The market is bustling today in the narrow back streets of Renaire, where one would find the more dirty items not meant for the common folk. Here, the thieves and assassins lurked for wares like knives, swords and fire powder, with the nickname devil's pop. Opium was also common. 'The usual black market wares,' Calian muses as he bites another hunk of his meat sandwich, eyes lazily hovering around the small stalls as he's leaning against the brick walls of a decrepit city house.


The cobblestone path underneath his black and murky boots looks slick with the rain water that had poured down from the skies not even twenty minutes prior. Mud was squelching between the stones, and people who passed the lurking shadow of the merc were careful on the slippery stone. Calian doesn't acknowledge the people much, only taking them in to plan his defense would it be necessary. Though it probably hardly was considering his reputation in the Kingdom of Tolgatt.


A Master Mercenary, earning his gold in heaps and spades through dangerous and not so dangerous missions. The famous broadsword—Tartanicus—strapped to his back, glints in the dim light of the fall sun. That's partly what had earned him the title of Master Mercenary the past decade that he had spent in Renaire. He had traveled Tolgatt for 500 years, and yet, he was at his most famous now. Though no one knew of his... affliction. It was better that way. He'd rather keep lid on the cursed immortality and soulmate part.


Calian didn't want love. So he grumbles some more into the half eaten bread and meat sandwich. It's a little on the dry side, but he won't complain, lest he'd go to the main market of Renaire and get himself something better. "Fucking nuisance," he mumbles into the cured meat, grumbling over the familiar name on his wrist... the soulmate mark.