Upon arrival in Korsk, after plans have been set and meeting places arranged, Etzian will take

his
leave from the rest of the team for a time. His mind wanders, as does his body, till he finds himself inside
what constitutes the Iosan district of town. A somber sense fills him with an air of depression and he
strides over to an Inn or Tavern that might catch his eye. The name and look of this establishment make
little difference, as meaningless as the war he once fought, as pointless as the human kills he has
committed. The door gives way to his meandering while the solem refugees eye him with a mixed sense
of wonder and disdain, his armor glows in the gloom of the tavern , not even his cloak can hide what he
is from their glares. The clink of several coins on the bar ,the heady rush of strong Iosan wine,the
remaining eve nothing but a blur in his mind as the drink dulls his senses and numbs his pain.

The next day Etzian kneels in the room he occupied last night, his skin shivers in the chilly
morning northern air. The dim pre-dawn light sends small fragments of illumination that glint off of the
metal needle and basin filled with ink, he heats the needle over the candlelight before turning over his
wrist revealing a set of inked hash marks. He whispers low in hushed tones "I Etzian, your servant, with
this do once again mark myself for the continued blessings of my lady of spring by your power another
gifted human has fallen. Scyrah give me the strength to do what I must in your name and the willpower
to endure the presence of our hated enemies". Etzian grips the now red hot needle and dips it in the
wet black ink, pursing his lips and holding back any outcry of discomfort as he adds another line to the
set of tattoos.

Etzian sighs heavily after his ritual, his somewhat labored breathing echoes in the room joining
those of the softer rhythmic sound of sleep coming from the Iosan man and woman that had shared his
bed the night before. Etzian rises from his position and sits in the wooden chair at the table, a small
bowl of dried berries and granola his only sustenance this morning, he reaches into his nearby traveling
pouch and pulls out a somewhat worn book, turning it to the next available open page and begins to
sketch the faces of his two most recent partners as they sleep, each line and crease bringing a memory
of sensations felt in darkness before. Once he has finished these depictions to his satisfaction he remarks
their name beneath each face before replacing the artistic journal in his satchel. Redonning his armor
and cloak, preparing his equipment and gear that remain, he walks over to the still sleeping pair giving
each a final kiss on the forehead before turning from them and closing the door behind himself as he
sets off.

Newly refreshed and with purpose he heads to find a fane of the lady of spring, certain to be
little more than a shrine in this otherwise human city.Etzian is greeted by whatever Iosan is running this
shrine recognizing the pendant around Etzian's neck to be the holy symbol of an ordained priest of
Scyrah the lay member makes way for him."Peace of the lady be with you child of Ios, I've rights to
perform and prayers to offer . I shall take over running this Fane while my journey permits me to"Etzian
heads inside the shrine , a small building that was likely just a storage house before, now has an altar to
Scyrah as well as small crude representations of the other Iosan gods. He lights candles and inscence
following the rites of Scyrah and the Iosan pantheon. Etzian kneels in prayer, his words both legitimitate
as well as self- serving, for while his faith is true, what better place to meet up with his fellow retribution
than at the only temple to their Goddess in the city and to this end he continues his tasks until such a
contact can be made....
Upon arrival in Korsk, after plans have been set and meeting places arranged, Etzian will take his leave
from the rest of the team for a time. His mind wanders, as does his body, till he finds himself inside what
constitutes the Iosan district of town. A somber sense fills him with an air of depression and he strides
over to an Inn or Tavern that might catch his eye. The name and look of this establishment make little
difference, as meaningless as the war he once fought, as pointless as the human kills he has committed.
The door gives way to his meandering while the solem refugees eye him with a mixed sense of wonder
and disdain, his armor glows in the gloom of the tavern , not even his cloak can hide what he is from
their glares. The clink of several coins on the bar ,the heady rush of strong Iosan wine,the remaining eve
nothing but a blur in his mind as the drink dulls his senses and numbs his pain.