Drusus decided he could not sleep as he lay there on his appointed bed, still fully dressed save for his cloak of office, which lay next to him. Or at least he didn't wish to sleep. His gaze had wandered the bare timber ceiling and walls innumerable times. One might think his mind lost to the considerations of his current situation, to what the future would hold and would demand of him, but in truth it ran a single loop. A single affirmative statement: He was in, and though eyes had been batted none had thought to turn him away on account of suspicion or superstition. This was good.

He did not balk at the idea of his new 'commanders' and their questioning. At this point he didn't think they could afford to turn him away, they didn't have much stock to pick and choose from, and if need be he could confide in them his station as an Erudite. If a dignitary would not satisfy them, then the truth would, or at least if it didn't satisfy them then it would give them a reason to keep him along for the journey. Either way he'd be subject to scrutiny, he'd already been. He had seen the furtive glances.

He turned to his side and pushed himself up, rising to sit at the side of the bed. He laid his hands on his knees and gave the floor a glassy stare. He ground his teeth together and his features contorted into a scowl. The thin walls did little to mask the commotion from the halls, and he was more than certain there'd be more of its like as the hours ticked by, as the Consano's leadership made their rounds. He was a light sleeper, and that was under the best of circumstances.

He pushed himself to his feet and circled out towards the foot of his bed, his hands clasped together at his waist. His eyes did another circuit of the room, and nothing had changed, but he could not stop himself. He was almost giddy, despite the languid steps and the half-lidded eyes. His attention turned to the room's lone window, a small one, fogged and dirty. The candles he'd been arranged with lent the filty panes and the world beyond an eerie quality. Twisted caricatures of buildings, some glimmering lights blocks away.

The chaos in the hallway had died down, but he didn't return to bed. He stared out the window for some time, his brow furrowing. He had an inkling of what had transpired out there, he thought he recognized the voices, and he was altogether unsurprised if it was who he thought it was. He sincerely doubted that would be the last time voices were raised.

He reached out and pressed the tip of his first finger to the window's surface. He felt the cold of the outside, the barely perceptible pitter patter of drizzle against it. He shut his eyes and pressed the whole of his hand to the window and electric fire prickled at his scalp, teasing every nerve ending. He felt more, he looked outwards with a sorcerer's eyes. The vision of the cursed soul, not bound by such petty obstacles as the fogged window or gravity itself.

The rain soaked him through, and he could smell and hear and see the city with uncanny clarity. The light and the shadow danced as if drunk, wavering and lurching, but he felt as if he knew it all so intimately, as if he had the eyes of a hawk. There was a thrill in it, even if he felt it was flippant. Idle fancy was a wasteful use of his talents, or so he'd been taught. He chided himself again, something he'd caught himself doing more and more out north.

[i][color=olivedrab]The greatest swordsmen of Calraddi need not draw their swords,[/color][/i] he recited. Words to live by.

He returned from his reverie and opened his eyes. He was relatively warm again. He was dry again. The stale, stuffy air of his accomodations had replaced the icy breeze that stung at his nose. He stepped away from the window and turned to the bed, and he grabbed his cloak and threw it across his shoulders. And then he made for the door. He eased it open, slipped through, and closed it behind himself.

Where did he plan on going? Even he couldn't properly say, but he supposed he had time aplenty before Buxton and Chester would come calling. Maybe he'd venture down to the common room, get something to eat after all. Maybe he'd step out into the bracing cold, if only for a moment. He couldn't go far, true, but there was precious little for him in that room of his.

But, before he could turn and make for the stairs he paused and listened. Curious. At the very edge of his hearing was a mantra being recited, the voice of a woman. A prayer, perhaps. It wasn't conversational, at least, not by any means.

He pivoted on a heel and crept up the hall, one foot after the other, quiet enough to ensure he could still hear what it was he'd heard, but perhaps not quiet enough to escape the notice of any of the room's occupants. And then he had the room, some ways down the hall. The door did precious little to keep the secrets of the woman inside.

[color=f7941d]"... so please Skeitha, allow me to finish this through before I’m brought to the city of eternal night to face my sins.”[/color]

He reached to the doorhandle and turned it with a careful caution. It was unlocked, he found, and so he eased the door itself open. He let the doorhandle go free and slipped his hand back under his cloak. The door creaked the rest of the way open until it met the wall.

He spied the room's occupant, and he spied the idol she'd been beseeching there on the floor. It was the swarthy woman, he remembered her from the crowd downstairs. She'd been talkative, he remembered. She was busy exchanging words with some of the other prospective members of the Consano. More important was the array of knives she had on display there, and the particular way in which she carried herself. It wasn't a casual gait, but one that looked practiced. Acquired. 


[i][color=olivedrab]Mark her,[/color][/i] he mused to himself, [i][color=olivedrab]She'll be more dangerous than the others.[/color][/i]

[color=olivedrab]"I've seen her worshippers before, I think,"[/color] he murmured, with a gesture towards the Skeithan idol, [color=olivedrab]"Little totems. Dark skin. Loose clothes. Not unlike you. From far away, hm?"[/color] He permitted himself a small smile as he spoke from the threshold. His gaze went from her to the pitcher and bowl she had, and he extended an open hand. [color=olivedrab]"May I come in?"[/color]