Snippet #1359753

Kiella emerged from the caravan, now a good deal more heavily armed than she had been before. A set of ten silvery throwing knives had found their way onto her belt, as had a pair of sharp and wickedly curved blades resembling the one she had lost in Fridana. These were both made of obsidian, and of unequal lengths. She was surprised the caravan still contained them; they were relics from an old act of hers. Designed to be weapons, they were nevertheless useful for a pyrotechnics display because obsidian was a volcanic glass or extraordinary density and hardness rather than a metal that would heat quickly and run the risk of burning her. Yet another blade was tucked into the sheath at her thigh, and her old utility knife had not left her. She was actually a tad uncomfortable being this armed, but her cloak hid everything well enough.

She found the others in enough time to hear Tarik mention Mt. Persimmon, and her eyes instinctively flicked in the direction she knew the mountain to be. Kiella had not visited the mountain itself, but she had passed by it enough times to know of its location. She was unsure what business Tarik would have there, but if it was indeed his homeland, she wasn't going to say no to a visit. It was not as though the group was on a timetable or anything; the Sun wasn't going anywhere on its own, after all, and truth be told, she was not all that eager to visit the Underside quite yet. Her reception there was always... strange, to say the least.

"Very well," she replied lightly, nodding. "If you think it important, I will not protest." She did not believe Tarik to be the sort of person who would stop home for sentimental reasons alone, or needlessly delay the group for his own benefit. In fact, he struck her as a very efficient, practical sort, and she was willing to trust him on this, whatever his reasons might be.