“What is the nature of Magic, venerable seer?” The young man asked, his robes dusty from long travels and mail shirt faintly grating against the grime which clung to it, as he leaned forward to deposit the small pouch of jingling coins upon the well-worn, oaken table.
From beneath their shield of wildly growing, white brows, the deep and penetrating stare of the seer’s brown eyes met the traveler’s emerald green, inquisitive look for a moment. Transfixed by their brief connection, the young Syl missed the movement of the pale hand that retrieved the payment, carrying it away into the unseen and shadowed folds of the clean but age-worn blue robes which enveloped the seated diviner.
“You ask this,” the older man paused to resist another cough and to catch his breath, “as if there is only one form for Ai’shan’al to take.” His following chuckle quickly shook loose the cough he had attempted to restrain.
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