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The air, stirred by the sweeping steps of the Lord Mynendil, broadcasted the elf’s arrival into the aesthetically pleasing courtyard. The scent of jasmine tickled his nostrils, inflaming his senses with the deodorant of nature and reminding him of the purity of the Kemite monastery. His rare violet eyes, dotted with malice, shifted predatorily from one side of the room to the other, regarding the stunning, picturesque scene with unexpressed admiration.
The bulk of the assassin’s intrigue, however, was riveted by the meditating form of the Sunn Temple’s monk. Tattoos that highlighted the Kemite’s distinguished career were visible along his muscularly-toned arms, accentuating his sleek physique and contrasting with his sun-kissed skin. It was the man’s steadfast concentration, though, that betrayed his identity.
The elfin lord paused a short distance away, his feet alighting gracefully upon the marble floor without whispering the faintest sound. Even his obsidian robes, thick and flowing, came to a sudden standstill about his sinister form as he waited in place. He neither announced his presence nor interrupted the man’s reverie. The monk likely knew that he was there already.
Waiting to be addressed, the assassin merely stood in silence, his eyes never falling away from the bronze Kemite. Respect naturally dictated that he not disrupt the man, and if there was anyone who was intimately familiar with patience, it was Nimavel Mynendil.
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