49 Winter 513
It was the work of a single silver miza to call upon Noven. The trick with feeding a messenger was knowing the kind of food to tempt them with. In better cities like Ravok and Syliras, that meant a rim of gold...but in Sunberth, silver would do just as fine so long as you ran the risk of that message being told to anyone else with ears.
Wren leaned against one of the shanties at the edge of town, his breath steaming from his nose and mouth and up into the cold Sunberth sky. He hadn't worn his wide brimmed hat today, not in the mood to be pursued by killers or recruits for what he had in mind. Fallon's report on the two of them, Noven and Senghor required some mediation from the hypnotist and he had chosen to act without direct consultation.
By now Noven should be on his way, called from wherever he lurked by a bright eyed boy with a message. The Man of the Scars wanted to see him.
It should be enough to bring him out here.
Wren hadn't yet decided if he would unveil himself as the Hound who had cast down the Red Hand. Honestly it suited him better to be an instrument of the Hound and not the fiend himself. Distance meant that the Hound was a non-person, a title to be claimed or feigned, attached to an idea rather than a thing of blood and flesh. Maybe he'd call them all the Hound, and certainly that man, made of an organization, would be a true thorn in the Daggerhands...or perhaps the end of their favored weapon, pushing deeply into the circle they had so conveniently tattooed on their chest.
In his hand he held Zan, tossing him from palm to palm. The familiar had been quiet while they were in Sunberth, toiling away at some interior turmoil he had not yet vented. Wren refused to disturb the Sarawanki...given its disposition to simply saying without reflection, the silence suggested it was learning...moreso that it was reasoning.
And even with the dangers that might bring, Wren far preferred it that way.
Scuffing his boot against the cobblestone, kicking at the ice, he drew the cloak farther around himself and hoped dearly that the biting wind would finally cease its blowing.
That he would be given a measure of peace.
Or that Noven would hurry up.
Common
Thought
"Speech"
Zan
Wren leaned against one of the shanties at the edge of town, his breath steaming from his nose and mouth and up into the cold Sunberth sky. He hadn't worn his wide brimmed hat today, not in the mood to be pursued by killers or recruits for what he had in mind. Fallon's report on the two of them, Noven and Senghor required some mediation from the hypnotist and he had chosen to act without direct consultation.
By now Noven should be on his way, called from wherever he lurked by a bright eyed boy with a message. The Man of the Scars wanted to see him.
It should be enough to bring him out here.
Wren hadn't yet decided if he would unveil himself as the Hound who had cast down the Red Hand. Honestly it suited him better to be an instrument of the Hound and not the fiend himself. Distance meant that the Hound was a non-person, a title to be claimed or feigned, attached to an idea rather than a thing of blood and flesh. Maybe he'd call them all the Hound, and certainly that man, made of an organization, would be a true thorn in the Daggerhands...or perhaps the end of their favored weapon, pushing deeply into the circle they had so conveniently tattooed on their chest.
In his hand he held Zan, tossing him from palm to palm. The familiar had been quiet while they were in Sunberth, toiling away at some interior turmoil he had not yet vented. Wren refused to disturb the Sarawanki...given its disposition to simply saying without reflection, the silence suggested it was learning...moreso that it was reasoning.
And even with the dangers that might bring, Wren far preferred it that way.
Scuffing his boot against the cobblestone, kicking at the ice, he drew the cloak farther around himself and hoped dearly that the biting wind would finally cease its blowing.
That he would be given a measure of peace.
Or that Noven would hurry up.
Common
Thought
"Speech"
Zan
