Respite from Tourism

[Corban]

Mapping the World
The basement door opened, and a man in black robes descended the stairs. Cobwebs accompanied him, an ever present fixture in abandoned storage warehouses like these. They slid off of his shoulders like water, leaving him clean as he met his compatriots in the dimly lit space.

“I have come down with allergies caused by this world.” Corban said matter-of-factly. For being allergic, he wasn't sneezing and neither was his skin of a sickly pallor. “I won’t be able to cast heavy spells until my body adjusts. However, my mind is still sharp.” Corban took out four folded parchments and set them in a grid on the ground. The drawings lined up perfectly, forming a contour map of the Underwood. Many of the contours were jagged instead of straight.

“I took the liberty of mapping the city’s magic topology, aside from temples and other places with artificial fields. This world’s weave is worn, like an ill-kept road. Basically you can’t speed your magic carriage or you’ll break your wheel axles on the many potholes. That’s what happened with my diamond magic: I took the straight casting method, and my carriage overturned.”

Corban pointed to shaded parts of the map.

“Compared to previous worlds, there are also areas with loose weave. We’ll call them ‘mud patches.’ To use the carriage analogy, these are places where our magic could get stuck. The unique lay of the land requires a different approach to casting, like adding treads to our wheels and caulking the wagon. Slower, yes, but it offers more consistent performance on uncertain ground." He paused for a bit, then reached into his pocket. "Hold on, let me show you." With a flourish of his wrist, he revealed a gel pen. More advanced than a quill pen or chalk, its wrote with a colloidal ink that contained fine crystal dust. Not only did it sparkle in that maddeningly girly way, it was also an excellent apparatus for writing waterproof spell circles.

Doctor of Abjuration and Transmutation to you!
He went to work on the nearest wall:
ΔƐ = ĝ(1/6³) - ƆƦƎƥƎƧ
σ = ψ(А,ͻ,Θ,ρ,Ν)

"Even by Cosmosphere or Well terms, we are far from home. But how far, and how does this affect our magic? To answer that, we must establish a baseline for ether permittivity. Like I said before, straight casting makes our spells porous, and the duration of our spells can be modeled in a hard vacuum system." He drew a circle, supposedly representing a pressure chamber. All the little lines and arcane symbols were a summation of all the forces acting upon an isolated spell. While Julius would have no problem, Tali was a warrior by trade and would find this tedious.

Another diagram, this one of a night sky with constellations not of this world. "Not everything can be distilled to a single number, as anyone who does celestial septangulation under full moons knows. When trying to rearrange the diamonds, I sensed something in the air, a foul wind. What is the form of this wind? It's much like how a hurricane feels like a blast of straight air to us, yet we know it is circular. To elucidate its form, we must map all the vectors, and adapt our transmutations for it accordingly. In due time, we may even be able to ride the wind and harness it."

The Guardian put the cap on his gel pen, admiring his graffiti for a moment.

“We must adapt our habits, a feat itself well within a worldwalker's habit. To adapt, we must copy." He stroked his chin. "We must find stuff to copy."

[Paradox]

The door to the abandoned building crashed open, wood thudding loudly against decrepit stone. A group of five people, tightly huddled together, hurried itself into the shelter. Gruff voices muttered indecencies at the sudden downpour that had assailed them mere moments after entering the small forest town. The rain could still be heard besieging the small refuge, slamming upon the flat roof and bashing against the rotten planks that covered up the windows. Occasionally, the sky burst apart with a thunderous roar, though now that the group was inside, the raging between the clouds sounded muffled, further away. The last traveller to enter quickly closed the door behind him. Rusty hinges groaned until finally, the group was sealed away from the storm.

"Sure glad there was a safe house out here," one of the men commented as he pushed down the hood of his traveller's cloak, revealing a jagged face with a broad jaw. The others remained silent as the speaker reached into one of the cabinets on the side of the otherwise empty room. Faintly, the sounds of objects thudding against each other could be heard. "Ah, there you are." The man's features showed a glimpse of satisfaction as he reached into the oil lamp he had recovered. It flared up with inviting warmth, casting shadows over the face of its holder, accentuating dark eyebrows and a scar running along the man's right cheek. He placed the lamp on the floorboards, illuminating a layer of dust that indicated quite some time had passed since someone had last lived here. With a grunt of relaxation, the man sat down in front of it, beckoning his quartet of companions to do the same.

One of those companions, taller than the other four, did so with remarkable grace. Unlike the others, he wore a hat instead of a hood, yet his headwear still could not conceal his dark facial hair from the grasping strings of light that emanated from the floor. Motes of vapor glistened frenetically on his beard as he ran his six-fingered hand through it. He smiled inwardly. He knew how much that alien feature of him unnerved his companions. Sure enough, their eyes revealed hints of nervosity, except for those of the man who had spoken earlier. "Any idea how long we're going to have to stay here, Jaron?" he asked casually, breaking the tension.

"We travel onwards as soon as possible," came the scarred man's brief answer. In both stature and tone he appeared to be the leader of the group. "Our contact wishes us to transport the package through Concordia with extreme swiftness." At the mention of their mysterious cargo, the tall man squinted his eyes. From what he had heard in the past few weeks, the small package that they were transporting had various magical properties. That was all Jaron had divulged. Since their leader had stowed the package deep into his own vestments, observing the object itself had proven an impossible goal. Jaron's protectiveness had proven quite the vexation for Olbrand Jacius Thorne, since his interest was more in the item than in the smuggling contract, but he knew better than to openly challenge the other four. They were, at best, slightly nervous cutthroats in need of money. Not exactly a demographic that the Shylan wanted to openly confront, especially when outnumbered four to one.

As Olbrand continued to contemplate his personal objectives, idle conversation rose between the other members of the group. He knew that most of them were petty criminals, and that they had accepted the contract merely because of the seemingly exorbitant prize that had been offered by Jaron's contact. It made him hesitant to join in their chitchat; their rattish exploits would mostly meet with silent disapproval, and he did not wish to rouse any suspicions about his ulterior motive as long as the package remained out of his reach. Certainly, it had dawned on Olbrand to make friends within the group and grab the package while staging betrayal, but he had quickly discarded that idea. Apart from Jaron and himself, the group consisted of inexperienced rogues, cowardish pickpockets. Jaron inspired too much fear for Olbrand, a complete stranger, to effectively instigate mutiny.

His thoughts ran off, attempting to discover other paths to reach his goal. His eyes, sharper than those of his human companions, moved to the floor in the corner of the dark room. He frowned, though it was barely visible beneath the shadow of his hat. Dark lines ran through the floorboards in a square pattern. Only by focusing his gaze very deeply, ignoring the distracting, dancing shadows that their oil lamp created within the chamber, could he distinguish an opening mechanism on one side of the square. A hatch? he thought. So this safe house has a basement. Wonder what's in there. Setting the thought aside, he returned his gaze to the group, which was now discussing whether it would be possible to spend the night in this cottage, should the storm not have subsided by nightfall.

[Inalitalllane]

http://www.akihabaracosplay.com/Mizahar/Singing_in_the_Rain.jpg

“Corban! Julius! Behold!” shouted Tälï to her companions as if they had never before encountered a rain storm. “The sky! ‘Tis falling!”

Fluttering eyelashes danced as the deluge of rain droplets coated them glossy black. Bright lips and eyes were wide open, both in an expression of astonishment. There, outside the basement cellar-door entrance was a young-bird woman standing in the rain. Within the storehouse basement, Julius, Holo-Juli (his illusionary doppleganger), and Corban conspired while being flooded by storm-water. She did not seem to mind that her ankle-length tresses were sopped to her form nor that her long natural plumage (interwoven ornately between her hair) malingered in tousled, sparse clumps. There was little care that her friends were all but drowning in the soon-to-be-lake of the basement.

The gown that Corban had made for her out of grass and fen was now quite healthy, but looked trampled on due to the weight of the water. All the little flowers that comprised the tatting had closed and the little bird’s nest of a brooch was thoroughly soaked.

But all was well. The sky was, after all, falling, and this came to her as a good thing rather than an ill omen.

Laughter could scarcely be heard above the clash of thunder and the roar of the rain, however, but her happiness was ‘heard’ in the way she danced. “Water! Water from Heaven! ‘Tis singing!” she shouted, turning ‘round and ‘round again between the divots in the cobble stone. Her anisodactyl (http://people.eku.edu/ritchisong/birdfeet.html)feet splashed water everywhere casting mud stains on her porcelain flesh squishing mud between her humanoid, but evenly spaced toes. The lapis toenails became the rustic color of clay while the palms of her hands were wrinkled from water weight. “Like prunes!” she’d say.

It was a terrible time keeping Tälï hidden these days. All the bird-ling wanted to do was gavotte and explore, eat flavored ices and talk to stars, or go singing to the sun or beehive eating. Mix all of this with the wonder of a foreign world and you’re guaranteed a recipe for disaster.

“Aaaaaah,” mouth open to drink the rain with her fingers sprawled as if to absorb every drop, the debutante harpy barely noticed the gentlemen barrel into the warehouse behind her. Oblivious to their schemes due to her naïve charm, she kept blurting out (painfully hinting, rather) that there were others in the storehouse. But where?

“Should you tarry in that basement any longer, I’ll not fetch fish or bee-hives for dinner!”

Ah. The basement. Of course.

[Alchemist]

http://www.akihabaracosplay.com/Mizahar/Forest_Rain_Tropic.jpghttp://www.akihabaracosplay.com/Mizahar/Rain_Forest_Tropic.jpg

Just Prior of Arrival, Heading toward the Warehouse...

With his eyes closed, rain plinked down upon his top hat and dropped atop his cloak - still much time left before it would compromise the wool’s ability to keep him water-proof. His suit on its own did a fine job. Soil and grass-stains ruined the impeccable air his clothing had once brought him, and he was starting to feel a bit scruffy, his skin itching for a pair of pajamas. A white suit had its advantages, but after some time muddling about in the muck, it was starting to really be in need of the type of cleaning he just couldn’t provide.

"Not yet, at least," thought he. Were he to dwell on it, he might surmise that he had become rather spoiled in his old age with the air of this new world interfering with his magical cantrips.

But his eyes were closed, his breath was slow, and his pulse rolled like the tide of clouds above him. One might guess that he was meditating. Lo, his steps were too careful, he very consciously moving his foot out of a loose stone set within his path as he trailed behind his two companions.

“It is the gate,” he said aloud, though his voice was not above a whisper. With that, Julius' eyes opened again as he smiled.

“The sky! ‘Tis falling!” exclaimed Tälï.

“In buckets, as they say, Little Duck,” he crooned as he pressed past Tali, giving the avian woman a slow wink and a melodic whistle, though careful not to steal such an auspicious moment from her. Curiosity rolled off her in waves, no augury required.

"Just watch her eyes and you'll know," he thought with contentment.

Not wanting to knock his hat off as he entered the root cellar, the elder magician tilted just to fore and took light steps down the stairs, closer to the walls, so as not to creak as he made his way down. A musky scent of waterlogged boxes and dissolving stone filled the air, and left the space feeling humid and heavy.

Upon Arrival...

“Just a little more water in here and I can build a new cloud for this storm,” he spoke to Corban, almost snickering at his suggestion of allergies. “Well, it seems this place cannot take what we already know from us. It is merely a disconnect, true.”

Juli in the minutes that followed, however, sat rather quietly. After-all, he had much to mind: Corban was outlining a piece that would work for a good, strong dissertation someday. Mr. Aldoid rolled over the man’s proofs and postulates as Corban scrawled them about; his darling was prancing fancifully about in her first great rainstorm; and it seemed not long after they had started to settle, what sounded like the steps and mutterings of five heavy men making their way inside the upper floor-room of the storehouse. It was all so much to keep track of!

“Corban,” he began, rubbing a gloved hand against his brow, “We need not copy anything. We are mages. By our design, we require attunement to the pervasive and subtle forces of reality, no matter how many alternates there may be.”

With the tip of his spatted shoe, he slid a box over to the man intending to sit on it as a chair.

“Now, in most respects, you are utterly correct, however do mind that in the world of the magician, as well as the mathematician, do not forget that reality is itself made of rational and irrational components.”

Water had begun to wet Corban’s parchment, the liquid sliding in through the cracks in the eroded foundation, though the holes in the ceiling and floor, not to mention just tracked in from their bodies alone, was causing a far more cumbersome problem. Touching his cloak, he felt a chill run down his spine. "She might be right as rain out there, but my attire requires a drier climate." Indeed, the former seamen loved the water, but this really wasn’t the time for such things.

“What right do we have,” continued the two hundred and fifty year old Rebis, wand flicking into his left hand,”To think that we could ever consider ourselves sages within this world after having only spent a few hours in it?”

Engaged in conversation, there came a quick tap of the wand-tip to his brow before a great puff of steam lifted off of him and drifted up and though the floorboards like a specter.

“We are unsynchronized vapor, that is all,” Julius now stood before Corban as dry as he ever had, the steam bath having taken the dirt and muck off of his suit with that last parlor trick/ “All we must do is 'realign our vibes.' That will come in time. It is just a waiting game. Much like this storm! Yes, yes, we may reclaim our power patiently and in our due time.”

Julius noted the water again getting Corban’s papers soggy, and the intricately designed seals and symbology starting to smear.

“Oh no, Corban, old fellow, now this won’t do.” Grimacing, Juli took note of the technomage's notes and could not abide all of that great thesis-to-be getting wiped out by mother nature. So it was that with a great and grand gesture, the magus stood back up on his crisp oxfords, removed his great white cloak with his arms mightily swirling about him, and let the great alabaster whirl fly from wall to wall as though it had grown just enough in length to do so without fail. Then, the water did slowly start to rise up like vapor, till a cloud did seep though the floor, and he made good on the promise of building a cloud.

Afterward, Julius lie back upon the now dry crate.

“I am sorry, I just needed a smoke,” and a great peel of laughter did escape him, and it carried its way upward and outward just as the cloud did.

[Corban]

"The plurality of magic views cut both ways. The irrational can be made rational, just like hedge magic. It would be my fondest wish to fill a library with the world's secrets, then build another one without any for a change."

Julius and Corban had, shall we say, complementary magical approaches. This made for lively debate, yet they were always civil. For the men to each ascend so high in their own way gave credence to their ideas. Some of Corban's recent breakthroughs would not have been possible without his foil's admonishments. Yet another breakthrough was simmering in his skull, taking his attention away from his papers. Fortunately, Juli saved the day.

"Many thanks Juli," Corban said as his parchments were dried. He stacked and folded them before sequestering them somewhere in his clothes and sitting back down. "I was never one to wait. It is the perspective of the short-lived races to make an impression in tiny flicker lives. I am not ashamed to say I still have that in me, for it has served me well. Plus, if I am to wait then let it at least be in the right side of the hot spring. I'd like to at least get that back post-haste!"

"Speaking of waiting, I feel like having some beef jerky." Corban leaned forward and stepped off his crate. "I believe I saw a box upstairs. I'll bring some down; I am not in the mood for her fish and beehives again." What better time to eat loads of jerky than when you had endless water! As he ascended the stairs, Corban began twirling two diamond spheres in the palm of his right hand. Each one weighed a full two hundred fifty carats, a goodly fortune by any measure. It was a tragedy, then, that this man liked to use them for sniping or tiddlywinks. His trusty knight sword swayed quietly in her lacquered sheathe.

With a push of his off hand, he opened the cellar door with a bang and found himself face to face with bandits. He pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow.

"...DEAR, WE HAVE VISITORS."

He still had the rocks in his hand.

[Corban]

A quorum has been reached: the show must go on!
The speed with which they jumped him was proportionate to the amount of treasure he was carrying. Seeing as how he had six of these on his person, they were fast.

Corban was barely able to pocket the gems in his hand before the first brigand drew his sword, its polished surface glinting in the daylight. Lacking any visible brigandine, plating or other smart warrior wares, Corban's clothes screamed "soft and squishy mage." Uneducated as they were, even thieves knew that allowing mages to cast was a bad idea. If they acted quickly, however, mages were easy prey. Wisdom worked most of the time; it did not work this time.

A terrible joke was played on the man as Corban’s hands moved to block his assailant's swinging blade, causing it to deflect off the mage’s sleeve without any visible damage. “Just what is that made of,” the bandit thought. He learned the hard way, with an elbow to the temple, dropping like a sack of coal. All but one of Corban’s opponents shuffled their feet warily as he calmly stepped over the sleeping man and placed his left hand upon the hilt of his sword.

When he drew Ishtalle, it was not the sound of steel on steel. If that did not hint that this was no ordinary black, her aphotic surface, deeper than the deepest night and absorbing what little light struck her surface, should've made it clear. With both hands, he calmly took a defensive stance.

<Ahead of schedule. Time to break you in with the first duel in the new world!>
~Be gentle.~
<You tell me what they’re made of, and I’ll end this quicker.>

Before continuing, he needed to give their blades a litmus test...several, actually. Feigning clumsiness, he slashed wildly. The man closest to the Guardian was actually amused; the attacks were easily blocked and posed little threat. How, then, did he managed to knock his teammate unconscious? Must’ve been a lucky shot. The mage would not be so lucky with him, not since he took those fencing lessons! Toying with his prey, the brigand put one hand behind his back, parried and riposted. To Corban’s credit, he managed to do the same albeit with a wavering blade.

<That blade ring…lighter than iron. Looks cheap. I’m going to call bulk steel mixed with some clay.>
~Black soil, with the richness of moist farmland.~
<High carbon content? Now that's what I’m looking for!>

He could see it! Like a doctor peering into the body, from skeletal to muscular and nervous systems, Corban knew the innards of the sword and aimed for its spine. Corban pulled Ishtalle back sharply, her blade ringing briefly before being silenced like a goblet touched. The brigand smirked; clearly the man was going for a horizontal cut, and he positioned his blade to intercept. Exasperated with the toying, his other friend moved in to shishkabob Corban and end this fight early. As he came within killing range, both saw the steel sword snap in the cleanest crack they’d never seen in their life. Corban swept Ishtalle back to his side, a ghostly ribbon of spent magic trailing behind her. Realizing that they were dealing with a hardened combat mage, they took a step back.

Too slow!

Corban gave them a free lesson in breaking mass-produced weaponry: once he knew the make of one, he had a good idea about the make of the rest. Crack! He broke the second man's sword, sending it clattering across the floor. Corban stepped right up to them, leaving no time to unravel the magic trick. Grabbing right under their chins, he gracefully swept his body forward in a mighty butterfly stroke. Half inch up, one foot back: that was the recipe for sending folks heel over head and cracking their back of their skulls in the ground. It would've been easy to slit one of their throats, for he was armed the entire time. By the grace of Corban, his new enemies would only lose their pride.

And then there were two: the six-fingered pale one and one Ugly, Esq.

"They certainly didn't last long," Jaron said, slowly drawing his own sword. His was actually of respectable quality, the conspicuous seal of some recently dead merchant noble embossed on the blade. "But now that I know you're a mage knight, those tricks won't work on me." He leveled the schiavona at Corban, standing ten feet away. "How about you give us those two marbles as payment for trespassing, and we'll let you be on your merry way."

"I don't pay ransoms. Sets a bad precedent." Corban lofted his sword before him. "You want them, you come and take them." Jaron looked over his shoulder briefly, sizing up his last wingman. The thought of calling him in, and splitting the earnings, was quickly brushed aside by the stakes: TWO HUGE DIAMONDS. No, the bandit leader wanted this one for himself. Meanwhile, Corban was taking in his surroundings. If he remembered correctly, one of the crates at the bottom of a stack was empty...

"Stay back. He's mine." The scar face reached into his pocket and took out a small crystal disc, which he placed just over his left wrist. Adhering to his skin, it awoke. The air refracted, a thousand rainbow threads bonded together into a hard shield of pure magic. "I'll be able to buy twenty of these with gems like those." He then closed the distance and thrust.

Indeed, Jaron was much better than his accomplices, and the basket weave protecting his hand made it harder for Corban to peacefully disarm him. He didn't want to kill the man, but Ishtalle was not up to snuff and he barely had time to reverse this world's curse upon him. The air sang with the crossing of blades. Occasionally Corban would find an opening to strike, only to have the man's magic shield block him. He grunted as Jaron shieldbashed him, sliding backwards several feet. Jaron assaulted him further.

"More than...one way...to use...shields...!"

Jaron jumped forward with his shield, ready to pin Corban against the crates and shank him. Yet while the bandit's shield repelled, Corban's would slow. This slowness applied not just to forward motion but also the pull of gravity through the air itself. Jaron realized he should've landed, half a second ago, around the same time he saw Corban sidestep behind his shield arm, apparently outside the tiny sphere of slowness. Twisting his muscled body to intercept was like wading through water...and his shield was catching current.

With one thwack, Corban slipped his sword between the shield and its emitter, and cut it off the man's wrist.

He cancelled his spell out.

The bottom crate, having been soaked with water repeatedly, was one man short of collapsing. Corban plowed through Jaron with his shoulder, adding that one man to the mix. Boxes collapsed on top of him, leaving only two well-worn leather boots visible.

The Guardian flicked his sword up and turned to the Other Man. However, he was nowhere to be found, having escaped through the creaky front door. "Sharp for a wingman," Corban said aloud. He looked down at his feet, and blinked. There was the shield emitter, yes, but there was also a package. Where did that come from? Sheathing his Guardian Edge, Corban bent over and pinned the package under his arm. Meanwhile, he pinched the disc between his fingers, observing the glowing surface from every angle.

Corban read the flow of magic with the curiosity and irreverence of a tourist trained in anthropology: he approached it on his own terms, respectful yet analytical. "Hmm. Smart choice for crystal. Stable, predictable flow. Frontal projection keeps cost low yet intuitive for a warrior." The surface rippled when he softly flicked it, yet became perfectly rigid upon bashing it against a crate. "Adaptive barrier logic."

That explained what it did. How did it do it? The peculiarities of Althanas magic became clear to him. "Ah, so that's how they keep sand out of their wagons. Interesting implementation of that theorem. I think I can do better though; this thing looks more like combat magic redux than a ritual-forged artifact." A candle lit above his head, and he tapped his cheek thoughtfully.

Combat magic, compared to rituals, skips steps. Unless they're dealing with Guardians, mages prefer to skip safeguards. "I'll bet two coins he glossed over this one..." Murmuring something arcane to himself, he flicked the surface and caused its surface to splash with a thousand unseen raindrops. Whatever Corban did, it was enough to dispel it and shatter the disc to dust. "Shield syke. It couldn't tell a thousand raindrops apart from a thousand meteors, so it played it safe and burnt out. This really was an amateur setup!" Whoever said psychology only worked on people? Spells could be just as flawed as their makers.

He now held the package before him. "Now what's in this birthday present...?"

[Larcius Kreston]

IN THE NAME OF SCIENCE

“Yes, that is right.” Said Grant, gesturing toward the pool of water in the middle of the room.

Larcius glanced at the water, his maroon eyes focusing on the way it stayed completely still in the rather large cellar. His latest prey had got him interested in “magical objects” claiming to know their origins, this “portal” he had gestured to. For having been a man of the cloth, Larcius seemed all too entirely intrigued by these things. “And you can promise me that I will find what I’m looking for in this?” Larcius said curiously, crouching down next to the pool of water.

“I can’t promise you anything, I’ve not yet been there. But our methods of science can’t explain it.” Grant said, walking along the other end of the room. His eyes steady on Larcius.

Larc wasn’t a fool; he knew this man would only use him as a test rat for his little experiment. But it couldn’t hurt him to try. The way Grant was looking at him made him a little uneasy, almost seeming as if he were waiting for him to jump in head first so he could jot down his findings. “You’ll never know until you go in, Larcius.” Grant said this with a faint smile, urging him toward it.

“Have you any idea where this leads?” Larcius asked, glancing up toward the man.

“Every test I’ve done has resulted in drowned rats. That could mean two things though.” Grant held two fingers up and folded them as he read them off. “One is that there is nothing there and I drowned hundreds of rats for no reason. Or two, that there is a pool of water, much like this one, on the other side. Either way, it won’t be a problem for you. If it doesn’t work, the then you resurface and kill me, really I’m the one losing here.”

Larcius nodded in agreement. “Alright, you’ve convinced me.” He stood up and looked at Grant again in an unsure fashion before looking back down to the water. “I’ll catch you on the flip side Grant.” With that he jumped into the pool of water feet first. Only taking a moment to realize that something was either going horribly wrong, or horribly right. The water began to suck him down like a whirlpool.

Down the rabbit-hole.

The water kicked him from side to side, slamming him against walls he didn’t even know where there. That was before the water went from clear to near black. Something had changed, and that was certain. A man would have drowned long ago in this wild ride against an unknown current, but Larcius was a little more than a man. Flipping around in the water for nearly a couple minutes, he was trying to make a best guess on which was up, the only indication was a light taping, like rain on tin roofs. He swam toward the sound, making haste to find out what he could about this place. Before he knew it, Larcius found himself emerging from a hole that was no almost no bigger than himself. Unlike many others who had been smothered by water for such a time, Larcius found himself not needing to take a large gulp of air, and not thrashing around. He was relatively quite as he emerged from this extremely deep puddle that he found himself in. Placing his hands on both sides of the cobble rock, he attempted to climb out. In his mind he cursed Grant for having tricked him, this place seemed no more magical than the one in which he had come from. That man was going to die, one way or the other...he hated being lied to about anything at all. His clothes were now completely soaked, and the murky water covered him in gritted dirt from the road. This just wasn't his day at all.