening, 43 Ashan, Arc 719
The suns hovered on the horizon in a dusty tangerine color, sending vivid pinks along rippled lavender clouds. Marcovera, for all the town’s traumatic recent past between the guild’s assault and the saltfetcher massacre, still proved to be as beautiful as ever. Bountiful nature surrounded the coastal location, illuminated by the last streaks of warm light before night would cover up the sky in darkness.
Zarik surveyed the clinic, while he listened to the nurse tell him about the state of injuries in the town. There were a lot of infections, from injuries sustained by survivors of the previous attacks on Marcovera. The necromancers located in the nearby tower had sent bandages and other supplies to help, but most of the people were too superstitious than to accept them. A slight disease had also started to spread, though not fatal, affecting the populace’s feet with what looked like barnacles in painful blistering rashes.
He’d spent much of the trial gathering information from the Marcoverans about the state of the town, which had the potential to grow into a fair port city – if and only if – Zarik and Alistair could lead a proper revival of Koros’ capital. Zarik felt exhausted already, his injuries still hurt though he kept them hidden away under his clothing. He’d changed in the afternoon, from the breathable gray cotton to his evening garb that befitted a noble lord.
Yet the outfit wasn’t his usual black. For he was on Koros, his island, not in Quacia where certain fashion standards had to be kept. Zarik wore a metallic silver surcoat instead, the fabric of a glistened sheen, with a long-sleeve pale green shirt. The color mimicked the foam of the sea and the sleeves were flowing, ruffled with gentle waves at the cuffs. His leggings were tight, and sheer to reveal a hint of his crystalline legs beyond the neutral thin fabric. While in Quacia, he would have worn thick and heavy boots to help keep out the various grime that lurked on the stone streets, he did not have to worry so much in Marcovera. He wore a light pair of silver boots that stopped at his ankle in twists of narrow string.
He pressed on his bangs, to flatten them and cover the mark on his forehead from easy view. For as the nurse led him into a different room of the modest clinic, he recognized a man across the way. It didn’t come as a surprise to see Kaelrik. He’d learned earlier that the Lotharro had been residing in the place.
Zarik gestured for the nurse to step back out to the corridor with him. She easily followed and he told her in a hushed voice, “How is that Lothar doing?” The nurse informed him of the patient’s status. He nodded, then said, “I must talk with him now. I will speak with you further about matters tomorrow, or in writing.”
The blond biqaj returned to the room and he approached the Lotharro until he was just out of arm’s reach away. He folded his hands behind his back. Zarik was alone. He had no Alistair with him. He had no Devin, either. The irises of his eyes were a clear ice-blue. He blinked slowly, then he said, “Evening, Kaelrik. I heard you were injured on one of the islands recently. How are you faring?”
Zarik surveyed the clinic, while he listened to the nurse tell him about the state of injuries in the town. There were a lot of infections, from injuries sustained by survivors of the previous attacks on Marcovera. The necromancers located in the nearby tower had sent bandages and other supplies to help, but most of the people were too superstitious than to accept them. A slight disease had also started to spread, though not fatal, affecting the populace’s feet with what looked like barnacles in painful blistering rashes.
He’d spent much of the trial gathering information from the Marcoverans about the state of the town, which had the potential to grow into a fair port city – if and only if – Zarik and Alistair could lead a proper revival of Koros’ capital. Zarik felt exhausted already, his injuries still hurt though he kept them hidden away under his clothing. He’d changed in the afternoon, from the breathable gray cotton to his evening garb that befitted a noble lord.
Yet the outfit wasn’t his usual black. For he was on Koros, his island, not in Quacia where certain fashion standards had to be kept. Zarik wore a metallic silver surcoat instead, the fabric of a glistened sheen, with a long-sleeve pale green shirt. The color mimicked the foam of the sea and the sleeves were flowing, ruffled with gentle waves at the cuffs. His leggings were tight, and sheer to reveal a hint of his crystalline legs beyond the neutral thin fabric. While in Quacia, he would have worn thick and heavy boots to help keep out the various grime that lurked on the stone streets, he did not have to worry so much in Marcovera. He wore a light pair of silver boots that stopped at his ankle in twists of narrow string.
He pressed on his bangs, to flatten them and cover the mark on his forehead from easy view. For as the nurse led him into a different room of the modest clinic, he recognized a man across the way. It didn’t come as a surprise to see Kaelrik. He’d learned earlier that the Lotharro had been residing in the place.
Zarik gestured for the nurse to step back out to the corridor with him. She easily followed and he told her in a hushed voice, “How is that Lothar doing?” The nurse informed him of the patient’s status. He nodded, then said, “I must talk with him now. I will speak with you further about matters tomorrow, or in writing.”
The blond biqaj returned to the room and he approached the Lotharro until he was just out of arm’s reach away. He folded his hands behind his back. Zarik was alone. He had no Alistair with him. He had no Devin, either. The irises of his eyes were a clear ice-blue. He blinked slowly, then he said, “Evening, Kaelrik. I heard you were injured on one of the islands recently. How are you faring?”
