Gobrannium's Tower

[Canen Darkflight]

(Closed to Raelyse)

-

Prince Raelyse Salidan...

It took Syrion a couple of moments to get himself together. He sat on the arm of the easy chair, pulling out and lighting a neatly rolled cigarette from his shirt pocket, and looked around at the stacks of paper surrounding him in his home consisting of anything and everything he could find on the former leader of the Grander's Order, with pages and pages of his father's own memoirs and notes littering the floor.

This guy sounds almost as much of a cunt as me. Syrion noted, flicking through a couple of pages that Canen had scrawled down in his spidery handwriting. Says here that most would describe him as an overweight, over-the-hill, flamboyant and borderline homophobe with a god complex and an unhealthy obsession with male bonding. Christ.

Pouring through the notes his father had left him had become an everyday task for the Khaian as he attempted to link pieces of the mysterious family puzzle together. Canen Darkflight had given him a life, and then according to all accounts he had of him, simply disappeared off the face of the planet. Attempting to trace his roots back, Syrion had stumbled across a collection of Canen's diaries, and one particular had referenced on more than one occasion Raelyse Saildan and the Grander's Order.

"I'm wasting my fucking time with this." He exclaimed to himself, sinking back into the chair. "Nobody knows anything about the Khaian people and why would they? They're fucking extinct. It's not like they can just send us a letter asking for any relevant information for inclusion in the next Coronian Encylopedia, is it? Unless Raelyse knows anything..."

Frustrated, he turned his attention back to a piece of material that had caught his eye in Radasanth's library. As he had been pouring through entire shelves of information dated almost twenty years back, he had, out of boredom, fished out a 'who's who' of tribal Corone, documenting the tribes that existed before the settlers came and expanded. Syrion, liking to know the area he lived and worked in, started reading up on the Gobrannium tribe.

The ancient Gobrannium tribe once boasted a potential that could have seen it become one of the largest settler nations in all of Althanas, The Khaian had read, However, due to what was thought to be an ancient disease outbreak at the time of their settling, the Gobrannium nation suffered stunted growth and were forced to confine themselves to a small area north of what is now the city of Radasanth. Although they are the only settler tribe to survive the coming of the current occupants of Corone, the Gobrannium people are still confined to the White Tower, and rarely venture out in public.

Poor bastards... Syrion thought to himself, mulling over a couple of paragraphs. It's not nice being the last of your kind, is it fellas? The rest of it seemed like bare facts and figures regarding timelines and historical Gobrannium events of note, until a particular piece of information reared its head, and peaked the Khaian's interest.

The Gobrannium's house many rare treasures inside the Chambre of Harvest, a ceremonial room said to exist in the heart of the White Tower. Each, in mythology, was said to control an element. The largest and most valuble jewel in the Gobranniums crown is called the Gobrannium Emerald, a dazzling and beautiful gem encrusted in a gauntlet plated with silver. It is one of the most sought after jewels in Corone, and although many have attempted to steal it, none have yet returned from the White Tower to claim it as their own.

"And how the fuck am I going to be able to get a hold of you...?" Syrion questioned as he peered at the sketch of the gauntlet. "I want you so bad I might just come up there myself to get you. The power to control an element..." As soon as he realised he was talking to himself, he stopped, and chuckled. Maybe he was becoming a little bit of a meglomaniac.

He sat back, inhaling the sweet tobacco, and let his mind wander. Then, in an instant, something occured to him. Perhaps he could kill two birds with one stone?

Yeah, that's fucking it. Syrion realised, snapping forward to pick up the notes on Raelyse Salidan once again. I can't get in there on my own. Perhaps I can find Raelyse, and get inside that tower. He's obviously got the balls and the strength, from what I read about him in Lornius with Canen, and he's not likely to bottle a fight.

The only thing is... He thought, inhaling again and blowing a smoke ring, which gently wafted over the air towards a log fire. How do I find him, and when I do, what can I use to tempt him? He probably won't just come along just because I'm the son of someone he once served with. He's like me.

He'll need a real, liquid incentive.

[Raelyse]

It had been a long time since Raelyse had been to Corone.

The continent just didn’t hold anything special for him anymore. Raiaera had the elves and their grace, Alerar had the expansive landscapes and the fine forges but Corone seemed to be naught but a melting pot. It was a hodgepodge of what all the other continents had to offer, which was both a boon and a bane. It had everything but it never excelled at anything.

When one has tasted the fantastic, the mediocre becomes bland and obsolete. This was exactly how Raelyse saw Corone, a boring locale he never wished to grace with his presence ever again. He remembered how when he had first stepped foot on Corone soil. There was not enough strength in his face to hold his glee in, for he had heard so much about it from his hometown of Myrusia. He held onto his high opinion of Corone for a long while, until his journeys brought him to Raiaera, Alerar and beyond. Corone quickly became as boring as his hometown and he quickly became eager to avoid it, realizing every moment spent on it was a moment wasted.

It was just Raelyse’s luck then that his ship sailing from one end of Althanas to the other had to stop in Corone for repairs and stock after some particularly tumultuous hours at sea. To get through a vicious storm alive, the captain had decided to dump most of the weight that wasn’t completely integral to them surviving, which ultimately meant that they did not have adequate supplies to reach their destination. Raelyse was just lucky that the closest port to their location had been Corone.

With the ship stuck at the port for the next few days to gather what they needed and repair what was damaged, Raelyse had no choice but to set foot in Corone once again. With every step on its land, he could not help but feel that he was breathing in mediocre air and stepping on mediocre ground. It was not a place for one like him, who transcended the boundaries of brilliance.

Raelyse found his feet taking him almost of their own accord into a nondescript pub, one that, like the continent it was located on, didn’t have any remarkable features. He took a seat in the central area of the bar, his extravagant clothing drawing a few errant stares. The serving wench approached him and asked for his order before promptly returning with it. His fingers found themselves around the handle of a mug of ale and his lips soon pursed in disgust as the bitter liquid found its way along his tongue and down his throat. He didn’t usually partake in beer, preferring the vastly superior alcohol contained in full flavored Raiaeran wine. But for some reason, he had a sneaking suspicion that this bar didn’t count that among its single digit plethora of wares.

There was another reason he was drinking; Raelyse knew that taverns like these drew interesting events to them like flies to rubbish. His standards had fallen, but he knew that when something presented itself, he would not care why it happened, only that it did.

Anything to alleviate this boredom, he thought to himself as he drank the last of his drink, down to the froth, and ordered another.

[Canen Darkflight]

You were never far from the sea in Corone. The scent of it was always there, almost as powerful as the odours of the fresh fish markets in the streets. On the coast, when the wind was high and from the south, the waves would shatter on the rock wall of the port and spray would rattle over the hulls of merchant ships and vessels, some in port to resupply, some for repairs, others to simply ferry tourists from one part of Althanas to the next.

Syrion peered out of the rickety wooden shutters protecting one of two of the tavern windows from the regular storms this side of Corone often saw, his gleaming sapphire eyes veering across the rugged dock edges not so far away, and blew a bluey grey smoke ring from his dry lips. He remembered hearing on his way to the Seven Wreaths Tavern how storms had battered the port near Radasanth for a week and the winds that had carried the sea spray to the coastal markets had torn down a few of the smaller ships that had anchored up, creating chaos at the shipyards. Wreckage littered the gangways; anything from fruit, to ale, to personal effects of trvallers had scattered in the wind, making a fine haul for scavengers. Whilst the mess remained, there would be long delays in port.

That would mean Syrion would have to wait to get to Alerar, where the last known location of Prince Raelyse Salidan had been reported.

Shit. He thought to himself, stubbing out an expired cigerette on the thick oak table in front of him, smearing ash in dark streaks across the planks. Another week, it could be, at this rate.

Another storm was brewing as well, the Khaian noted. The wind was starting to pick up again, and monstrous waves shattered white against the jagged stone walls of the docks as the shipyard workers scrambled to clean up the previous night's wreckage. Syrion could see the explosions of foam from the breaking tides almost swallow them up.

"Hope you're not thinking of leaving, boy." The landlord of the tavern, an almost pig-faced goblin of a man, hunched over from the base of the spine upwards, said to Syrion from behind the service counter. "I can see the impatience in your eyes. No-one's going in or out for a while. Last ship into port almost sunk out in a storm couple nights back, and it was a big fella too. I'm not suprised, though. Came in from Alerar, and they have a taste for the fancy, don't they?"

"Yeah?" Syrion replied half heartedly, not really caring for conversation, but humouring it anyway. "Wouldn't know, personally. I've never been there, and it this rate I'm not fucking likely to either."

The bartender turned to attend to a customer, and place some Coronian beer on the serving tray of a nearby wench, before turning back to Syrion.

"Never been, but you fancy it now? Holiday season is over there my friend. A lot of trouble in those parts. Why would you want to go now?"

"Not that it's any of your fucking business..." Syrion snorted, taking a lungful of smoke from a fresh cigerette he had lit. "But I'm looking for a man. He's supposed to be pretty well known actually, once competed in the LCC in Lornius with someone I know, and that, my friend, well, that's all you need to know. Another beer please, quick as you like."

The bartender shook his head, a blank expression sweeping over him momentarily before a look of curiosity shot through his eyes. "We have had a couple of former LCC contestants in here. In fact, Raelyse Salidan, one of that bunch, is here, on the second floor, waiting for his ship to be repaired. Maybe he would know..."

"Raelyse Salidan, the Myrusian?!" Syrion interrupted, sitting bolt upright, eyes wide open. No fucking way. Here?

"The very same. He's upstairs. Don't know how long for though, so if you need to speak to him I would go now. Now, if you'll excuse me..." The bartender turned away, disappearing into a dark corridor behind the bar leading to the understocked and poorly maintained wine cellar.

-

Syrion shook his head. He couldn't believe his luck. As he attacked the staircase leading up, he wondered why the Prince of Myrusia would have come to Corone. Nothing in Canen's memoirs mentioned any sort of incentive for Raelyse to come here, from note, but that doesn't mean there isn't anything he might have missed.

From what Syrion had read of him, Raelyse was good at everything he did, and in their couple of years service together Canen and the prince had become good partners. Canen could not imagine fighting without the huge Myrusian somewhere beside him, cracking those legendary one liners, and together they were as formidable a pair as anyone had ever seen on a battlefield.

The Khaian set a bottle of wine on the table and pulled the cork. The Prince didn't even look up.

"Prince Raelyse Salidan?" Syrion asked. "I'm Canen Darkflight's son. I've been looking for you."

[Raelyse]

People milled, aimlessly in his eyes, about the room, talking about their own petty problems and throwing out plans for their own fruitless schemes, almost as if to remind Raelyse where he was. He was in a typical bar, the starting point for the pathetic adventurer and habitat for the mediocre citizen. Nothing here was of any interest to him. Why would it be, when these people were so beneath him? They were like insects, scampering at his feet. Their words were like chattering nothingness to him; he could not understand them unless he indulged in the useless task of pressing his ears to the ground.

Once in a while though, the little creatures below would muster up whatever courage they had in their little bodies and approach the big creature, in the scant hope that perhaps what they presented was worthy. Just as the last of his latest drink forced its bitter taste down his throat, Raelyse was greeted with yet more alcohol. The sound of glass clanking hard on his table instantly broke him from whatever thoughts he was having and placed him in the present. His head perked upwards, eyes scanning the man that stood before him. He knew what this one wanted before he heard the words that left his mouth, he understood what was about to happen.

Without manners or tact, Raelyse plucked the bottle from the table and poured the red liquid into one of the empty glass that had been brought with the wine. He could tell instantly that this wine was a fine specimen from its smell alone, even before its full flavour slinked its way down his throat.

“You pick a fine peace offering, boy,” Raelyse said patronizingly. He placed his glass and the bottle flat on the table before leaning back in his chair and eyeing the one before him carefully. He did look enough like Canen, a warrior who he had fought beside a long time ago, that what he said was mildly believable. Without breaking his stare on the man before him, the Myrusian used his telekinesis to delicately levitate the bottle of wine into the air and flawlessly poured himself another glass of wine. Just as the bottle touched the wooden table, the full glass floated into his waiting hand.

“You, as the rest of the world, know my name,” he said with a smile, as he drank more of the nectarine liquid. “But, little Darkflight, if you truly want what I think that you want, then I would need knowledge of yours.”

Raelyse glanced around the bar, indicating the nobodies in the crowd around them.

“Differentiate yourself from the insects in my midst and perhaps then, we can enjoy this fine wine and discuss why you searched me out.”

[Canen Darkflight]

Syrion Darkflight momentarily broke eye contact, and looked out of the window into the ports, soaked in the afternoon rain, before picking up the bottle and filling his own glass. Raelyse hadn't said much, but the manner in which he had spoken of himself had pleased him. The Prince saw himself as the focal point of the room, he knew he was the best, and essentially it was that confidence and egotistical power that Syrion knew he could depend on.

This guy may dress like a tit and act like he's got something large rammed up his jacksie, but he's got bottle. I like that.

“My name's Syrion Darkflight. We both have a few things in common, which is what brought me to you..." Syrion sipped the delicate wine. It was well balanced, and very pleasing to the taste.

"Look around you..." He gestured his free hand openly to the people bustling around him, a nondescript, ordinary collection of beings who took little notice of anything going on around them. "What do you see? Exactly what you said. Insects, scurrying around the trash and filth of Corone. They live the life to which they are suited best, a life of mortality, a life where change is to be feared, not embraced."

His sapphire eyes darted to meet Raelyse's, filled with a burning passion, as if he clung to the words he spoke. "These people will go on to live their life in obscurity, content with their bottom-rung lot, and will die, forgotten in the passage of time, with nothing. No legacy, no monuments, no statues, nothing."

"But there are some of us born with a gift, Raelyse." Syrion leaned back into the cove of his chair, circulating the sweet wine around the lip of the cup. "People like you and me, we can see beyond the filth. We strive for something above and beyond mortal men, our grasp can wrap around anything we desire. Power, perhaps, or a legacy? Whatever. It doesn't matter which, because if we wanted, we could have it all. Our names could be carved in the passage of time, for these insects to idolise for all eternity. People like you and me, Raeylse..." He paused, placing his lips against the glass and carefully supping the sweet red wine "...could become gods."

"The question I put to you, Prince Raelyse Salidan, is simple. Would you like to remain swathed by these insects in this tavern, watching them rot in their own dirty lives, or would you like to come with me to a place north of here and prove your name does not carry an illusion of the reputation associated with it?"

[Raelyse]

Syrion spoke with swagger and confidence, mannerisms that Raelyse could easily relate to. Just like he had mentioned, these two had a few things in common, though the Myrusian was sure that even someone with this much cockiness could easily see that they were far from equals. There was no need to use his magic to sense Syrion’s strength; Raelyse could easily tell that this one could not hope to stand to Raelyse’s might for very long. There was an inexperience and nervousness about him that betrayed his facade of confidence, convincing Raelyse that he was less than impressive.

It wasn’t a rival that the Myrusian was looking for however, but a diversion to whet his interest and keep him occupied. Just sitting here enjoying the offerings of an apparently desperate wet behind the ears new adventurer would be enough to keep him amused for a while and it was the desire to beat his boredom that kept Raelyse in his seat. His wine glass lay empty, with nothing but a few drops of the liquid as contents. The Myrusian occasionally glanced at his companion as he spoke, watching as he spouted off words foreshadowing grand adventure and lucrative prizes. It was the latest of many promises that Raelyse had heard over the course of his adventures. Just like the others, this one did not hold any greater temptation than the others he had discarded.

On another day, Raelyse might have stood up and left, searching for another way to amuse himself. But his mood today was not one of vigour and he was hardly bursting at the seams, eager for adventure. He was, simply put, lazy and bored. There was nothing in Corone worthy of his attention anyway, so anything that he did search out and find would end up frivolous or useless.

“You know the way to a man’s heart, don’t you?” Raelyse said, a slight chuckle leaving his lips after the casual tease. “But surely you are not so foolish to think that your ‘gifts’ will last any longer than a candle in a tornado against mine?”

There was a jovial tone to the Myrusian’s speech, yet there existed also an unmistakeable menace and danger partnered to every word that left his lips. Despite this, he relaxed in his chair in a comfortable manner, his piercing blue eyes studying the one that sat just in front of him.

Raelyse took all the words that Syrion spoke with a pinch of salt, silently forgiving goads that on another day, might be perceived as insults.

“I have never heard bards sing tales of my avian friend, Canen Darkflight, nor his apparent famed son. But the very fact that you managed to find me suggests that a few people out there do know a fact or two about Raelyse of Myrusia. Surely, you do not doubt the reliability of the accolades that I have garnered?” the Myrusian said, his words continuing their light tone. He was in no mood to show off all that he had accomplished, but on the other hand, he would never be someone who would tolerate his achievements being belittled.

“But I presume the question that you have been waiting for since you saw me is this: What makes you think that whatever you offer me is worthy of my valuable time?”

Now, Raelyse would see how long this toy would be able to amuse him for.

[Canen Darkflight]

If Raelyse had sat there and second guessed his abilities, Syrion didn't notice. He wasn't interested in impressing the Prince on the face of it, and didn't care much for the judgements of others. It all boiled down to Syrion caring much about only one thing: himself. That was what this was all about, after all. He wanted the emerald, and he was smart enough to know he wasn't going to get it by himself.

Syrion may have been a bit naive, at times, but he wasn't stupid.

It took him seconds to come up with the obvious response to the question, and as he did so, Syrion placed both hands on the table, and leant, neck craned, towards Raelyse.

"It's not as much what I offer you, friend, but more about what circumstance throws at you." Syrion flipped another cigarette out of a pocket on the inside of his vest, and twirled it around his fingers. "I'm sure you have no need for a potentially burdensome and perhaps even boring venture with someone like me, but what else does this island have to offer you? The workers at the dock say nothing's leaving here for a number of days."

The cigarette stopped twirling, and met a naked flame struck by Syrion's match, smouldering at the tip in a wisp of blue smoke.

"...and I didn't paint you as someone who would want to sit around in tavern's drinking gnats piss and wading around in everyone elses filth. Am I right?" He paused, taking a smooth and revitalising drag from the tobacco, without even glancing to see if Raelyse disapproved. Not that he much cared what Raelyse thought about his smoking anyway. "Of course i'm right..."

"So, the question is this: are you going to sit here all day and deal with this lot..." Syrion thumbed towards the filthy masses seated behind him. "Or do you want to know more...?"

[Raelyse]

Dubious thoughts populated Raelyse’s mind as Syrion spoke. There was no denying the temptation and allure of the offer that had been put on the table. What was yet to be seen was the tangibility and value of whatever rewards could be garnered. Too many adventures had been undertaken where the ends had not come close to justifying the means. Raelyse occupied a lofty position, one that he did not reach by toiling like a dog for little bounty. Until Syrion pulled back the curtain and revealed what he really was dangling, his chances of getting any help would be minimal.

Still, the promise of a chance to satiate his boredom was too enticing to resist. The Myrusian downed the rest of his drink before standing up and placing both of his hands on corrugated wooden table. His eyes, dashed with ambition, bore holes through Syrion’s face.

“You mince words and talk of treasures unseen,” Raelyse spoke, his voice inquisitive, but with a foreshadowed menace in its tone. “And I do admit that for a few moments you managed to hold my attention, but it is time for you to buck up and tell me in uncertain terms why you are worthy of my time.”

The last part of his speech was almost frustrated, and a ridge formed on his forehead almost betrayed him but he quickly composed himself. He stood up straight, drawing a few eyes from the rabble, but he ignored them and took an emphatically long step forward. He stood just to the right of the table, feet from Syrion. Raelyse’s posture faced forward and his head turned to the left, glancing down at the man that remained seated.

“Do not speak as if you are anything more than a whelp,” he said, his voice laced with cruel pride and condescension. “You overestimate yourself and yet despite the effort you plough into wooing me, you forget that you underestimate me. I am legend.”

Raelyse took another step, this time moving behind Syrion, placing one hand on either of the Khaian’s shoulders. Before he made contact though, the Myrusian used his ice magic to lower the temperature in his palms to an uncomfortable level before making contact. Strong fingers crunched into bone with force to hurt but not enough to break or fracture anything.

“Listen, for you will not get another chance,” Raelyse said, speaking to Syrion as though he were a predator toying with his next meal. “You have one hour of my time. If you do not show me something worthy of my time, I will amuse myself with you.”

Raelyse released his vice like grip before taking one step backwards. His lips curved upwards and twisted into a cruel smirk.

“Do we have an accord?”

[Canen Darkflight]

Syrion winced as a jolt of cold pain snapped over his shoulderblades and shuddered through his spine like a thunderbolt. The sensation was like mild frostbite, and numbed the nerves in his skin, but it, accompanied by Raelyse's ultimatum, had served its purpose. The first feeling that flew through the Khaian was that of his ego deflating, before twisting and contorting to that of a slight shred of fear. This man was not to be underestmated, and even something as simple as a little magic 'touch' had served to warn Syrion he was toying with someone who would not tolerate it for long and someone who was of a far greater power than he. Syrion would have to tread carefully not to upset the Prince any longer with his hesitations.

As the Myrusian released the powerful grip from behind him, Syrion rubbed his shoulder, still rasping in pain, and turned his head.

"It is true that your reputation here is legendary, Raelyse. I will keep you no longer. Come." The sudden backtracking of the previously cocky Khaian's tone was evidence enough the Myrusian had made his point, and Syrion had accepted it. Sliding the chair backwards and throwing himself out of its wooden cove, the Khaian lead a disgruntled Raelyse down the main staircase, caring not for either patron nor serving wench, and towards the tavern door. Before clenching the the iron ring handle, he paused, and spoke of his misison.

"I won't bore you with irrelevant details, but I work in Corone as a bodyguard. I have stumbled over a collection of articles, one of which chronicles the activities, movements and history of the Gobrannium tribe. Ever heard of them?"

The look on Raelyse's face suggested not. Syrion swung open the tavern door, and lead the pair out, a sudden sheet of fine rain descending upon the gloomy port and soaking the streets.

"Basically, they were a settler tribe that wanted a piece of the Corone pie. They tried to expand but something stunted their growth. Disease was the suggested cause but whatever the reason, it doesn't matter. The eventual outcome was that the Gobrannium's made no progress, and ended up confining themselves to an area north of Radasanth called the White Tower."

Syrion frowned as the rain intensified, and could feel his wet clothing weigh unto him, making it irritating to walk. He turned right at an alleyway, ducking beneath a low beam before heading north, with Raelyse still in tow, still wondering what the point of all this was.

"The Gobrannium tribe are a collection of primative, underdeveloped and unintelligible stick-wielders. They didn't try to settle down to create a nation of philosophers, or doctors, or even carpenters, and naturally, frustration got the better of them as the humans moved in, started building ports like this, which would eventually condemn the Gobrannium tribe to a life of obscurity."

Another turn right, and the edge of the city honed into view through glassy beads of precipitation. The buildings became flatter, the land spanned out and the vermillion of the fields ahead rolled into the urban grey like waves lapping at a rock coast. Syrion pointed towards a dot on the horizon, a tower or a castle from where they were, and then pointed back towards the harbour.

"They used an enchanted jewel, the Gobrannium's Emerald or, to them, Rein's Charm, to control the element of wind. Using Aeromancers, they would seek out human ships from the tower, and control the ocean gusts in order to prevent ships from sailing in, either by killing the breeze completely or redirecting it. They tried to kill human trade off by stopping the Merchant vessels. I have a feeling this storm has been created by someone in that tower using Rein's Charm, and I want to stop it, and then take it."

Syrion turned back to face Raelyse, squinting through the rain to try and catch a glimpse of interest from his counterpart.

"Rein's Charm is one of three matching jewels, which aid control the elements of water and fire respectively. The deal is this: we get into the White Tower, break into their main chambers, and get Rein's Charm. Anything else inside of interest is yours. I just want the Charm."

The Khaian wiped his face with a saturated sleeve, and then stuck out his hand, flashing a rare smile.

"Do we have an accord?", He parodied.

[Raelyse]

Raelyse would be lying if he said he did not enjoy seeing his magic contort and twist Syrion’s face in pain as the cocky Khaian finally learnt his place. There was no greater feeling in the Myrusian’s mind than showing someone just how inferior they were to him. The change in Syrion’s mannerisms and attitude afterwards was an expected reward that Raelyse duly accepted. Many times people had come to him, doubting the full legitimacy of tales that had been spun about him, only to realize in due time just how little of the Myrusian’s powers these stories told.

Syrion played the role of a guide well, but as an adventurer, he left something to be desired. He recited informative lines with such ease and monotony that it quickly became apparent that the Khaian had thought on this ‘adventure’ more from books then practical experience. His briefing was more akin to a dictation of notes from a textbook then a compelling, believable seminar from someone who had been there and done that.

As the pair walked, Raelyse tried to filter the information that was truly integral to their adventure from the filler that Syrion was giving to him. He cared not about who these people were, or where they had come from. He only wanted the chance to crush them if only so that a few more souls would know of his strength. In his mind, there was no point in looting treasure troves for magical weapons. The number of ways for him to truly become stronger was growing ever smaller as he grew ever mightier and the Myrusian highly doubted that the Gobrannium tribe possessed something that could truly improve him.

When they finally reached the final observation point, they could not have been more different. Syrion was soaked, every inch of his clothing matted to his skin thanks to the heavy rainfall. But Raelyse was so dry that it appeared as though he had never left the inn. A subtle, translucent aura permeated the borders of his body, repelling all water from his form. It took just a slight thought with every step to maintain this effect, a minute fraction of what Raelyse was capable of. He enjoyed doing this though; he enjoyed looking flawless while someone else looked wet and dirty.

As soon as Syrion had pointed him in the right direction, Raelyse had began to sense the Gobrannium tribe’s magic. They were not particularly formidable, but definitely out of the league of someone like Syrion. At the tip of the horizon, through the torrent of rain, Raelyse could just make out the silhouette of the tower. Despite the distance they had walked, it was still quite far away.

“You have me,” Raelyse said, a cheeky smile across his face. He did not take Syrion’s hand though, instead beginning his walk straight for Gobrannium's tower, momentarily leaving Syrion with his thoughts.