4 Glade, 122 Steel
Arvalyn had a new trick- Or so Aurin had said upon conferring the power of Masquerade into the flesh of his wrist. A bestowal from his mother at the right wrist, and from his saviour at the left. It seemed fitting, somehow. At least there was symmetry of Rune, if not of power. He'd borne the Rune of Mesmer for far longer than a few weeks, of course, but his mastery had accelerated apace of late. Masquerade, however, was so new that, even without any actual discernable difference, it felt as though his left arm was weaker than the right. That the right was powerful and pendulous, whilst the left was frail and fragile. Today he would work toward equilibrium. Silence, he decided, was key, as was privacy. It was best not to ply one's tricks in public, even in a land where magic was used more liberally than in his homeland and elsewhere. There would come a time when he could brook- and would even seek out distraction, just to make certain he could execute his Craft when he actually needed it despite of diverting surroundings. But not when things were so nascent.
And so it was that Arvalyn Val'Cithaeron found himself in a quiet spot in the Tranquil Gardens that surrounded the eponymous hospital. He knelt on the grass beneath an apple tree from which he'd plucked a lovely, vibrant piece of fruit- Beautifully plump and red as fresh blood. In his left hand he held that apple and stared at it- Doing his best to take in every detail- from the beauty to the blemishes. In his right hand, a Reflection of the self-same apple. He was conscious of how the weight of the fruit made his left hand dip slightly, and he was conscious enough to replicate the same form in the hand that bore the illusory apple. To any passerby, the Hytori with the amber eyes would have looked as though he was in the midst of some strange, pagan rite- Perhaps a prayer or an offering. In truth, it was an exercise in self-improvement.
