7th of Ash, 120 AS
Slow, shuffling steps carried Lyra down the streets of Kalzasi. She kept the hem of her robes clutched in one hand, to ensure they would not sweet at her feet least they trip her. She also kept to the side of every street she walked, shoulder hugging walls and stalls in order to avoid being bumped into or losing her balance. A frown creased her lips as she stared straight ahead, eyeing each rock and bump in her path.
I miscalculated. Lyra thought. Her body did not respond as she intended. Its muscles, limbs and even organs shifted in odd ways, refusing to accept even basic commands Lyra gave them. As a result, every motion was difficult, stiff, and awkward. She looked like the walking corpse she was, and a hint of frustration colored the Hytori's eyes as she glared at nothing in particular. This was the source of all of her issues ever since being freed from that gods cursed prison. She was hardly a shadow of her former self, limited in ways she had never expected. A ghost, or perhaps something less.
How long had it been? Centuries? Millennium? The thought set Lyra's mind racing, and she stubbornly tamped down the emotions that began to surface. It didn't matter how long it had been, the simple fact of the matter was that she was free now... she was free, and the world it seemed had gone on without her. At this thought, Lyra glanced around at the people she passed, as well as the city as a whole. There was an odd hollowness in the pit of Lyra's stomach. At first glance, Kalzasi seemed to be a wealthy, well off the city. It thrived, its people prospered, there was magic, that much Lyra could see, but it all felt wrong. Brown eyes fell on one man who was absently fiddling with a magical lantern, turning it on and off to demonstrate its use to potential customers. Lyra's found turned into a look of disgust and she quickly looked away.
"Babes." the word hissed through clenched teeth, drawing an odd look from the woman she passed, but Lyra ignored her, "Children playing with dragonshards. How... how did it come to this?"
Turning left town an alley Lyra breathed in, closing her eyes slightly as she felt at the air around her. It tasted stale, stagnant. The aether of the world was like a think cloud that barely moved. Compared to the world she remembered, this Ransera was dead.
Finally, she approached the stairs leading up to this body's apartment. Lyra stared at the steps, chewing her lip before finally sighing and resting one shaking hand on the rail. One step after another she trudged upward, having to carefully place each foot before lifting the next, and clinging desperately to the rail so as not to fall. Once at the top she moved swiftly down the line of doors until she reached her own, clumsily undoing the latch with a key from her pocket and pushing her way inside. The room was scarcely furnished, this body seeming to be rather frugal in life. Approaching the table Lyra dropped the satchel of goods on its surface, resting her hands on the wood and closing her eyes as she eased herself into one of the chairs.
"Before anything else, I must fix this body." It was a simple thought, one Lyra had concluded rather quickly after she had taken possession of this vessel. The woman, Milla as she was called, was a historian of sorts working for one of the guilds. A younger woman, likely no older than 26, apparently had never stood out. A 'book worm' as the local idiom called her, an odd thing to label a person but fortunate for Lyra. It meant that taking over her identity had not been overly difficult, as Milla had never been prone to the conversation. She even had amassed a relatively decent supply of this age currency, which Lyra had helped herself too readily.
Pulling the satchel toward her Lyra began pulling out its contents. A set of needles in a leather pouch, a stack of parchment and writing instruments, and 2 vials of ink. One was the normal sort that one could use for just about anything, the other, however, was unique. This vial Lira pulled toward her, uncorking it and examining its contents. Spellwrights ink as it was called, magically infused and used by this world's mages to create magical documents.
"Scrivening." the old elf practically spat out the word as she recorded the vial, setting it aside as she slowly stood, "What does this age's people know of magic? They hardly understand the forces they play with. Scrivening... a pale imitation of archmagic," pausing, Lyra chuckled and began undoing the ties of her robs, letting the cloth slip to the floor, "It is not even an imitation. Instead, these children have taken it and twisted the philosophy to fit inside of a box that their small minds can comprehend." Stepping free of the robes Lyra kicked the cloth to the side, twisting her body slightly to try and examine its naked form, "Where did these so-called 'world magics' come from?" The question gave Lyra pause, and she rested her hands on her hips, staring at the supplies on the table, "It is like they took a grand painting, marveled at its beauty... and then ripped it into pieces. What utter nonsense."
