Marek plodded along the road towards the port town of Waeldeshore. He could just make out the town in the horizon from where he was now, and could hear the ship bells ringing, and he could swear it was the salt in the air that was making his left hand sting. At most, it might take someone another hour and a half to reach it from where he stood. For Marek, it took roughly twice that. Seven steps, and he stopped, clenched his left hand, reached into his coat pocket to draw his flintlock, and checked it over. Again, and again, and again. He lost count how many times how many times he did this, but it was always like this shortly after firing the gun. He'd check and check and check and dread and dread and dread the moment he would fire it next. His fears would be proven right, and it wouldn't fire. Or he'd be wrong, and it would [i]crack[/i] and belch fire, sparks, and a lead ball. Then the weight of the world would lift off of his shoulders and he could breathe, and be free...until he reloaded it and the entire process started over.

As Marek drew closer to the town, he holstered his gun for a final time. Constantly fiddling and drawing a pistol was bound to be seen as, "odd," or "hostile," so he left it in his coat pocket, though it did nag at him from the back of his mind. Every guard, person, or even tent seemed to eye him with suspicion. Was that an amiable nod, or a signal? A greeting, or a tip? His hand clasped around the handle of his flintlock. The burnished wood and iron calmed his nerves, but only a little. He pushed his glasses up, and hunched his shoulders. His eyes focused on the road again, and he could hear his own heartbeat pound in his ears. He was sure to be caught. He was sure, he was sure, he was sure...

As Marek walked into the town through the main road, the most remarkable thing happened...absolutely nothing. No alarms, no strip-searches, no probing to find out if he knew magic. Perhaps...Perhaps he had overestimated their defenses just a little. But no one ever died from having a contingency plan. He may just write if off as luck, as anyone with paranoia might, or false information. Another weight lifted off his shoulders. He was in the town. Right. Phase two...would come after a quick detour. He lifted his left hand and clenched it. A long slash had been cauterized along his palm. Even mages weren't invincible on the road. Feared, yes. But still quite mortal.

Covered in dust from the road and with his hands in his pockets, he went from person to person to find a healer. Twice he's gotten the wrong directions, or had misinterpreted them, but eventually he was herded towards an alleged apothecary. Prideful as he was, he went reluctantly. No mundane [i]gardener[/i] could match a mage's touch...but cauterizing was a crude way of healing. Effective, but crude, and often very painful for hours, if not days after.

Unfortunately for him, however there was...something of a crowd outside the apothecary's, "Maria's," as it was called. He hoped, for his hand's sake, that it wasn't a line. Marek trudged forward and forced a grin before waving vaguely to the assembled group, and then to Maria's door.

[b][color=ed1c24]"This wouldn't be the line for the door, would it? I'd hate to collapse before I can get inside."[/color][/b] He laughed, though the mirth of it didn't quite reach his bespectacled eyes.

(([@notdeadyet][@Elitestpotato][@Inertia][@The Fated Fallen]
Dunno if Marek would be able to see the others in the alley, if they're there, so Iunno if I'm supposed to mention.))