"Prontera.. The great capital city.."
One faint sigh fades into the background of a bustling city sound-scape, further enlivened by stray splashes of spring water over slate.
Nestled somewhere within the remains of a crumbling yet willful kingdom of Rune Midgarts, and at the heart of this very city, Prontera, stands tribute to their most honored Aesir God, Odin. Wielding the sacred lance Gungnir in his right hand and holding the mighty Slepnir's reigns taut at his left hip, Odin's battle-ready form has been immortalized In stone so that all may cherish his likeness. As if the legend itself had been frozen in time, Odin is poised towards the brilliant blue sky, forever issuing the command to capture Ymir's heart. Every detail has been affixed gloriously from atop a mountain of tiered stone basins, each bubbling over vehemently in descent with pristine spring waters and the occasional decoration of wild flowers by civils passing in prayer..
A lone denizen sits at the base of this proud fixture, kicking her feet quietly over the rounded edge. Her palms are planted at her sides and her fingers occasionally twitch to feel out the wet stone beneath. She is deep in thought and one might even note the furrow in her slightly wild white brows. Intense amber irises scan the cobble surrounding the fountain and then seem to grow softer as time passes.. The woman turns her cheek this way, and that way, and finally she tilts her chin to be just over her right shoulder.
Is she looking at her own reflection in the water?
On this clear day, it is easy to see oneself in surface, yet something troubles her still. Her lips are a thin tender pink, unnaturally pouty, strained against the mellow peach of her face. Her cheeks seem slightly flush and the long black lashes surrounding her rounded almond eyes look to have been moistened by tears. Weakly, she lifts a hand and brushes some snow-white tresses over her shoulder and out of her eyes, making an extra gesture to rub at her face- an effort to clean herself up.
She's frustrated, isn't she?
"Odin might still be watching us from his perch, but countless things have otherwise changed, Mari.."
"Come now, don't cry, Wyna."
Wyna's companion pokes her head from around the other side of the fountain and lends a sympathetic tone to her request. This girl took the liberty to climb into the water just moments before in an effort to change the mood. She doesn't let up, either, making big sweeping motions as she attempts sloshing herself over to her old friend.
"You'll feel much better if you join me~" Marivel chimes, just before missing a step and slipping further into the stream, now completely soaked from head to toe. A passing couple smiles to themselves after moving away from the frantically splashing red-head. Really, that long red hair is all you can see from the surface as she struggles to fix her now surprisingly weighty training outfit. One could wonder exactly what makes training gear out of a stripy leather long-skirt and what appears to be a simple bra.. But she does insist, 'I'm a Magician and this is what the girls all look like!'. Wyna remembers that line well.
Marivel finally straightens herself out and settles for having a rest on her knees in the chilling fountain water. Shivering, but smiling, she crawls over to Wyna's side and rests her wet arms over the fountain's edge. The white-haired youth had barely moved a muscle through the whole ordeal. 'A wet Mage is hardly a damsel in distress', she thought to herself, while finally moving to reach out and stroke her companion's messy hair.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to cry."
"Yaaay—" bursts an enthused Marivel, only to be cut off with the rest of Wyna's undoubtedly less than sentimental thoughts—
"We have to keep moving if we intend to rendezvous with Leira on time."
"Oh.. Yeah."
'Damn,' Marivel gripes mentally, shrugging to herself as Wyna turns away and shimmies off the fountain's edge and to her feet, bouncing with the flow just enough to shake any grit free from her puffy brown pants.
"You just wanted to wet my chest, anyway." Wyna remarks, her back to Marivel, and a hint of smirking in her tone. She seems to have cheered up, after all, even with those folded arms.
As the other girl struggles to lift herself from the fountain and crawl onto the cobble for drying, Wyna thinks of making a joke about Rodafrogs, but instead decides to double check her equipment for the short journey ahead. She taps her tanned leather boots on the ground and tugs at the bandages wrapped around her wrists to make sure of their security. A few adjustments to the bags belted around her waist and she's sure that everything is in its rightful place.
"So, are we all ready?"
".. Do you think I'm ready?" snorts Marivel, drooping gloomily under the weight of her soaked clothing. The lavish purples and reds have become drab burgundy over dark grey, but the golden adornments shine brighter than ever.. And so do her eyes, now that she's twisted her wet hair over her back and out of her face. Yes, she looks quite irritable with that penetrating deep-forest green radiating over an evidently unhappy face.
"Oh, right.. To the inn we go..?!"