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Sovos awoke with a start. His brow was sweaty, but the room around him was cool. He knew his decoy had been discovered and destroyed. He knew the reason why, but not the person they had sent to find him. He shifted out from under the blankets to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘That was the last one,’ He thought to himself ‘I’ll need to write more if this ruse is going to work any longer.’
The sun was beginning to show through the window, the thin drapes doing little to stop the light. He stood and walked to the light.
“It’s time I moved on, I’ve spent a few good days here, but I must be on my way.” He said to himself. He began to dress. Socks, pants, shirt, belt, shoes, and a thin traveling cloak went on in quick succession, all in various shades of green and brown.
He glanced at himself in the cracked mirror that hung on the wall. The person that looked back at him was tall, but slightly stocky, with mud brown hair and eyes. His eyes were one of his favorite parts about himself, they had a small star burst of yellow around the pupil that gave them a nice accent. Many a maid had been flattered by those eyes, and that wasn’t likely to stop. Even last night in the dining room, while he entertained a crowd with some sleight-of-hand tricks, he had heard the barmaid and some village women talking about them behind his back.
He turned from the mirror, satisfied that he looked enough like everyone else as to not attract attention. He grabbed his satchel from under the bed and threw the strap over his shoulder. It was a simple enough thing, an ordinary brass clasp adorned it, and it was made of well worn leather. As with most things, however, it is not what is on the outside, but what is on the inside that counts. The satchel held his spell-scrolls, all handwritten, all unique, all dangerous.
He was a Geomancer by birth, right, and trade. First trained by his father and then at the Royal Academy of Magic for an unfortunate number of years. Due to certain circumstances however, he was currently on the run from the Academy and was doing his level best to keep it that way. The life of a vagabond suited him, plenty of time to think while on the road and the occasional fascinating stranger to talk to. Visits to inns were rare, because people had a bad habit of remembering him being there, but this one, he felt, was worth the risk.
The other reason, was he rarely needed an inn to be comfortable. He could use his skills to get food and lodging while in a town or city, they were also useful while on the road.
He walked out of the room, locked the door behind him and started down the hall. No one was awake yet, the only other living thing was a drunken man passed out on one of the large tables surrounded by empty tankards; his breath moved his mustache with each snore. He went over to the bar and dropped his key and a few coins into his room’s box. He walked to the door and grabbed his staff and short sword that leaned against the wall. The sword he quickly concealed, the staff he tossed from hand to hand as he prepared himself for the road. After a few moments, he grabbed his floppy hat and pushed the door open, stepping into the brisk morning. The inn’s sign swayed and creaked in a light breeze, the name “THE RED TANKARD” was clearly visible in the light. ’I must remember to come back someday, it was a nice place.”
He stepped into the street.
“So feet,” he muttered, “where off to next?”