[In one of Venera’s lower-end market districts, the red light of early dusk throws long shadows over a hushed, narrow street, swathing half of it in darkness as violet as a bruise. A small man in long dark robes wanders the road, keeping to the shadows by accident more than any kind of steady intention. He has misplaced his hat at some point, leaving his head bare, and the collar of his robes seems rumpled, pushed away from his neck by the small white scarf surrounding it. His manner is aimless, his gait ambling as he walks. At one point he trips over a loose cobble, and although he doesn’t fall, he stands in the road for nearly a full minute afterward, staring at nothing, until he finally seems to recall his journey. Once again, he begins walking.
The road curves slightly as it progresses. The shadows shift, and eventually he steps out of them, the slanting dusk rays making him squint. In the light his black robes become dusty and misshapen, and the white scarf at his neck becomes a mass of tightly-folded wings. Despite the shadows stretching in long lines from everything in sight, the man casts no silhouette on the street as he wanders, passing abandoned storefronts and cafes. Eventually he comes to a small plaza with a fountain at its centre, and here he stops again, gazing at the fountain as though trying to remember something about it. Has he seen that fountain before? Should he know where he is?
He doesn’t remember… but that’s of no great importance just now. His dark-eyed gaze remains on the fountain, but he isn’t looking at it. He isn’t looking at much of anything—and as he stands there in the fading light, a pair of silvery wings extends from his temples and slides forward to fold slowly over his eyes.]
Eustace
The road curves slightly as it progresses. The shadows shift, and eventually he steps out of them, the slanting dusk rays making him squint. In the light his black robes become dusty and misshapen, and the white scarf at his neck becomes a mass of tightly-folded wings. Despite the shadows stretching in long lines from everything in sight, the man casts no silhouette on the street as he wanders, passing abandoned storefronts and cafes. Eventually he comes to a small plaza with a fountain at its centre, and here he stops again, gazing at the fountain as though trying to remember something about it. Has he seen that fountain before? Should he know where he is?
He doesn’t remember… but that’s of no great importance just now. His dark-eyed gaze remains on the fountain, but he isn’t looking at it. He isn’t looking at much of anything—and as he stands there in the fading light, a pair of silvery wings extends from his temples and slides forward to fold slowly over his eyes.]