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Snippet #2732813

located in The World, a part of The World Beyond, one of the many universes on RPG.

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Character Portrait: Saerin Tytoh
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Saerin smiled a bit as he watched Zhyle's plan proceed without a hitch. He waited until they boy vanished from sight before slipping out of the alley he had concealed himself in after the girl entered the Smithy. What the boy lacked in practical skill he made up for in wit, that was to be sure. He twirled the card he held in his hand thoughtfully as he walked. While watching the boy he had absentmindedly drawn the Seven of Swords. Put bluntly, it symbolizes victory via outsmarting your opponent outside of direct combat. Putting yourself in your opponents' boots and predicting their actions to a tee. A very useful skill, if properly honed.

After some walking, Saerin found himself standing out front of a small block of buildings. He counted out a portion of his prize winnings into a smaller pouch and prepared to approach the door, but as he did he happened to glance through the window. Inside, he saw a man and woman embracing and heard the laughter of children. Even in his weakened spiritual state, he felt intense confusion. Followed by intense anger. Thoughts and feelings from hundreds of residual souls with nothing better to do than gossip flitted across his consciousness:

...some time now... he doesn't know... about 6 months... what about the children?... he's rich... not the only one...

Saerin's knuckles turned white as he gripped the leather pouch. Bartholomew's wife was apparently well taken care of. Saerin suppressed the emotions pounding into his skull like a hundred blacksmith's hammers. He wouldn't take the money. He wouldn't kill the couple, leaving the children as orphans. He couldn't listen to the urges pressed against him by the spirit of Bart, who was apparently not quite the noble man he had attempted to seem at his death. He would keep his promise.

He dropped the bag next to the door, the stumbled down a side street. Spirits were always stronger the more recently they died, and Bart was no exception. And he had not been in such a weakened state in years, so the pressure to give into the blind rage was astounding. At this rate, he wasn't sure if he could fight off another possession. His nails dug into his palms to keep himself from giving in, but he needed to distance himself. Fast. He entered a blind sprint in roughly the direction of their room at the inn, not bothering with subtlety.