Silver Spiders and Sandstone

Nujel’m. What can be said of the tranquil city? Golden beaches stretch the length of the isle, shimmering in the luminous glow of the sun. Sailors upon passing vessels see these glowing beaches as an oasis of sand resting contentedly in the middle of a desert of ocean. Sandstone buildings line the sandstone streets of the more financially secure districts, while smaller cottages of plaster rest against wooden boardwalks. In the center of this diversity sits the palace. Crafted of marble, it flickers like a silver beacon against the golden sands. This palace, this beacon, is where we find a most unique person.

Wrapped securely beneath loose-fitting robes, Mikal Aello passed silently down the slender corridor of the palace. His pace was tender and slow, almost as if the bottom of his leather boots never touched the silver floor that ran the length of the hallway. Mikal is a mysterious sort. Dark eyes constantly find themselves calculating and studying all that he passes, an instinct as well as a method of survival. In his business, one must never allow their guard to drop if they intend to survive- although he was simply a scribe who found himself able to relax when he sat before a mortar and pestle. Grinding endlessly, his mind focused on the task set before him by yet another customer.

Reaching the end of the hallway he drifted around the corner, moving past the many guest rooms that accommodated the more fanciful political people of Nujel’m, as well as traveling merchants who dealt specifically with the Prince. Slipping along the edge of these rooms he turned once more, finding himself gazing down a long flight of stairs. These would lead him to the palace library and eventually to his destination. His garden.

Silken strands of jet-black hair fell across his handsome features as he made his way outside into the warmth of the afternoon sun. The robe made him feel only slightly uncomfortable, but the cool ocean breeze soon neutralized that feeling. He was at his place now, the palace garden, his garden. After one tends to flora long enough they soon find themselves attached to such plants, such as the case of Mikal Aello. Often he would find himself wandering his garden, by both the light of the sun and moon- it mattered little to him which.

Mikal, a man of average build and muscular tone, soon eased his way towards one of the polished wooden benches that ran along the edge of the garden. One hand holding a wooden gnarled walking staff to support himself, the other fingering a few miscellaneous reagents in the depth of a hidden pocket. He had to think. He had been introduced to many intriguing individuals as of late, and figured it would be in his best interest he reflect upon those he could find trust in, and others he could not. The latter would pose as a mere hindrance to future plans and aspirations. Head lowered in tranquil meditation, his thin lips murmured a few soft words.

“So the spider welcomes the fly to his parlor...”

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> Nujel’m. What can be said of the tranquil city? Golden beaches stretch the length of the isle, shimmering in the luminous glow of the sun. Sailors upon passing vessels see these glowing beaches as an oasis of sand resting contentedly in the middle of a desert of ocean. Sandstone buildings line the sandstone streets of the more financially secure districts, while smaller cottages of plaster rest against wooden boardwalks. In the center of this diversity sits the palace. Crafted of marble, it flickers like a silver beacon against the golden sands. This palace, this beacon, is where we find a most unique person. > > Wrapped securely beneath loose-fitting robes, Mikal Aello passed silently down the slender corridor of the palace. His pace was tender and slow, almost as if the bottom of his leather boots never touched the silver floor that ran the length of the hallway. Mikal is a mysterious sort. Dark eyes constantly find themselves calculating and studying all that he passes, an instinct as well as a method of survival. In his business, one must never allow their guard to drop if they intend to survive- although he was simply a scribe who found himself able to relax when he sat before a mortar and pestle. Grinding endlessly, his mind focused on the task set before him by yet another customer. > > Reaching the end of the hallway he drifted around the corner, moving past the many guest rooms that accommodated the more fanciful political people of Nujel’m, as well as traveling merchants who dealt specifically with the Prince. Slipping along the edge of these rooms he turned once more, finding himself gazing down a long flight of stairs. These would lead him to the palace library and eventually to his destination. His garden. > > Silken strands of jet-black hair fell across his handsome features as he made his way outside into the warmth of the afternoon sun. The robe made him feel only slightly uncomfortable, but the cool ocean breeze soon neutralized that feeling. He was at his place now, the palace garden, his garden. After one tends to flora long enough they soon find themselves attached to such plants, such as the case of Mikal Aello. Often he would find himself wandering his garden, by both the light of the sun and moon- it mattered little to him which. > > Mikal, a man of average build and muscular tone, soon eased his way towards one of the polished wooden benches that ran along the edge of the garden. One hand holding a wooden gnarled walking staff to support himself, the other fingering a few miscellaneous reagents in the depth of a hidden pocket. He had to think. He had been introduced to many intriguing individuals as of late, and figured it would be in his best interest he reflect upon those he could find trust in, and others he could not. The latter would pose as a mere hindrance to future plans and aspirations. Head lowered in tranquil meditation, his thin lips murmured a few soft words. > “So the spider welcomes the fly to his parlor...”
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