⟬ City-State Whitehearth, northern guard tower, early dawn. ⟭
Tycondrius flicked his wrist, activating his spatial ring and stowing his arcane marker.
It was a piece of chalk. Magic chalk. Unreasonably expensive chalk, stupendously up-marked for the implied rarity of its ingredients.
He'd gone through nearly a half-dozen of them, scribing the formations he needed.
He was mentally fatigued, physically fatigued... and hungry.
He needed a break-- temporary respite...
He couldn't rest overlong, of course... for obvious reasons.
The most difficult of his preparations had been completed.
He felt like he deserved *something* that resembled reposition... but the notion that he could be doing something potentially constructive elicited the feeling of lingering guilt.
Tycon closed his eyes and concentrated, taking his time to assess his condition.
He could at least do that...
