8th of Spring 514AV
Winter was at an end, and Syna’s spring rays now ornated the streets of Sunberth in place of the snow. It had been a year since Therizo first arrived to the city, as was clearly visible by his now torn clothing, smeared at places by the soil of the Dust Bed. The fact that he seemed to resemble his new surroundings more and more with each passing day was jarring, but inevitable. The black and white marble of Blackrock had, by now, almost entirely vanished from his mind, its memory remaining as naught but a vague recollection of a place that sometimes made its way to the front of his thoughts, waking in him the painful melancholy that he remembered feeling often at the beginning of his stay.
“Here I am again,” he said to himself upon entering the tavern that the locals called by the peculiar name of “The Drunken Fish”, which was to him the only liaison to the world outside of Sunberth. As a tavern it was not much different from others – the drunks were just as loud and the alcohol had the same curious after taste - but the sailors, who were the chief patrons of The Drunken Fish, came sometimes from distant lands, and Therizo hoped to meet one from Blackrock, as unlikely as that was to happen.
“Wine please,” he said to the barman who seemed somewhat surprised by the order. It was ale that was the preferred drink amidst the patrons of every tavern ever in existence - cheap and alcoholic, the way most who frequented such places liked it. Wine, however, seemed foreign, and it was for that reason that Therizo grew to enjoy it as much as he did, for what was foreign to Sunberth was familiar to him.
“Your wine sir,” with a jovial grin, the barman placed the glass of red in front of Therizo, who, in turn, slid two sliver mizas across the table, accompanying the gesture with a brief “thank you”; then, taking the glass, stood up to walk about the room as had become his habit.
His glass was already half empty when the wooden door of the tavern opened, and a peculiar trio entered. Each of them was deathly pale, with empty eyes characteristic of those living corpses so despised by Dira.
“Abomination” was the first word that popped in to his mind upon seeing them, his hands clenching in to fists. He had been thought that their race were desecrators of the dead who abducted corpses to serve as their blasphemous vessels, and their blood, he was told, was not blood, but rather an ungodly black ichor that animated them trough unnatural means.
Therizo caught himself glaring at the new-comers, who, perhaps luckily, didn’t seem to notice him at all, or at least paid him no mind if they did. He noticed that the two Nuits standing on either side of the one, who was presumably their leader, bore swords sheathed on their belts, and he tightened his grip on the cane he held in his free hand. He stole a glance at his palm, and the mark engraved therein.
“Something has to be done,” he frowned,
“and it’s my responsibility.”COSTS-2sm
by Therizo Tafos on March 12th, 2014, 6:46 pm 
