Appearance

[Kardel 1054]

The embers flickered. The fire never caught. Two fireflies danced in the dark haze shrouding those tall pines. How easy was it for a man to change his face?

 

Very easy. It is very easy for a man to change his face, especially when he has seen so many other faces in his lifetime. One skin pigment is too much like the other. Hair color is the easiest part: you don't even need to use magic, a simple dye will suffice, or a hood. The eyes, those are hard. How can a man change his eyes? How can he see with eyes he has never seen before? The eyes, they stay. Shrouded by a cowl, they would not be noticed. The face, it changed. The voice, it changed, for an old man has heard many voices in his lifetime. This time, the voice would be one of his apprentices. It was believable. It was suitable. It gave him a headache when he kept it on for too long, the whole visage, but it was manageable.

 

Pale hands fiddled nervously with phials loaded with clear, thick elixir. Wrinkled fingers fondled the pig-bladder and goose-quill syringes, loading the mother-of-pearl colored liquid into those veins. Oh, how messy that was! No matter. Pink skin turned pale. The poor dwarf was but a lad; he did not deserve to die so precociously. However, the pale hands' life was more valuable than that of a inapt legionnaire. Black hair turned grey. For the eyes, pigment would suffice. They would be closed anyways, who would even notice? 

 

The pale hands struggled to unclasp the buttons of a robe. That distinctive green robe. It was hard. It was cold. Blood does not flow well when it is cold. Finally, the robe was unclasped, it was shed, removed, and with it, an identity was lost. 

 

The robe was hung on a hanger of flesh. The pale hands placed the effigy carefully over the desk. Head down, over a book. What book would he have been reading? The Traveling Alchemist. That one, he could leave behind. That one was not precious. The others must be taken. They must be hidden from prying eyes other than the fireflies. The pale hands placed them into a satchel of dull blue fiber. It was time to leave now.

 

The pale hands left no notes. The pale hands said no goodbyes. The pale hands struggled to unlock the gates without making a noise. The pale hands handed three minas to the smuggler. The pale hands and the fireflies drifted off into the dark. The dead walked among the living.

 

. . .

 

 

 

[1 1393]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.