Archaera

The crossed sticks produce a spray of indigo sparks every time the needle pricks the skin. Every prick of the needle sends a faint glow through the veins, weaving a web of light under the skin and flooding the body with powerful magic.   'The process is costly,' she'd been warned, 'and the results may bury you in things you never thought to expect.'   She'd laughed right in the man's face. After all, she was a stranger in these lands, how could he know that her people were skilled Shapers, and even more skilled Wielders? Removing the scrap of green cloth meant to hide them, she raised her right wrist to show the stars branded below the heel of her palm. The man stooped to make out the marks and his jaw dropped open.   "I am a Master Shaper and a Master Wielder, both, and a fair fighter with the Mundane beside," replacing the cloth with a grin, she continues, "I've the Blessing of the High Masters and ten years studying with the Scholars." Letting her eyes drift to the peeling sign above her, "if I can't expect them, who could?" Before her eyes could drop back to his face, she heard the shuffle of his feet as he backed away as he hurried off down the road. Letting out a snort of laughter, she thinks to herself, probably thinks I'm some sort of assassin.   She could see where he thought he was being helpful; stopping a woman, unaccompanied, before she tainted herself by entering such an establishment. It was charming, really, but she'd woken in a worse place that very morning.   And there she was, Istari Or'sedan, getting her first tattoo.