He gives a long sigh. "Not that I've seen. I've just been looking through these books-... Wait." He reaches for one of the books, with many of it's pages blank except the first few. "I think this book says something about that Avelyn your after." He reaches inside and plops the book down beside Rictus.
Though he truly was, Rictus tried his hardest to look interested. Sleep deprivation does very bad things for the human body.
"Wait; the book talks about Avelyn? It's not just her handwriting or anything? Compare it to these prior notes, is this hers or someone else's?"
"Wait; the book talks about Avelyn? It's not just her handwriting or anything? Compare it to these prior notes, is this hers or someone else's?"
He takes the notes and looks them over. "No, it doesn't match the handwriting in the book, but I'm pretty sure it says something about an Avelyn of some sort. Meh, you'll just have to check it out in the morning I suppose."
"Yes, I believe so. I trust that you won't maul me to death at my most vulnerable." Rictus turns on his side and begins his descent into slumber.
"May I ask you something? Not that I expect us to stay together for much longer, but what is your name exactly? I'm certain it must be something nice and exotic."
"May I ask you something? Not that I expect us to stay together for much longer, but what is your name exactly? I'm certain it must be something nice and exotic."
"......." He chuckles a bit to himself. But he suddenly stops after hearing the question. A question he hasn't heard in a long time. He begins to speak in a low, otherworldly growl. "...Furorem..."
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Always he westward walked, and that night was no exception. The Hanged Man could have been mistaken for a ghost, with his sunken green eyes and billowing whitish cloak. Upon his back he wore his tower shield, covered in burlap to hide its design, and at his hip rode a sheathed falchion.
But questing wanderers must lay down their heads sometimes. How long had he been walking? He couldn't remember. He came to a halt in the road and surveyed his surroundings. As the clouds peeled away from the moon, he spotted a dilapidated shack off in the trees. Though he didn't enjoy straying from his westward path, the Hanged Man headed towards the shack.
He peeked in the window to see if it was occupied, but the clouds rolled over the moon again and it became difficult to see. So the swordsman instead picked the most sheltered side of the shack, a nook between a wall and a half-rotted woodpile, and settled down with his back against it. His armor creaked faintly but he didn't bother removing it. He pulled out a flask. An irritated rumble left him as he drained the rest of whatever drink the vessel held--hopefully it would be enough. Thankfully that night was kind, and as alcohol's warmth spread through him, the Hanged Man nodded off. But he was a very light sleeper ...
)Always he westward walked, and that night was no exception. The Hanged Man could have been mistaken for a ghost, with his sunken green eyes and billowing whitish cloak. Upon his back he wore his tower shield, covered in burlap to hide its design, and at his hip rode a sheathed falchion.
But questing wanderers must lay down their heads sometimes. How long had he been walking? He couldn't remember. He came to a halt in the road and surveyed his surroundings. As the clouds peeled away from the moon, he spotted a dilapidated shack off in the trees. Though he didn't enjoy straying from his westward path, the Hanged Man headed towards the shack.
He peeked in the window to see if it was occupied, but the clouds rolled over the moon again and it became difficult to see. So the swordsman instead picked the most sheltered side of the shack, a nook between a wall and a half-rotted woodpile, and settled down with his back against it. His armor creaked faintly but he didn't bother removing it. He pulled out a flask. An irritated rumble left him as he drained the rest of whatever drink the vessel held--hopefully it would be enough. Thankfully that night was kind, and as alcohol's warmth spread through him, the Hanged Man nodded off. But he was a very light sleeper ...
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Rictus opened his eyes. His mouth tasted dry and pale, and his eyes left him in a confusing state due to the dimly lit room he found himself in. Disoriented, he slowly hunched himself over to the edge of the bed, promptly causing it to creak and fall over.
"Well, I don't know what I expected..." Rictus, freshly awoken by the shock that was his collapsing bed, began to aimlessly wander around the house. After refamiliarizing himself with the building, he picked up his bighat at the front door, put it on, and began to rest himself on the porch.
"I don't think that bed woke... It? Up. Furorem seemed like a heavy sleeper."
Rictus opened his eyes. His mouth tasted dry and pale, and his eyes left him in a confusing state due to the dimly lit room he found himself in. Disoriented, he slowly hunched himself over to the edge of the bed, promptly causing it to creak and fall over.
"Well, I don't know what I expected..." Rictus, freshly awoken by the shock that was his collapsing bed, began to aimlessly wander around the house. After refamiliarizing himself with the building, he picked up his bighat at the front door, put it on, and began to rest himself on the porch.
"I don't think that bed woke... It? Up. Furorem seemed like a heavy sleeper."
It seems that Furorem is still flipping through pages in the books, but rather than looking in the atlas, he's just reading stories to keep him entertained. It seems he didn't fall asleep at all. "What was that noise?"
The Hanged Man did not dream that night, a fact he was deeply grateful for. His rude awakening left much to be desired, though. When the resounding crash reached his ears, he jerked awake and scrambled to his feet within seconds. Soon it became apparent that he wasn't in any immediate danger, and the swordsman relaxed a little.
"Your house has seen better days," the Hanged Man called, beginning to circle the shack and inspect it.
"Your house has seen better days," the Hanged Man called, beginning to circle the shack and inspect it.
"Oh, the house isn't mine," replied Rictus from the comfort of his half-functioning rocking chair on the porch. "I--well, we--came across it. I needed a place to stay for the night, and the hulking mass of stone and magic happened to cross paths with me."
Rictus, realizing the seriousness that was suddenly meeting a third party in the middle of the night, turned around, albeit slowly, and asked: "Also, who are you?"
Rictus, realizing the seriousness that was suddenly meeting a third party in the middle of the night, turned around, albeit slowly, and asked: "Also, who are you?"
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