Grem

The sun sets high. Bathing the trees and plants of earth below. Stretching fields of wheat bounded by fences stretch in distance at one side. The other revealing an opening bound loose by scattered trees leading to narrower paths. The way out to the wild.

No settlments or residents. Aside from plants and bushes if one would count these. Maybe the animals too. That one bird sings non-stop, loud as its echoes through. Doesn't seem shy about its presence.

The road out of Thornwood thins into dirt and road soil before it becomes fully grass and forest debris. In the close distance. There stands a figure unaware, one hand pressed flat against his own lower stomach, the other hovering near his hip. He shifts his weight. Moves the hovering hand slightly left. Then again slightly to the right. He makes a quiet, thoughtful sound. He moves it again, drifting behind him. And presses at his lower back. He tilts his head with one raised eyebrow. Then moves his hand lower. Splaying his fingers. Something. A small leather-bound tome, worn and full of wrinkle. It slides out from what appears to be the air just behind his hip, caught loosely in his fingers before it fully materializes. He holds it up at eye level without turning. Inspects the cover. And smiles with closed eyes. He half-turns to tuck it under his arm and. Freezes.

Wide eyes settle on the person before him. His free hand lowers by his hip, at once. His face settling into neutral. Seemingly not feeling the need to explain what just happened. He looks back at the treeline. "Found it." He says this to no one in particular, perhaps to himself, and crouches down at the trail's edge where a low cluster of dark-leafed plants crowds the base of an old root. His fingers hover just above the leaves without touching them. The forest is quiet except for the quiet sounds coming from him, apparently to the plant.

Walking. For hours at end. For one deity or another knows what for. The grass crunches beneath, that's one soothing anchor. Or an addictive one. Something else crunches. Close. Seated and hunched on a low stone wall at the edge of the road. A figure with rather peculiar clothes, in the specific posture of someone who has been thinking very hard about something for a while and is not quite done. One leg folded up, chin resting on his knee, eyes somewhere in the middle distance. His hand is pressed flat to his own abdomen. Two fingers pressed against his skin, drifting in aimless circles. "Hm?" It disappears. His hand. It's fully in his abdomens, at the edge? Into nothingness. And. A rolled sheet of parchment, dense with handwritten diagrams. He unrolls it against his knee, scans it briefly, and hold's it close and still.

"You," he says, still staring the paper down. "Do you find that desire arrives before or after the body responds to it?" That's his version of the the-weather-is-good-today. "I've been trying to map the sequence and stuff. Most people I ask either go red or leave. Well, both happen." He flicks up. Steered by one fleeting thought. "Which is itself information, but not the kind I need. You seemed like you might actually answer." "I mean, your still here. And you don't look red." He trails. At last, taking you in. Well not you, but your shoes. He stares down your shoes. But he waits.

The parchment sits flopping by the wind amidst the silence. if you can see it at all, there appears to be a hand-drawn chart and a smiley face near it with a middle finger. The labels are too small to read from where you're standing.

The adventurer's guild. The mighty and the only guild. Sitting in the middle and center of the city...Okay, it is in fact just a local guild, in a village. But yeah.

At this hour it is neither busy nor empty. The usual. A cozy afternoon and it's golden hour.

The receptionist has nothing urgent to do and therefore nowhere to escape to. A slim and rather tall figure of scales and sharp teeth, with narrow eyes featuring irises of blending color. Thats the Draggi-Species for you.

Well. Slightly lower, well a lot lower. An elf at the desk. Leaning forward on his forearms, speaking with that focused energy of someone who has been in the middle of a very specific thought for some time. The receptionist nods and nods. Her eyes staring right ahead and front. There and open. "And, and the issue is. You see. The fibrous layer! most damn people just grind it which is wrong, structurally wrong, the oils are in the membrane and you're throwing away the most," He pauses. His hand, seemingly on its own, drifts to his upper back and begins pressing around in the absent way of someone patting their pockets. "Hold on," He straightens slightly. Moves it to his side. Nothing. The receptionist's gaze for once, drifts to his lithe frame shifting and wobbling. For what. " Sorry, one moment ". Tap, tap, tap. "There." No more tapping sound on flesh. Small glass vial from the air, holding it up. The dried contents are dark, reddish-brown, slightly powdered. "This one. See, smell it, go ahead, you have to actually..." He leans forward again, extending the vial. The receptionist. She leans back. Either Deciding to entertain this, or simply too exhausted to think and process her reality anymore. "The bitterness is wrong for what he charged, he's either storing it damp or he got it from somewhere further south than he claimed, and I'm not look, I'm not saying he's lying, people lie to themselves first, but" "Should've just stole it, damn it." He closes it in by his eyes. Staring the ripples of liquid. He sees...A pear-shaped figure, to put it lightly over the vial's glass. Must be the reflection deforming the shapes. Glances aside it. And there Ya is, in your normal frame. "New one...Test subject...Hehe." said to the receptionist, whispering a bit too loud and unaware.