Zandor took pause in his swig. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled, and a cold wave of disappointment flowed through his body. I've been discovered. After decades of clandestine mastery, Zandor's body developed a keen sense of his perceptual place; now it was telling him that someone on the caravan knew of his presence, and his sizable ego rejected any explanation besides magic. He capped his flask and replaced it in his tunic, simultaneously drawing forth one of his newfound Moraki daggers. Rolling to his belly - as the vessel had come to a brief standstill - he slithered to just below the wagon's entrance, but as he prepared to peek inside, movement from above bade him pause.
It sounded like a heavy lean, nothing out of the ordinary. Yet there was a creaking hostility within the sound. Once again intuition flagged Zandor into stationary listening. It was silent again for a stretch, before Zandor heard the exertion of someone standing. There were several steps, and once again silence. Something isn't right here. The noises sounded by all accounts normal, but there was a palpable malignance guiding them.
Then a figure, a limp, humanoid, malleable figure flew from the wagon. It careened to the desert floor, landing with an eerie silence before settling submissively into the sands - the submission of death. Zandor's eyes narrowed. He knew that was no martial kill, for it was long since he recognized the auditory permeations of a subtly slit throat, a mortal stab, or a snapped neck; no, this was a death steeped in magic.
Zandor's hands contorted into arcane shapes, "Lebaun Shaura." Obscurity settled over him. He felt his existence blur and fade from all non-corporal methods of perception. The only way to discover him now was to see with the honesty of a wayward glance. His pause lasted only moments longer. Confident their were no hidden sentries, he crept from below the wagon. Despite his irritation, he grinned as the night's intrigue took on more risk, more weight, demanding of him his ability to avoid detection, and so he let the abyssal, desert night devour his being as he crawled to the corpse.
Upon inspection, the immense queerness of the deceased alarmed Zandor. For such a fresh kill it was very cold. It was also pale, life entirely forgotten in the puzzling husk. He stared at it, weighing his options, before placing two fingers on its forehead. With some exertion, basic necro-magic glowed green on the pads on Zandor's fingers. "How did he kill you?" The mental utterance was met with silence. After a few moments, he asked again. "How did he kill you!?" This time he was sure, the soul was not available for contact. Both maddening and deeply disturbing was this conclusion. Though Zandor was no necromancer, a kill this fresh's absence was nigh on impossible. He retracted his fingers and switched his grip on the dagger from one of combat to one of throwing. Then, he crawled to the entrance of the wagon.
He slipped underneath and suspended himself. After a moment, the wagon began to roll again, the drivers seemingly ignorant of the kill. Only letting the absolute bare amount of his head show over the floor, Zandor glanced inside. It was dark, but his eyes, his Witch's Eyes, had no trouble in such circumstance. Upon viewing the scene, he was almost forced to chuckle. The two magic users were baldly obvious. Both of them wore cloaks, yet one also displayed gregarious, golden grieves, mildly luminous even in the paltry light. His cloak fell over the rest of his body, but this measure did nothing to hide the fact that he indeed wore a priceless suit of armor, wholly impractical in the desert and surely possessed of some magic which made it advantageous. Zandor also suspected from his posture that he had just recently sat down, making him assuredly the murderer. The other was less obvious. He sat, seemingly asleep, directly across from the killer. His face was pale, but more interesting was his implied anatomy. Anthropomorphic design seemed mocked by whoever this was, for his proportions seemed thin and awkward beneath the cloak. Despite this, there was a certain strength in them, and Zandor was fascinated. He fixed each with an alternating glance, electing to observe them for just a bit longer. It was a patent danger, though, and so his nerves buzzed with potential reactivity to an attack.
