Summer 1, 513 AV
Since entering the city, Wrenmae had uncharacteristically remained silent. His eyes were on everything, from the curving gothic architecture to the quiet canals full of odd long boats. Since he'd entered here, he'd felt the pull of Rhysol's mark on many...or at least many in comparison to his other marks. The strangeness of it all cast the city in a surreal light. Now he sat in the back of a long boat, carried to the Temple of the Black Sun. Since he'd entered, he had sought the place Rhysol would most like to have him come. After the events in Sahova, he had brought Zeltiva to its knees, spread some of Rhysol's corruptive chaos, and finally journeyed to find him here, in the city he had told Wren to come.
Something awaited him here, Rhysol's interpretation of his heart's desire...a truth even the mage was having trouble deciding on. Zan had remained silent since their entry as well, but more the hushed solemnity of a creature vastly uncomfortable than anything else.
For such a cruel god...he sure kept a neat house.
The city was a monument to the paradigm of rule here...neatly arranged, painstakingly constructed, and with enough black armored guards to dissuade any would-be thief from taking advantage of the resources here. Certainly, the deeper into the city he went, the more the alabaster Ravok impressed him.
Here was not the austerity found in Zeltiva, but a solemn sort of solidarity, a pride in the unique architecture and quiet, but present worship of the god. Not since Syliras had he seen such dedication among servants.
Stepping up to one of the temple doors with others, he inclined his head to one of the Ebonstryfe there, stepping inside.
Within, awe completely overtook the mage. Never had he witnessed such delicate constructions, such cavernous proportions. The prudence of the nuit in Sahova had certainly prepared him for meager means...but this was altogether inspiring.
He shuffled on his own to a corner of the temple, sitting in the pew and looking out to the shard of obsidian the pews were set around.
"Rhysol," he intoned quietly, "I have come as instructed." His soul trembled, remembering the hand of the god on his flesh, the agony he had felt before...when he'd last left the god, it had been pleasing him. He hoped that understanding had stayed.
"Tell me, Lord, why you summoned me here...and what I can do to serve now that I have come."
Since entering the city, Wrenmae had uncharacteristically remained silent. His eyes were on everything, from the curving gothic architecture to the quiet canals full of odd long boats. Since he'd entered here, he'd felt the pull of Rhysol's mark on many...or at least many in comparison to his other marks. The strangeness of it all cast the city in a surreal light. Now he sat in the back of a long boat, carried to the Temple of the Black Sun. Since he'd entered, he had sought the place Rhysol would most like to have him come. After the events in Sahova, he had brought Zeltiva to its knees, spread some of Rhysol's corruptive chaos, and finally journeyed to find him here, in the city he had told Wren to come.
Something awaited him here, Rhysol's interpretation of his heart's desire...a truth even the mage was having trouble deciding on. Zan had remained silent since their entry as well, but more the hushed solemnity of a creature vastly uncomfortable than anything else.
For such a cruel god...he sure kept a neat house.
The city was a monument to the paradigm of rule here...neatly arranged, painstakingly constructed, and with enough black armored guards to dissuade any would-be thief from taking advantage of the resources here. Certainly, the deeper into the city he went, the more the alabaster Ravok impressed him.
Here was not the austerity found in Zeltiva, but a solemn sort of solidarity, a pride in the unique architecture and quiet, but present worship of the god. Not since Syliras had he seen such dedication among servants.
Stepping up to one of the temple doors with others, he inclined his head to one of the Ebonstryfe there, stepping inside.
Within, awe completely overtook the mage. Never had he witnessed such delicate constructions, such cavernous proportions. The prudence of the nuit in Sahova had certainly prepared him for meager means...but this was altogether inspiring.
He shuffled on his own to a corner of the temple, sitting in the pew and looking out to the shard of obsidian the pews were set around.
"Rhysol," he intoned quietly, "I have come as instructed." His soul trembled, remembering the hand of the god on his flesh, the agony he had felt before...when he'd last left the god, it had been pleasing him. He hoped that understanding had stayed.
"Tell me, Lord, why you summoned me here...and what I can do to serve now that I have come."
