It was not where he wanted to be, for more reasons than he wanted to count. The sickness that had struck him the morning after he had left the basement had left him bedridden and feverish for days, and his recovery had taken much longer, doubtless exacerbated by his reluctance to go into town and see one of the healers there. It wasn't what he wanted...
But it was what he was going to do. It was something he owed no one but himself, an obligation he could take or leave. He had signed up for the Trials in the guise of Silversmith, a name only a few knew the significance of, and so if he did not appear in that face no one would know. He could walk away from it without consequences or censure.
And because of that, he came. He did so much out of a desperate need to be useful to others, as if he could undo the sins of his past if only he helped enough other people in his present and future, but this was one thing that he would do for himself. A trial seemed oddly fitting, tickling the darker side of his humor, and he dressed in dark greys as befitting the shadow of his former self that his illnesses - both emotional and physical - had left him feeling akin to. He was still, after all, a bard, and a touch of melodrama was as vital to him as air.
His sharp-featured face was gaunt with the remnants of sickness and his signature white hair had been braided and pinned up beneath Silversmith's battered, broad-brimmed hat, but his blue eyes were sharp and Isuma perched on his shoulder, purring quiet reassurance and encouragement as he descended the stairs with the aid of a short staff. His rapier sat on his hip, balanced by a long knife on the other side, and he quickly angled towards the tunnels, following his Fae guides with uncharacteristic silence.
But it was what he was going to do. It was something he owed no one but himself, an obligation he could take or leave. He had signed up for the Trials in the guise of Silversmith, a name only a few knew the significance of, and so if he did not appear in that face no one would know. He could walk away from it without consequences or censure.
And because of that, he came. He did so much out of a desperate need to be useful to others, as if he could undo the sins of his past if only he helped enough other people in his present and future, but this was one thing that he would do for himself. A trial seemed oddly fitting, tickling the darker side of his humor, and he dressed in dark greys as befitting the shadow of his former self that his illnesses - both emotional and physical - had left him feeling akin to. He was still, after all, a bard, and a touch of melodrama was as vital to him as air.
His sharp-featured face was gaunt with the remnants of sickness and his signature white hair had been braided and pinned up beneath Silversmith's battered, broad-brimmed hat, but his blue eyes were sharp and Isuma perched on his shoulder, purring quiet reassurance and encouragement as he descended the stairs with the aid of a short staff. His rapier sat on his hip, balanced by a long knife on the other side, and he quickly angled towards the tunnels, following his Fae guides with uncharacteristic silence.
