[Archalen Andares]

39th Optia, in the Season of Summer, Era XIV

They were hesitant at first, but relented sooner or later. Truth be told, the two didn't want to leave his side in the city, let alone for one of those whimsy-washy mage types. It was a matter of trust, a matter of lacking security. Archalen held his hand high to the two bodyguards that had accompanied him since traveling the breadth of the Empire, if only to re-iterate his order. "I assure you....I will be fine." The gray haired shadow kin chuckled (as close to a laugh as he could) as he shook his head from side to side. "after all, I have survived in Imperia....for thane for quite some time. If I can keep alive as a public figure there without harm...surely I can weather the streets of Vortex if only for a short...candlemark or two." Christos and the other guard looked to each other, unease in their eyes. But, this was an order, not a suggestion and as such the two would have to leave their charge and entertain themselves in the city until he came back.

Why leave the guards behind? Why risk mortal danger? It was just something the Thane of Imperia had to do. He had to be alone before he started his training in mysticism, to clear his mind and steel himself as much as possible. From what he understood, mysticism was the link of the arcane to the mind, and as such he wanted his own prepared as much as possible before he began. Maybe it didn't matter? Mayhap it was unnecessary, but he so badly wanted to learn the arcane secrets of the mind he was willing to do preparation, even if it turned out for naught.

So, with this in mind he left the two keepers standing their befuddled and walked down the street alone in his thoughts. He tried to clear his mind, to somehow bring good luck in the coming candlemarks as if he could will such a thing. He passed by a small fountain, and brushed some water on his head, casually starring at his reflection for a moment before departing to clear his mind again.

He moved easily, with his black serape and loose baggy pants of the southern style. Underneath the serape the pale elf adorned a simple riffled white shirt with an open neck. A large belt holstered his dagger, kept under the serape. He walked in quiet concentration for the better of a half candle mark and by the time he arrived back at the D'Rinishad Academy he was in quite a reflective and philosophical state, if not more alert then he had previously been. Of course, he was naturally a philosopher.

As he passed within the walls of the Academy he hoped his teacher would get along with him. If nothing, it would make the perceived stress of learning an arcane art better, as well as increasing the chance his teacher would do a proper job at that. He did hear from the boy that had accepted the payment for the class, his teacher was Iranca, a master Vysstichi mystic.

A Vysstichi, the hated ones.

It would prove interesting whatever the case. He approached the class room door, perhaps a few minutes early, and knocked on the door before he entered. It would be here he would meet the underground one and see for himself, if this class could, and would, be productive under the tutelage of a Vysstichi.