[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/hSbxgyH.png[/img]
[sup][@Rune_Alchemist][/sup][/center]
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[b]Coinage:[/b] 8 Silver, 5 Copper
[list][*]The (shredded) clothing on his back.
[*]A fur cloak.
[*]Untanned boar skin.
[*]Leather Belt
[*]Knight's Shield
[*]Knight's Dagger
[*]Knight's Longsword
[*]Dwarf's Polearm
[*]Rope
[*]Some preserved food
    Enough for two people to last a few days.
[*]Roll of what seemed to be a mat of thick fur, likely for sleeping on
    Comfortable, but only one.
[*]A heavy looking fur/cloth blanket.
    Cozy, warm and heavy. Good for sleeping in colder climates.
[*]Communication horn
    Made from bone, hollow and likely used for communication.
[*]A small pot and a ladle
[*]Frozen canteen of water
[*] Map of the Under roads.
    A map detailing some routes used by the Dwarves and Shadow Elves to travel in their subterranean homes. Its not entirely complete, but it at least shows the routes to the two most notable settlements and several other places of note. Unless you travel off the paths, you probably won’t get lost.
[/list]
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[b]“Then good night.”[/b]

With a small nod, Isidore bid the ladies a peaceful rest, and slipped into his own room. Upon reflection, it really had been a whole day of movement and a whole night of investigation. Had they really met Sorcha, entered Gloomhollow, had audience with the Queen, and made so many deals and connections within the span of a mere 24 hours? Perhaps it was his more recent experience that was getting the better of his expectations here. Bureaucrats and businessmen rarely made decisions and deals with such swiftness, while in his youth, such deals weren’t ever made with words to begin with. Letting his heavier equipments and his pack lean against the wall nearest to the bed, Isidore sighed aloud, feeling for the first time the lightness, and yet stiffness, of his shoulders and back. It was an uncomfortable feeling too, for his clothing to get so thoroughly stuck to his skin, a sensation made worse by the dark truth of a wilderness without toilet paper.

Simply put, before he could sleep, he needed a goddamn bath.

It took fifteen minutes after he rang for an attendant and instructed them to fill the bathtub and bring some soap before Isidore was able to soak both himself, as well as his clothing, in warm, soapy water. A dozen or so little pains shot into his flesh as he reclined in the tub, smaller cuts and scrapes from days of travel finally making themselves known. He would have preferred a shower, considering how quickly the clear water turned dark, but for all the magic that the residents of Gloomhollow possessed, it seemed that engineering water systems wasn’t one of them. Not that he had the faintest clue about that either. For a minute, Isidore was content to just doze off for a minute, dirt and grime gradually seeping off his body.

And within that contentment, floating weightlessly in water, he began to breathe deeply. The furnace held heat, immense heat, but it was simply a place to gather energy, to redirect energy. Where did that energy go? How was that energy used? How was he to bridge the gap between himself and Sorcha?

Isidore closed his eyes, shut off the world around him, and began to extend his visualizations of magic and creation. If the stomach was the furnace, where fuel was burned and turned into energy, that energy must then be converted into something useful. And where would that be converted? The answer was simple: the heart. The ever-moving organ, the one that propelled blood through vessels tirelessly, granting oxygen to feed the rest of the body. Warmth that merely radiated from the core meant nothing. What it needed was direction. And so, as sweat began to bead upon his brow, Isidore pulled the warmth of his core and guided it into his heart. Into his engine.

Was his heartbeat ever this loud? Did it ever resound with such clarity in his ears? The waters of the tub began to ripple, matching with each second, heavier beat. His skin felt like it was about to burst, his muscles screaming for action. Fog began to rise, the smell of damp dirt rising in with every breath he took, but every breath he took was no longer enough, and he breathed deeper and deeper and de-

Isidore coughed violently, snapping out of his entranced state, water spilling off the sides as he forced himself upright. Grabbing the side of the bathtub to ground himself in the reality that he still lived in, the man pushed his hair out of his eyes and found himself immersed in fog, found his skin flushed from the heat of the waters and the heat of his blood.

That was enough. In the morning, with rest and good food, he will have more time to experiment with the power of creation.

He rose from the waters, toweled himself off, left his clothes to hang, and slipped into bed.

…

Morning came too soon. When had he last woken up to the knocking of someone else?

Slipping out of bed and pulling on clothing that was still somewhat damp but at least no longer dirty, Isidore opened the door midway through Nesherit’s speech. Regardless of his qualms about Vasserasa’s decisions and her influence, he wasn’t in a position to refuse either, so he didn’t pay much mind to the situation. That didn’t stop him from hefting up his pack and his weapons though. A pack laden with knick-knacks and sharpened blades, clothing that looked like black rags, and the thick-furred cloak of a deceased knight. That, alongside his curiously handsome features, had more or less become part of his brand, hadn’t it? Couldn’t disappoint his host by deviating, then.

[b]“An honor for the prince himself to deliver the message,”[/b] Isidore replied, tone as matter-of-fact and controlled as always. That same tone persisted for his next words. [b]“How was Augusta last night?”[/b]