"A tour-n'-mnt?"
Spoken as a true member of the elite: with kebab-meat in their mouth.
Together, they were three, tucked in midst the throng of pedestrians and stalls.
Mulal was offhand, on-guard, under an overhang; he was statuesque enough that crowd members picked around his crab-red form, perhaps out of fear; those gold shark-like eyes kept deathly vigil of the party's possessions. Meanwhile, Rikis-nu would rather ponder their now-empty skewer before the parchment page thrust upon them, aloof to the accumulating turmoil of their audience:
Mulgir, the Ever-Loyal, eyes jolting from page to his superior to page again.
He insisted, "The tournament is run by one of the ruling illustrious families of Cornelia. I-it's – annual? Monthly? Biannual? – either way, verily, run with enough regularity to attract combatants of considerable portfolios."
Hm, went Rikis-nu, but the page was thrust into their hand all the same.
Mulal's ruddy face broke into a smile, naturally sheepish, though trying for something colluding, "in-on-it." "I need not to mention your personal interests to which attendance would work in– verily, the Jade Wolfs could spare a second with your scaliness, i-in the interest of politics! And, verily–"
And, in the foreground, there was an explosion of short-lived violence. A stand collapsed from the force of a flung human form; goods flew into the air, those of the sharpened-stone variety. It so happened the victim closest was Mulgir who even in his chain-mail shrieked –
– the crystals bouncing off inches before his face, dissuaded by a spiral of sparkling mist.
Rikis-nu withdrew his hand and the spell.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
His knight stepped out from behind him and stammered back, "Of course, your scaliness– surely it would take more than a touch of rough-housing to ruin your right-hand man!"
"In that case–" In a fluid motion, they would take the parchment between two pinched hands and, verily, demolish it. Now, an heir on a mission, they kicked into step, the two halves fluttering in their wake past a Mulgir left paralyzed in distress.
"...'tis what I think about that."
Mulal was thrusting himself through the crowd likewise. The magic might have attracted further attention, but a seven-foot, bare-breast pugilist, shark-tail slithering behind him like a python – eyes redirected.
They called, "Excuse me!" to the back of the
vieren woman leaving the scene. Swathed neck to naval in an unremarkable tunic, their bottom half the typical mage fare, they would tap her on the shoulder, taking on a kiddishness as they swayed with their arms tucked behind them.
"You're the hit-and-run type, ain't 'cha? I was hoping someone knew this city better than I did.
"Do you know where I could put up an offer? Maybe a guild, or a job board…?"
1
