3rd of Searing, Year 124 of Steel
Gloaming Hapertas, Silfanore
Gloaming Hapertas, Silfanore
put on his coat to go, but then the clock cried, "wait! not yet!
even though you're not wise or rich, you're the finest man in Silfanore.
listen up, Filaurel, make one stitch, and you'll see what you get."
even though you're not wise or rich, you're the finest man in Silfanore.
listen up, Filaurel, make one stitch, and you'll see what you get."
Not two days back in the city of his birth, and Sivan felt like an outsider. To be sure, he was an outsider. He had never fit in here in his fatherland, nor in Dalquia, his motherland. It had taken riding the coattails of an eccentric old artisan, wandering the continent and ending up, against all odds, in the free city of Kalzasi before he felt as though he might have found a place to call home. And yet, here he was, back again.
Despite his mother's blood, he looked as Hytori as anyone else. He spoke Mythrasi like an educated elf. His clothes were certainly fine enough for a prosperous Len'Hytori alchemist and artificer, but they were of decidedly Kalzasern cut. He decided that was the problem. All he had to do was camouflage himself in the styles of his father's people. When he decided this, he was nowhere near the place Torin had rented in the Enclave, nor the artificery where they were studying under a master together. He had been walking, trying to walk out the kinks that had knitted themself up his spine in those two brief days. His work was mentally taxing, but not physically so long as he stretched from time to time. He had stretched, but his unhappiness wouldn't be so easily wrung out.
He paused upon a street corner to take stock, stepping immediately so his back was to a fancifully wrought iron lamppost that had yet to light up, politely out of the way of the rest of the foot traffic.
No, no, no, yes!
"Gloaming Hapertas," he said to himself. It seemed a respectable enough establishment as he crossed the street and approached. The clothes displayed in the window seemed finely made, and he sensed, through his Rune, that whoever had made them had done so with care and diligence. It set him at his ease. Sivan was quite exacting with himself when it came to creating things, things that would have his name attached to them in any way. It was important to him to purchase from similar artisans, though, of course, he could be persuaded to buy from the desperate, as well, in order to help them out.
Sivan stepped up to the door, his hand falling upon the knob, just in time to feel the lock click through the metal in his hand. He blinked and saw another elf through the fine glass of the door, looking surprised. Sivan blinked, looked down at the chronometer upon his wrist, then over his shoulder in time to see his old perch lighting up in to keep the streets passable through the dark half of the time. He blinked again, turning back to the face in the glass, mouthing his apologies and stepping back, disappointed.
Well, he could figure something out on the morrow...