Several months into his journey, Syryn was on a cart headed for a city built out of marble. He felt a scorching hot burn over his arm where the mark of a goddess was singed into his skin. The burning sensation then died down as quickly as it had started.
"Here we are, Marvel, a city of marble."
The cart was parked outside a gate where a guard was checking the contents of the goods that were being allowed inside.
"Just potatoes for the evening market," the old owner of the cart informed the guard.
"That one doesn't look like a potato."
Syryn retrieved his papers from his satchel and held them out to the guard. "I'm a potato from Sigil."
After examining the paper, the guard looked back up at his face. "Seems you are what you say." He returned the papers to Syryn and waved the cart into the gate.
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