08-02-2020, 10:30 PM
The unanticipated convergence of fate’s roads left Sören pensive.
The hostel he chose for his second night in the area was only a short walk from the lake, tucked up away from the road in a spit of grass and trees. A set of rustic log buildings comprised a mixture of private rooms and dorms around communal kitchen areas, and it was serviceable enough -- in fact recommended from several local’s lips when he asked, though it was not the only reason he’d picked it. Sören ascended to the lofty heights of the rich and elite when it suited him, but he did not ever shun humble living. Often he actually preferred both the anonymity and vagrancy of more simple means, especially when on the road. He travelled light, nothing of value sequestered in his single bag of luggage, though wards would protect from prying hands on matter of habit and principle, should anyone think to take a rummage.
It was not where the thieving artist was staying anyway. The island Thalia had meandered to upon first arrival was too small for the distance he preferred to keep between them for now. The whimsy of her travel made no sense to him, and the forced blindness of his self-imposed quest to follow irked his preference for control. So too did the stranger’s advice back in Moscow linger -- an unusual affliction, though he would not call it conscience. He had not confronted Nimeda in the dream; a pointless endeavour. Neither had he yet approached her waking counterpart. She would fear a spectre risen from her sketchbooks, and he did not intend to scare her unless he divined providence in it. For now he only brooded on the decision left to be made.
That, and the additional complication. Or intrigue, perhaps, since he did not believe in coincidence.
For it seemed Elias Donavan’s water monster was also here.
The banya was a small but welcome addition to the hostel’s limited services. The benches were currently empty, with only the sizzle of steam for company. Heat loosened muscles tight from travel, a pleasant indulgence to balance the intensity of his deliberation. A towel wrapped Sören’s waist. He leaned his forearms on his knees where he sat, ignoring the faint tremor of pain in his temple. Ephraim’s interference was never far from consideration, but he’d grown used to the faint gnaw. His eyes were closed, breathing deep to shuck spirit from flesh. Perhaps there would be answers in the dream.
The hostel he chose for his second night in the area was only a short walk from the lake, tucked up away from the road in a spit of grass and trees. A set of rustic log buildings comprised a mixture of private rooms and dorms around communal kitchen areas, and it was serviceable enough -- in fact recommended from several local’s lips when he asked, though it was not the only reason he’d picked it. Sören ascended to the lofty heights of the rich and elite when it suited him, but he did not ever shun humble living. Often he actually preferred both the anonymity and vagrancy of more simple means, especially when on the road. He travelled light, nothing of value sequestered in his single bag of luggage, though wards would protect from prying hands on matter of habit and principle, should anyone think to take a rummage.
It was not where the thieving artist was staying anyway. The island Thalia had meandered to upon first arrival was too small for the distance he preferred to keep between them for now. The whimsy of her travel made no sense to him, and the forced blindness of his self-imposed quest to follow irked his preference for control. So too did the stranger’s advice back in Moscow linger -- an unusual affliction, though he would not call it conscience. He had not confronted Nimeda in the dream; a pointless endeavour. Neither had he yet approached her waking counterpart. She would fear a spectre risen from her sketchbooks, and he did not intend to scare her unless he divined providence in it. For now he only brooded on the decision left to be made.
That, and the additional complication. Or intrigue, perhaps, since he did not believe in coincidence.
For it seemed Elias Donavan’s water monster was also here.
The banya was a small but welcome addition to the hostel’s limited services. The benches were currently empty, with only the sizzle of steam for company. Heat loosened muscles tight from travel, a pleasant indulgence to balance the intensity of his deliberation. A towel wrapped Sören’s waist. He leaned his forearms on his knees where he sat, ignoring the faint tremor of pain in his temple. Ephraim’s interference was never far from consideration, but he’d grown used to the faint gnaw. His eyes were closed, breathing deep to shuck spirit from flesh. Perhaps there would be answers in the dream.
![[Image: odinraven.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/odinraven.png)