Ever since he left the bustling streets of Luca behind, the hairs on the back of Zveran’s neck had been standing. He reshoulders his pack, adjusting to make it more comfortable, as well giving him the chance to peek behind him.
He couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean no one was there, and if he let them get the better of him, if they caught him by surprise, well. The thieves who trained him would be very disappointed.
“I’m not sure how legal taking knives into a match is, but that is truly an advantage I have.”
It's several days of crossing the plains, until they reach the foot of Mt Gagazet. It's intimidating, to say the least.
"I'm rather pleased we've a fire aeon hanging about. Going to be colder than a maester's heart up there."
"Masque, you're absolutely right. There is nothing to rival that level of cold."
Zveran shoulders his bag again, rolling one back. "I wonder if I'm going to burst into flame, the second I touch sacred ground." He slides a toe close to the bridge, grinning at Masque.
They laugh. "I think Aten can probably help us if the ground tries to set us alight."
"Ah. Guess I have to trust you then."
With a huge exaggerated movement, Zveran steps onto the bridge, squeezing his eyes shut. He then opens them, one by one, and finding himself unburnt, turns and raises his arms. "I live!"
"We're all very glad," Masque says with wry amusement and steps after him, equally unscathed.
Watching them walk across the bridge, his somewhat actual fear alleviated, he happily falls into step beside them, and they mount the steps, the air getting colder.
Soon they are on the Ronso village, some of them looking at Zveran with frowns.
Not a lot of Al Bhed making the trek.
Masque is probably confusing them as well, vibrant mask and practical clothes.
A Ronso steps before them, in priest's robes. "Who walks Sacred Mount Gagazet?"
Masque settles themself a little more firmly, resting a hand lightly on one of their daggers.
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