When one thought of elves, it was not reflexively assumed they were a race that lusted for power, wealth, or longevity. Most had plenty to go around. Pride, however, was the downfall of many a nobleman or woman, and elves were no exception. Pride, it is said, was the root of all other sins, for it takes some measure of it to commit the others.
Lazarus was not fond of traveling to Endapano. Prejudices of the general populace aside, his skills as an alchemist were widely discussed among the nobility. Normally, word of mouth was a good thing, so as to make a living, and to help as many people as possible. In this case, however, he preferred to keep to himself when present in the territory, as he did most other locales. Distrust of his being a human outsider coupled with and intensified conclusions of his esoteric trade. He had been harassed more than once to reveal the secrets of the Philosopher's Stone, for surely he must know them.
It was darkly humorous to Lazarus, how people of any walk of life would readily flock to a metaphorical magic wand, but would never think to look in a mirror to obtain their deepest desires. Alchemy was a practice shrouded in mystery to most - even to the majority of its practitioners. It was laden with symbolism and conjecture. Even so, it came as a surprise to Lazarus that not many had divined its truest essence. The Philosopher's Stone was not a literal object. No, and the transmutation of lead into gold was not literal either. At its core, the science pertained to the refinement of the soul.
Letters often came to Lazarus by courier. He was sometimes difficult to track down, but he received each correspondence eventually, and made good on every last one, even if it turned out that he could not be of help. He had received one such letter a fortnight ago that anonymously described a porter with an unidentifiable illness. Despite the anonymity, Lazarus was asked for by name. It made him more than a little skeptical, but he nonetheless intended to at least investigate.
The woodlands leading up to the city were vast, but Lazarus had grown accustomed to the subtle cues, the paths carved out by trade and by the rangers of the guard. He considered setting up camp, for night had come, and there was some distance yet to go by foot. It was when he had began wandering off the path to scavenge dead wood that he heard voices. Normally, he would keep his distance, but curiosity got the best of him.
Soldiers.
But not any sort he had witnessed before.
His travels made him familiar with many banners and colors of regiments throughout the continents. He was certain he had never seen armor like that before. He observed from the treeline momentarily before making his presence known.
"Hail," Lazarus intoned, narrowly avoiding contact with the whirling spear of the startled man standing closest to him. He was often told that his voice boomed, but his footsteps were like that of a fox. He made a mental note to work on that.
The Mystic addressed the one he had heard speak, who seemed to lead the small band of warriors.
"I overheard you are in need of a guide. I know my way to the city…I am headed there myself. What is it that you are doing here?"
He paused. "I am Lazarus," he quickly added, extending his hand.
Brusque introductions. He certainly must work on that as well.
He gave only his name for now. He was dressed like a cleric, which often served him well with assumptions when in mixed company.
