Round 2: Pestartz vs Artifex vs Dissinger

[Artifex Felicis]

There was something relaxing about traveling through Corone that Leon Timyon would never understand. It was the same bright sun that shone upon smokey Alerar or the frigid north of Salvar, but here it was not so mocking or oppressive. The gentle and consistent breeze took the edge off of the sun’s rays, with enough trees giving shade for a nap during the hottest parts of the day if a traveller so wished. There was more than enough daylight for anyone to make it from town to town even with a long rest.

Leon himself had indulged in the act earlier, dozing as the sun lazily crawled across the sky. A single tree provided all the shade the cat boy could have needed. The meandering road was just a short walk away; not even out of sight, but too far for any bandit to get the drop on him. It was good sleep, the soft grass providing more than enough of a cushion for comfort. It was brought to an end as Leon’s ears twitched with the coming steps of travelers. The cat boy had barely dreamed. The cat hardly ever dreamed nowadays, just quick images that left his waking mind as quickly as water through his paws.

It was because of these grasses he was shirtless now, his armored jacket and shirt slung over a low tree branch. A large ruck sack, with spear and sword strapped awkwardly to its outside, rested beneath the branch. Delicately, with the tips of claws that could cut air, he removed ticks that found him an easy meal. It was mindless work, letting Leon’s head wander as he popped the bloodsucking insects and occasionally interrupted by loud yawns that showed too many teeth. He had quite some time before his ship would arrive in the southern port, which would bring him to Scara Brae. From there, nearly a week on the smaller island as his vessel resupplied, and by then he should have narrowed things down.

He popped a second tick on his arm.

Leon had been gone from nearly everything for too long. His reputation had suffered accordingly. The office he held in the Dajas Pagoda, that of Grandmaster, was almost completely forgotten and the tower itself all but destroyed from neglect and age, if his sources were to be believed. Raiaera had likely forgotten after Xem’Zund’s crippling attack, his contribution reduced to a mere footnote at best. Even Underwood, nearly a stone’s throw from his home in the forest of Concordia, barely registered the hunter as little more than an odd customer with deep pockets and a deeper thirst. Even something like the Serenti ended up being little more than an empty promise, despite the build up and excitement that seemed to be echoed throughout the country.

The third tick wriggled its legs, the body trapped in the tips of Leon’s claws. It hadn’t been able to find purchase on Leon’s face, it’s teeth unable to pierce his skin. He twitched, and the insect fell to the ground in pieces. Leon hadn’t cared much for what legacy he had built over time, but now that it had faded there was an ache. His changes in the world weren’t lasting, except for his scars. He shrugged, pulling the shirt over his head. A quick tap on the rucksack with his paw and the steel yarn coiled around the arm.

There was plenty of time to enjoy his life and just as much to start anew.