The breeze felt lighter, cooler than it ever had. So long had it been heavy and hot, oppressive against the black skin of the drow who had run in shadows for so long. This was the wind of freedom, of independence, streaking over Izvilvin’s face to push back hiss long white hair.

It had been only a few days since he’d declared his resignation from Step – a private declaration to nobody but himself - and as he gazed down from his perch atop a short building, Izvilvin observed the rest of the free ones – free as they could be under the imperial regime, that was. He was in the midst of enemies here, as imperial soldiers walked the streets of Radasanth, but with Step still believing him to be one of their agents, he was safe from any oppression. He wondered, on a whim, how long he could keep that privilege.

The drow was still an ally of Letho Ravenheart, Christina Bredith and the remnants of the Corone Republic, whom he fought alongside against the Empire. The alliance was, in the beginning, a simple ruse manufactured by Step to get Izvilvin near Letho, whom they ordered the warrior to assassinate when the Empire first made their move. It was an elaborate ploy, one that Izvilvin could not yet figure out the details of. More than anything, he felt that his decision to disobey Step and fight the Empire was one his heart agreed with – making him feel better than he had in months.

He had only arrived in Radasanth from Fallien an hour prior, Mjolnir and Icicle at his hips and Palmer’s old greatsword strung along his back. With a wind dagger on each leg and three sai at the small of his back, Izvilvin was armed to the teeth. As imposing as the ensemble made him look, the drow was encumbered to a shocking degree, feeling heavy and slow.

Typical to the world’s tendency of dropping issues on a man at the most inconvenient of times, Izvilvin’s keen ears detected a shrill scream coming from below. He moved to the opposite edge of the building before sweeping his eyes over the crowd, squinting as he observed four men in the distance, one of them holding a bulging bag. They were fast.

Sucking a quick breath through his teeth, Izvilvin unbuckled his belt to send his weapons to the roof of the building, sliding Palmer’s greatsword from his back in the same moment. His daggers were light, so they remained on his legs.

“Zhennu draeval whol nindol,” he spoke aloud, his voice high and confident. It was time to do some good.

With a grand leap, Izvilvin cleared the gap below and landed on a lower roof, rolling as he struck the hard surface. He was up again without losing any speed, a blur to the eyes below that could keep up with him.

((Sounds fun, boy-o! Time for some roof hopping.))