Wandering the streets seeking answers to all too familiar questions.

[Paareth]

Early Cycles of Aperitus, Spring of Era XV, Post Fractum

A wandering cloaked Katta, set against the crowded streets that were once his second home, second nature seemed to guide him as drifted along memorable paths, marked by many journeys. The desert sands were warm below his feet and the sand happily stuck to his fur, such a familiar and welcoming sensation.

Paareth growled welcomingly as he touched a nearby building, the city was different since his last visit but many things remained the same, its stone texture weathered by desert sands, just like the caves he was raised in. A sense of serenity washed over the Jagara and he felt welcome, called by the sands once more.

He was here first to honor the dead and second on his quest to remember what was, to find a sense of self again. Paareth had committed violent acts in this place both in the arena and outside of it but that was long ago, now at least on the surface, all the remained of that old warrior were the scars.

As the Jet Black Jagara, his stride and body weathered by era’s of travel, approached the crossroads that had held doom for a great friend of his, he paused, an emotion evident in his eyes, one which was innately more concentrated in some ways, than the burning desert sun that lit the way. The warrior strode over to the exact point they had been ambushed and squatted to the floor, touching the sand and running his paw over its surface, recalling the day it happened.

There had been a contract to assassinate a wealthy merchant, a greedy man who abused those under his care. Paareth had a led a group of his men here but the guards lay in wait, it was a trap. He looked up from the positions they were ambushed, arrows were fired from the roofs, men ran in from the side streets. The odd thing was he could almost feel the rush of adrenaline he felt at the time, like the shapes of those dead men were still moving towards him here today.

Paareth closed his eyes and breathed the scent of the air in deeply as the battled played out his mind, the now common conflict within him, the battle for old over new.

(OOC This is an open thread. Slight change of plan, though exactly the same idea we discussed but with a view to traveling Golem craftsmen or blacksmiths, rather than traveling mages if that’s alright. Please join whenever its best for you.)

[Nimbrethie]

Arakmat was a jewel unlike any other in the Empirical crown of Aelyria; the Pearl of the Desert harbored individuals of every possible race, religion, and morality. As such, events which might raise an eyebrow or draw a comment from passersby simply faded to insignificance amid the background that was the teeming metropolis. Even the presence of a jet-colored Jagara, crouching in the middle of a busy street and running a paw over the sandy expanse would have been unremarked - ordinarily, at least.

As luck would have it, upon this specific brightening there were several within the city’s walls that were not native to the area, and had had insufficient exposure to dull their innate inquisitiveness. One of these was traveling westward along the cross-street, not looking up from the medium-sized locked metal casket that he held tightly between quivering hands. His grey brows were drawn together in deep concentration as he perused the locking mechanism itself, his pale blue eyes blurred almost beyond recognition behind thick-rimmed spectacles.

It was only when his slippered foot made contact with something other than the road’s usual sandy loam that he glanced around, taking inventory of his immediate surroundings. His head turned this way and that as he peered nearsightedly at those who also hurried hither and yon through the twisting labyrinth that made up this portion of Arakmat’s thoroughfares. Eventually, after making almost a complete circle, his gaze alighted on the black ears jutting erect from the Jagara’s head. It was almost impossible for them not to stop there; the ears in question were located mere inches from his elongated nose.

Straightening himself to his full height of 1.2 meters (three-quarters of an inch less than four feet, in the old reckoning), he harrumphed loudly and tucked the casket under the arm farthest from where the katta crouched. Puffing out his thin chest, grey hair lifting and turning in the errant breezes that seemed so much a part of Spring in this first era of the Celestine Mandate, the gnome struck a pose that he perceived to be heroic … but was, alas, far closer to tragic given his short stature, tattered robes, and generally unkempt appearance.

“And what, pray tell, are you doing blocking the street, you ruffian? Shall I call the Vizier’s guardsmen to have you removed? You … you … you ragamuffin! You mangy, good-for-nothing vagrant! I’ll … I’ll … “