@Wycliff &
@Spicyspice Will contain violence, blood, whumpage, swearing, and derogatory speech of the
wonderful Connloathian government, plus all of the above.
Angst Warning = Through Da Roof
Six months. Half a year. Eight months, altogether, spent in this godforsaken country.
He was tired, bone weary in a all pervading ache. It went beyond physical throbs and stabs, the sharp, grasping hands of exhaustion. His very being was worn, laid low. Six months pretending to be someone, something, he wasn't. He couldn't even remember his real name half the time. Lies, pretences, illusions. When he weaved so many, it was hard not to get pulled into them himself.
His heavy clothing creaked and rustled with every step, leather shifting with the barest of squeaks, while the long fabric underneath swung in the air, moved by the momentum of his stride. His body felt heavy, weighed down by the burden settled, ever heavy, upon his shoulders. The air was chilled, breaths of fog filling the space before him. Winter had come early, sapping the heat from the air as effectively as one snuffed out a candle.
His boots clunked heavily over the solid bricks beneath, worn and wearied leather, thick soled and sturdy. They had served him well for years now; he saw no point in changing them. Besides, in some morbid way, they reminded him of himself; trialled, tested, scarred, but still alive and well. A small snort of amusement as he turned to corner and descended the steep stairwell, the mirth never reaching his eyes. Those too, were tired.
Slipping into the shadows that surrounded the area he found himself in once he had reached the end of the stairs, he took a moment to be grateful for his bland, steel grey fabrics, the attire allowing him to melt into the darkness, unseen. His view of his target was perfect from that angle. Now all he had to do was wait for the opportune moment.
Of all his work, this would be the most rewarding. To turn one of the Duke's most inner circle...a fine ally he would make indeed. Smirking, though the expression was bland, even in the darkness, Ignis turned world-weary eyes on his mission. Zannrick of the Mordecai. The cherry on the cake Aven had had him baking the last half-year.
Of all the Mordecai he had turned to their cause over the six months spent within their order, Zannrick would be the most important. The most powerful. His role in their little rebellion would be pivotal, once it was assured that he would not turn on them. That had nearly happened once already, two months back. Ignis' torso bore the fresh scar to prove it.
Shaking his head softly to clear his head, he scanned the area around Zannrick, his angle not quite letting him observe what it was the man was up to, but it mattered little. He was alone, separated from the rest of the Mordecai and, well, everyone, here. Ignis intended to use that to his
full advantage.
