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mercyforcrueltyNahollo was pretty sure that this place was not the verdant mountain lake he was used to. His first clue was the yards and yards of sand, and not the kind that belonged on any sort of beach. The second was the dryness to the air, though his lungs welcomed the change in elevation. He was very glad it was night- this place looked like a desert and he sure as hell did not want to be in any of his winter clothes during the day here- or his cloak, for that matter.
As soon as he'd realized, a spare thought had banished his wings- even if they would have probably made for more useful shade during the day. For now, his cloak would have to do- he didn't want to think about wandering around in a hoodie, and he was pretty sure the cloak would give him more protection against the sun and weather than his normal clothes anyway.
...Better not to think about how his clothes became Death's cloak anyway. The teenager spared a glance or two for the wall of the city nearby, frowning. What desert place did walled cities? Was he suddenly in the Middle East or something? Scowling, he followed the wall until he found a gate, guarded by people in chainmail with archaic weapons- he would have expected guns.
...I suddenly have a very, very bad feeling about this. One of the guards was saying something to him, in a language he didn't understand.
...Yep. Shit. Smile, nod, and look friendly. Nahollo tugged down the hood of his cloak, uncoiling his braid from around his neck. He was trying to look friendly to the- were they employing midgets to guard a city?- person addressing him, while somehow also trying to look as utterly lost and clueless as he was.
"I'm sorry, I don't speak whatever language you do," Nahollo said, putting his hands up in an appeasing gesture.
As soon as he'd realized, a spare thought had banished his wings- even if they would have probably made for more useful shade during the day. For now, his cloak would have to do- he didn't want to think about wandering around in a hoodie, and he was pretty sure the cloak would give him more protection against the sun and weather than his normal clothes anyway.
...Better not to think about how his clothes became Death's cloak anyway. The teenager spared a glance or two for the wall of the city nearby, frowning. What desert place did walled cities? Was he suddenly in the Middle East or something? Scowling, he followed the wall until he found a gate, guarded by people in chainmail with archaic weapons- he would have expected guns.
...I suddenly have a very, very bad feeling about this. One of the guards was saying something to him, in a language he didn't understand.
...Yep. Shit. Smile, nod, and look friendly. Nahollo tugged down the hood of his cloak, uncoiling his braid from around his neck. He was trying to look friendly to the- were they employing midgets to guard a city?- person addressing him, while somehow also trying to look as utterly lost and clueless as he was.
"I'm sorry, I don't speak whatever language you do," Nahollo said, putting his hands up in an appeasing gesture.
