Zantaric had certainly changed since the last time he'd been here, to put it lightly.
For instance, the last time he'd been here, he certainly couldn't say he remembered there being guards stationed or any gates about. Really, the last time he'd been here the village had been far less organized, more of a free-for-all than anything, which was why he had loved it. Ah well. Now he really didn't care. Whatever the village wanted to do, he was through with it--through with armies and organizations and leagues and politics. He was simply returning to his old roaming ways, returning back to his original quest to track down his brother, to become whole again. He really didn't give a shit about anything else. That was his only goal, his original goal, and he nearly had a one-track mind for it; he'd been damaged a lot in the past months, and now J'aari was surging within him, almost desperately, wanting to be whole and healed. There wasn't room for much thought or action beyond what the magic wanted.
But not after tying up some loose ends. Oh yes. J'aari could erase all other thoughts and cares, it could erase his grief over the death of his lover and loss of his child, even hide their memories completely while under its influence and replace the memories of his own torture and violation with apathy, but the magic nearly leaped at the opportunity to cause more death and hurt. Nope. Nakaris no longer knew why he hated Venorik and Darlig, just that he hated them and wanted them dead. And that's what J'aari wanted. The possessive magic fed off of such hatred and anger, and grew even stronger with violence.
Despite the sentries, it had been rather easy to get into the village. All he needed was an alias and to express his "wishes" to join this "Vharzyym", and he was good to go, not to mention he looked different now so identifying him would be more difficult for someone who didn't know him or hadn't seen him before. Once clothed in gaudy, attention-grabbing clothes and an assortment of accessories--earrings, bracelets, necklaces--he was now dressed in simple, travel-worn clothes that were covered in a nice layer of dust: brown breeches and a white, long-sleeved overshirt, stuff any peasant would wear. His red-gold hair was pulled back into a simple, loose ponytail at the nape of his neck. His hair, and perhaps the scar on his cheek that ran from temple to chin, were probably his only real distinguishing features, but even those features could be common.
Whatever. He wasn't worried. There was really only one person he wanted to be recognized by, so if he recognized him, props to him. The was still going to die, either way, and if Nakaris died, too, he couldn't really give a fuck. J'aari, however, did care--and the magic was taking every precaution to ensure his survival. That was why memory repression was pretty much vital.
Heading to the building where he was directed toward, he approached the sentries casually and confidently, regarding them with cool blue eyes.
"I request t' see Lord Venorik. I'd like t' join Vharzyym."
A flat out lie, but unless they were mind-readers, there was no way they'd know.
One loose end down. Two more to go after this.
