1st of Winter, 517 AV
13th Bell
13th Bell
Give a regular Isur a tent, and he'll scoff at you. He might even laugh full-out in your sorry face. An Isur? Blessed of Izurdin,
using a tent? Not so, this Isur might protest, his voice layered thickly in a vain kind of offense. His holy arm would let him prove you wrong a hundred, nay,
a thousand-fold. He would take a tree, an entire tree and shape it to his desire, the bark bending like clay and a forming beautiful yet intricate support beam. This enterprising Isur, employing what his people would consider to be childish games, but to any outside of Sultros his manipulation would surely be baffling in its magical wonder. Taking earth, grass-filled, and shaping it over the support beam, creating a small hillock. Leaving an entrance open, and entering the building itself to perform the finishing touches on his impromptu home. A normal Isur would never need to stoop to purchasing or even accepting the gift of a tent. It just wouldn't suit them. Of course, I'm not a normal Isur. Rhyson thought, stepping off the ferry from Ravok proper and onto the Lakeshore.
Rhyson's knife, a good Cold Iron dagger, glinted in the midday sun where the light shone in the gap of his coat. He walked off the quay, having paid his fare when he boarded the vessel in the City, and went in search of a place to purchase the necessary camping supplies. With Rhyson's pack slung over his shoulder, he traipsed from building to building, becoming acquainted with his surroundings. He had double, and triple-checked that he had all of his necessary possessions. That meant almost everything he owned; the clothes on his back, his waterskin, pipe, and knife sheath all of which hung at his belt, and all of the toiletries and rations that he could cram into his backpack. His youthful past had led to him storing his Mizas in a... discrete location. Could never be too careful with a man's coin, Rhyson figured.
Rhyson sidled up to a signpost and nodded to himself. He followed the directions of given there and hiked up the hillside to where he would find Wulfstan Outfitters waiting for an enterprising amputee such as himself. Maybe they'd even cut him a deal, given he would need to spend twice as long hitching the tent. That thought made Rhyson chuckle, and he continued walking.
***
Rhyson had worked up a light sweat from the walking, and it was getting on towards 13th Bell, but he'd made it. Letting his pack slide off his shoulder and thump gently to the ground, Rhsyon leaned against the cabin's porch, on one of the supporting beams, and pulled out his pipe. He brought it to his lips, and then dug his fingers into his pipeweed pouch, and then his shoulders sank. A frown fell over him like a Zith in heat, and he replaced his pipe on his belt and chewed his lip in irritation. Rhyson realized it was possible that this fine establishment he had found himself in might have pipeweed, and half-stumbled up onto the porch before remembering his pack. Feeling stupid, he snatched it up and burst through the front door, single hand on the door handle as he scanned the room.
Nothing caught his attention in particular, and Rhyson relaxed. He noticed a pile of containers in the middle of the room, evidently to be used to gather one's purchases. And so Rhyson did just that, but not without a slight amount of difficulty. Granted his only arm was quite muscular, as much as might be expected of a brawny human, but it was still nowhere near as strong as an Isurian's holy arm would be. He managed to heft the barrel he chose and bring it around to the back of the room. There he found a nicely compacted tent, tarp, and a couple thick blankets. He dropped the lot into his barrel and then scratched at his chin contemplatively. He didn't expect he'd be doing too much in the dead of night, not for a while at least. Rhyson would've bet a horse that the Northern Ravokian Outpost was practically filled to the brim with Ebonstryfe. He had no intentions of being anywhere other than his tent, when not out on a job. And he tended to sleep like a rock anyway. All that taken into consideration, the Isur pursed his lips and dropped six torches into the barrel. He'd want light on his way there at least, and better to be prepared and not need it, than to need it and not have prepared.
His barrel satisfactorily filled with the items that Rhyson would need at the Outpost, he turned about and looked around for the proprietor of the place, most likely a Wulfstan, or so the name suggested.
"Is there somebody here I can pay? And do you have any pipeweed?
I'm an advocate of Dark Ba'Tae myself, but I'll take a few ounces of that, plus a couple more ounces of your cheap varieties. Can never have enough of the petchin' stuff, especially seeing as I doubt I'll be coming across any of the good stuff when I leave town." Rhyson called, lugging his barrel back towards the middle of the room. He could already anticipate the odd looks, the apprehension when this person realized he was, yes in fact, a one-armed Isur. And no, it wasn't even an Isur's "good arm."
Makes no matter, I've got Rhysol to protect me. As long as I'm looking out for myself, he'll look out for me. I'm worth twice the value of those shiny-limbed shyke-shovers. I'm no ordinary Isur.
