(no subject)
Rilowe Anavari considered himself a well-learned and quick sort of man. He had, after all, claimed the secrets of many books for his own, was versed in the ways of subtly extracting information from the mouths of people otherwise disinclined to share their knowledge, and was overall a rather cunningly dashing rogue with a silver tongue and a rapier-sharp wit, quite capable of adapting to all manner of situations (or so he believed with a deeper conviction than a four-year old child would have when it came to mysterious holiday figures being able to smuggle presents into their house in the dead of night without alerting anything with half an ear.) The point of the matter was that Rilowe Anavari thought himself possessing of a rather impressive type of mind, despite what one Anona Wryette and the Missus would claim to the contrary.
However, even Rilowe might have had to admit they had a bit of a case at this point. Waking up with his head throbbing like the entire night watch of Port Callone’s guard had thrown the Guardspersons’ Ball while using his head as the dance floor was likely not the best testament to how clever he was. ‘Especially,’ his internal monologue began to supply, sounding rather like Anona, only much smugger (and a bit on the tinny side). ‘since this little debacle is all your own fault, isn’t it?‘ Rilowe gave a displeased grunt, rubbing vigorously at his eyes and temples to try and ease some of the pressure throbbing away in his head, hoping that said eyes would not pop in response to how bad conditions in his skull were at the moment.
Well yes, the whole headache-as-a-result-of-smacking-into-something-I-think-that’s-a-rock-isn’t-it? thing was more or less his fault, but did his inner voice have to be so snarky about it? Perhaps Rilowe had gotten a little… careless while prospecting a location for a client (which should likely be read as: careless while breaking into a house full of magical artifacts, hoping to swipe a few for sale on the black market), but a little bit of inattention didn’t mean he deserved to be in the amount of pain he was in (which was more than none, and therefore, too much). After all, how was he supposed to have known that the artifact hoarder would have had a World Hopper in their collection?
‘If you had paid attention during debriefing, I said they had highly dangerous and unpredictable items on hand,‘ the snotty Anona-voice chirruped in his mind. ‘And even after that, the Missus told you not to touch it.‘
He made a discontented noise as he sat up, rubbing his temples and settling his head between his bent knees, trying to make the throbbing in his head ease. “Oh shut up. I forget what his voice sounds like half the time, he only speaks like twice a year. Can you really blame me?”
‘Absolutely.’
“Shut up.” Rilowe unsteadily hauled himself to his feet, resolving not to argue with himself any more than he had to (which, if mind-voice kept being a snot, would probably have to be quite a bit), looking around with squinted eyes as he tried to take stock of where he was. The world was rather not-inside-of-a-house looking at this point, and really, looked more like a rocky beach than any sort of house he had ever been in. There was a town over Thattaway, which was one of his many Cardinal directions (since North, South, East, and West were too ordinary, and quite frankly, confusing). He tucked his hands into the pockets of his long jacket, turning a circle on the beach as he looked for a familiar face (preferably the Missus, though Anona would do in an absolute pinch).
Seeing no one he knew, or nothing he recognized as being a one (one as a measurement of personhood, you see), and not even seeing a particularly large rock that someone could have been hiding behind, Rilowe rubbed at his left temple again, taking somewhat unsteady steps towards the town, which would hopefully be filled with persons, and not persons who ate Rilowes, or did otherwise unpleasant things to them. They were a delicate species, after all.
---
Even as his head abated and left his mind open for the procurement of greater knowledge, Rilowe found himself just as clueless as he had been when he'd been dumped out on a rocky beach in the middle of wherever-in-the-world-this-was, if this was even in the middle of the recognizable world. The architecture of the nearby town was... different, not like any of the giant metropolis' like Montemorrey or tiny trading outposts like Satl Petre that Rilowe had drifted through in his time; really, this... place was unlike anything he'd ever seen.
It made him uneasy.
Rilowe drifted back out of the town, looking around to try and get his bearings, get a name, get a something, anything would be great, really. He was rewarded with a picture of... foxes? Foxii? Or... Tzingani, as the posted bill called them. What in the world was a bonding, anyway? He reached out to pull the flier off of the wall it had been posted on, reading it as he let his feet carry him for a bit.
He had not the slightest idea what a Shuv'ani was, nor why a fox would want jewelry, but the flier seemed to promise people, and it namely promised people that would be away from cooking pots and cookbooks on how to serve unsuspecting men who weren't exactly in their own neck of the woods anymore, now were they? Besides, this little shindig promised to be fairly close to (presumably) where Rilowe had been dumped off, and as irrational as it was, he felt somewhat comforted at the idea and action of returning to the lake and its uncomfortable beaches ('they would make for bad sunbathing,' he noted to himself.)
Rilowe followed the vague directions on the paper until he could make out people-shapes, and then he edged closer to them, keeping his head up and trying to relax away the apprehension at being in a strange new world with foxes that called themselves Tinny-zaggies or something, and apparently demanded jewelry. Rilowe had plenty of jewelry, but had little need for a fox (as far as he knew. The Missus was much more useful, he had thumbs, after all.)
He made his way towards the group of people and oddly colored foxthings, somewhat surprised to see people giving shiny objects as tributes to the older looking critters. He definitely wasn't in Camperone anymore, was he? Rilowe schooled his features, trying to look less on the side of absolutely clueless and more on the edge of bemusedly puzzled, folding up the flier and tucking it into the outer pocket of his long jacket.