Falcon Darkflight
07-24-06, 09:58 AM
Canen could not help but linger another moment on the droll thoughts of his defeat.
He, the last Khaian alive save the mysterious physical manifestation of his brother Gideon, appreciated irony the way those outer city aristocrats appreciated fine Radasanthian wine and silver plated cutlery to accompany their evening meals, and there was an exquisite flavour to be drawn from his reflections on the cell. Canen had scrupulously cared for himself during the agonising period of time between his torturous LCC homecoming and the build up to the cell, peaking his physical form and undergoing tediously routine magical training in the under populated, bitterly cold region of Salvar near Fort Byrnia. It was a personal compulsion that, not unlike the scars his newly sprouted wings had left on his shoulder blades, was a lasting mark of his own upbringing that was imprinted more on his psyche rather than his body.
Had his brother been truly alive to know the threshold of anger Canen had irrevocably crossed, it might have been enough to make him rethink his singular method for gauging a man's inner pains.
Preoccupied with these thoughts, it took Canen a moment to realise that the horse drawn black carriage was slowing to a halt, its overstressed buckled wheels clanking and knocking as the cloaked driver guided it through the bustling cobblestone streets leading into Radasanth. He looked down at the soft canvas bag containing his effects, and numerous clean bandages for his various wounds, between his feet and grabbed the drawstring, a sense of unreality washing over him.
"Is this the place?" Canen said, leaning forwards to the man behind the reins.
The heavily tanned, roughly bearded man nodded, making the Nocturn feeling foolish for asking such a feeble question. Of course this was the place. Why else would he have stopped?
Crossing the driver's palm with just enough silver to earn an ale in a filthy backwater tavern, Canen stepped down from the gantry ladder and paced coldly over the weather smoothed pebbles that paved the quaint cobblestone streets. The Valiance remained tucked neatly under the cover of his black greatcoat, a lengthy garment that just nipped at the floor as it whipped in the cool wind. Although it seemed like thin material, it was actually quite a warm piece of clothing and had done a good job in keeping Canen away from hypothermia in past experiences.
The walk to The Drunken Monkey Inn was brisk, and thankfully, short. Upon his entrance to the tavern, Canen attracted scores of scornful glares from many parts of the room, and noted one individual in particular. The thin, bony foreigner in front of him at the bar wore a resume of lawlessness on his flesh in the form of deeply myriad tattoos, each one a symbol for an individual crime: murder, rape, heresy and a strange marking indicating the man's loyalty to the undying tradition of family orientated organised crime.
Canen wondered if this...exemplary...human being was perhaps one he would be assigned to rid the world of by Step. He certainly hoped so, taking a low profile seat in the very darkened corners of the bar at a rotting wooden table, awaiting the presence of an old friend he had requested to join him.
He, the last Khaian alive save the mysterious physical manifestation of his brother Gideon, appreciated irony the way those outer city aristocrats appreciated fine Radasanthian wine and silver plated cutlery to accompany their evening meals, and there was an exquisite flavour to be drawn from his reflections on the cell. Canen had scrupulously cared for himself during the agonising period of time between his torturous LCC homecoming and the build up to the cell, peaking his physical form and undergoing tediously routine magical training in the under populated, bitterly cold region of Salvar near Fort Byrnia. It was a personal compulsion that, not unlike the scars his newly sprouted wings had left on his shoulder blades, was a lasting mark of his own upbringing that was imprinted more on his psyche rather than his body.
Had his brother been truly alive to know the threshold of anger Canen had irrevocably crossed, it might have been enough to make him rethink his singular method for gauging a man's inner pains.
Preoccupied with these thoughts, it took Canen a moment to realise that the horse drawn black carriage was slowing to a halt, its overstressed buckled wheels clanking and knocking as the cloaked driver guided it through the bustling cobblestone streets leading into Radasanth. He looked down at the soft canvas bag containing his effects, and numerous clean bandages for his various wounds, between his feet and grabbed the drawstring, a sense of unreality washing over him.
"Is this the place?" Canen said, leaning forwards to the man behind the reins.
The heavily tanned, roughly bearded man nodded, making the Nocturn feeling foolish for asking such a feeble question. Of course this was the place. Why else would he have stopped?
Crossing the driver's palm with just enough silver to earn an ale in a filthy backwater tavern, Canen stepped down from the gantry ladder and paced coldly over the weather smoothed pebbles that paved the quaint cobblestone streets. The Valiance remained tucked neatly under the cover of his black greatcoat, a lengthy garment that just nipped at the floor as it whipped in the cool wind. Although it seemed like thin material, it was actually quite a warm piece of clothing and had done a good job in keeping Canen away from hypothermia in past experiences.
The walk to The Drunken Monkey Inn was brisk, and thankfully, short. Upon his entrance to the tavern, Canen attracted scores of scornful glares from many parts of the room, and noted one individual in particular. The thin, bony foreigner in front of him at the bar wore a resume of lawlessness on his flesh in the form of deeply myriad tattoos, each one a symbol for an individual crime: murder, rape, heresy and a strange marking indicating the man's loyalty to the undying tradition of family orientated organised crime.
Canen wondered if this...exemplary...human being was perhaps one he would be assigned to rid the world of by Step. He certainly hoped so, taking a low profile seat in the very darkened corners of the bar at a rotting wooden table, awaiting the presence of an old friend he had requested to join him.