Hylusi Quaternaros, Magus of Bleakpines
Magework Necromancer
Darkvision: 60ft
AC: 15 HP: 32/32
PP: 14 PIv: 14 PIs: 11
Conditions:
Concentrating on:
5/5 d6 HD
Arcane recovery 1/1
Spell Slots- 4/4 1st, 3/3 2nd, 2/2 3rd
Fingerbone staff 10/10

The Magus herself had been seated on a chair in the corner, only paying mild attention to the works of the seamstresses. Her Lady did not keep her near for her clothing advice, after all. It was rare for the spidery ex-elf to be in anything that a collection of blacks and greys of various shades, as if something had sucked all the colour from her countenance. Even her skin was a slate-grey hue, the sclera of her eyes dark and the pupils pinpricks of painfully white light, by no means ugly but certainly unnerving to the common man. Compared to the illustrious beauty of the Princess, she seemed a grim crow of a figure, but that had its own advantages.

Three silent figures stood against the wall. Each was clad in heavy robes, down to the floor, their hands gloved and faces covered by smooth painted masks of red, green, and blue, respectively, shaped in the form of elven faces at rest. The three figures were entirely still.

One hand was supporting her cheek, rested against it. Another lightly grasped the stem of a wineglass, still half-full of a admittedly acceptable human-brewed vintage from 1338; a third held open a slender book written by one of the humans' so-called war wizards, and a fourth scribbled sharp, angular letters of her own cypher on a piece of parchment. At the Princess' words, however, the motion stilled. Her eyes flicked towards the princess, and she clicked her fingers once, in time for one of the silent, robed figures standing like statues by her to step forward and catch the purse. It slid it into a pocket of its robes; Hylusi did not sully her own hands with money if she could help it.

She inclined her head, once, knowing that the Princess could tell - even without mundane line of sight on her.

<As you wish,> she said. Her voice was not spoken out loud, for a flaw in her flesh-craft formula had robbed her of a voice. Instead, it was a thrum of thought, dry and rustling, like bones riffling through parchment. This one was for the Princess alone - the seamstresses heard not a thing.

<Something to confuse the human might be easy, but I suspect you will be more difficult. Nonetheless, I accept the challenge.>

She took a final sip of the wine and left the glass on the table, snapping the fingers of a different hand. She twisted the fingers in a series of quick gestures. Another one of the servants - Seli, this one, with the mask of green - stepped forward and offered forward her staff. She took it, appreciating the feel of ever-cold, polished wood under her fingers. Shal, red-clad, stepped forward to collect the book and page of notes.

<Deidrenei.>

She inclined her head again in a shallow bow of farewell, the three servitors mimicing it far deeper, and made her way out, her retainers opening the door as she moved towards it. Outside, they dropped into formation three steps behind, their padded boots soft compared to the clack-clack-clack of her staff against the ground. It was a mark of their friendship, the private use of her first name like this. There was no softness in it. It was not a friendship built on sappy handholding and flower crowns - any of that faded with the foolish notions of childhood. But they were bound - mutual links of respect, of ambition, of hunger for magical knowledge. A vial of fractal ink certainly helped matters.

Making her way down the terraces, she could see in the distance some damn fool leapt from a balcony and try to surf down the mountainside. With some small satisfaction, the man tripped and tumbled inelegantly down, stopping his roll via application of bench to gut. She made to go past him, seeking the marketplace and its oceans of tat.