TELL ME, ATLAS, WHICH IS HEAVIER
THE WORLD OR ITS PEOPLE'S HEARTS
THE WORLD OR ITS PEOPLE'S HEARTS
When the ship finally pulls into the docks, the man already has his cloak pulled tightly around his shoulders to hide the golden scars littered across his body, his parchment and inks tucked into a small satchel. He disembarks with the rest of the weary passengers, allowing himself to be jostled and jolted by the rest, his head lowered so that he might blend in better with the crowd -- not that it helps, for there are guards stationed around the docks, stopping passengers and beginning to question them.
His turn comes to be questioned, and he keeps his eyes on the ground before him as he answers each question, as truthfully as he can -- it seems to satisfy the guards, who he would guess have never heard of assassins who bore metal markings -- and he passes by finally with a small sigh of relief.
That this land has seemingly never encountered the Astali makes him all the more certain that he had chosen wisely when he had boarded the ship -- even if he had ached to leave behind Anberlin, a strange heaviness to his chest that he couldn’t name, and he had a handful of letters already scrawled across parchment paper just from the weeks-long journey.
Whether he would send any of them might be another story -- first, he needs to find where this strange land keeps its messenger birds.
“Sir,” He calls out quietly to a man standing nearby, his ears perking forward. “...is there an aviary here?”
His turn comes to be questioned, and he keeps his eyes on the ground before him as he answers each question, as truthfully as he can -- it seems to satisfy the guards, who he would guess have never heard of assassins who bore metal markings -- and he passes by finally with a small sigh of relief.
That this land has seemingly never encountered the Astali makes him all the more certain that he had chosen wisely when he had boarded the ship -- even if he had ached to leave behind Anberlin, a strange heaviness to his chest that he couldn’t name, and he had a handful of letters already scrawled across parchment paper just from the weeks-long journey.
Whether he would send any of them might be another story -- first, he needs to find where this strange land keeps its messenger birds.
“Sir,” He calls out quietly to a man standing nearby, his ears perking forward. “...is there an aviary here?”
@Somnus oof he's rusty
