by Sage on Mon Apr 19, 2010 9:01 pm
The last time Xavier had been in Algeroth, he had been in the Metsuke, soulbound to them until such a time as it were to part with his body. And so it had. Regardless, he chose to avoid confrontation with members of his older life. Those who were important enough knew of his sacrifice and resurrection, and to the rest his information was released posthumously so that the masses could hail him as a hero. It was not the practice of Metsuke agents to be known by the public, even after death, but occasionally when one served so exceptionally as to be recognized, they were worshiped by the people as holy. Saints among mankind.
Xavier was one such example, failing and dying though he had, the feats he had accomplished in life had been extraordinary examples of heroism and skill. He wore a thin riding cloak over his head so as to disguise himself to some degree, though he made little effort to keep his identity a secret. Metsuke agents, once their information was released, were known to be dead. Any resemblance he might bear to the deceased Xavier Gottheit was made to seem purely coincidental, resulting in idle chit-chat about the man with the occasionally observant passerby, and then he would go about his business.
He didn't even bother to change his name, it was not asked of him, a quiet mercenary, enough to warrant such an action. He rarely traveled to the capital city, and outside these walls even Saint Xavier was just another figure in Algerothian history, and quickly forgotten. He enjoyed the freedom he enjoyed now. He worked when he chose, to fund himself or cure boredom, and when he was sated and paid he was free to go where he might. He left his armor at a checkpoint somewhere along the outer walls, though it was not unusual to see armed travelers, and so he was allowed to keep his weapons on him, as most were allowed.
In response to this freedom, however, there were constant patrols and documentation was required of individuals seen bearing arms. Xavier had been granted a rare immunity from this. A tattoo just above his left wrist, the mark of the King himself which excluded Xavier from these rules. The mark itself was nothing special, and easily imitated, but the magic behind it was not. Algerothian guards could tell the difference thanks to the lingering golden aura which the King's magic left behind on these marks.
" Danke, ziremann Beaux. "
The balding merchant bowed meagerly, glancing the mark on Xavier's wrist as he handed over a handful of coin in exchange for a finely carved rosewood box, which he hefted in his left. It was a simple enough object, lined with velvet and cut with small dividers on the inside, with the symbol of the crown burned into glossy wood on it's face. It was a common trinket vended by the citizens of Algeroth, who enjoyed a large flow of business selling artifacts and souvenirs with the genuine brand of Algeroth's Monarchy.
The young man stepped back from the canvas top of the man's stall and stared upward, light reflecting sharply off his golden irises as he inhaled fresh air, glad to be able to enjoy the afternoon without fear of dying or running out of time to end someone's life. He tucked the object carefully in the bend of his arm, and set off randomly toward another cluster of shops near the airport, where a load of travelers had begun swelling out from. Merchants who were lucky enough to secure a spot near the port often set about audibly offering deals as people arrived, and he was sure to find one or two bargains in that direction.