Intro
Somewhere in the heart of Advarsel, a small shadowy figure made her way through the crowds. She wasn’t necessarily hiding, but standing fully and revealing the Markings which indicated that she was a student of Willwright would be sure to draw attention, and attention was precisely what she didn’t want. Turning a corner brought Kuvio out of the Square and into an alleyway, and she could see a stretch of stunted grass on the other side. She held her cloak more closely to her body against the chill of the alleyway, and drew a small book from her satchel. The leather of the cover was hard and cracked, and the pages were uneven from having been added at different times. Her journal was well loved indeed; full of diagrams and notes.
Kuvio ran her fingers along the worn pages and almost sighed. She’d made this trip before, about a year ago. She had laid out the course in her notebook, in the case that she lost her way. That wasn’t why she was checking it now; thanks to a not-quite-approved Volitional Act, she never needed to refresh her memory. The reason for the prohibition of that particular Act was still unclear to Kuvio, and she tended to push against every boundary that wasn’t sufficiently explained.
She stashed the journal back in her satchel and stepped out into the sunlight. Her back ached from stooping and she stretched before continuing to walk. A few paces into the field her thoughts were interrupted by a loud crack, and she was hit squarely between the shoulders. A ball, made of conglomerated wood chips. A couple of boys playing in the grass. She closed her eyes in pain, shutting out the boys’ shouts and laughter, and considered disintegrating the ball.
She kept walking. Giving those ignorant children a reaction would service her nothing. Kuvio wondered if they even knew why they hated her. I’ll go the long way. She ducked into a narrow street and told herself that it was only to avoid further confrontations, and not to delay her arrival. Her Mask made her appear nonthreatening and uninteresting, which kept her mostly hidden from the typical onlooker. It wouldn’t hinder anyone purposefully looking for her, or protect her from deliberate malice.
Kuvio approached the Institute of Justice building from the side instead of the front, avoiding its shadow. It loomed over the streets and pedestrians, tall spires reminiscent of the spears with which the Hands of Justice would happily skewer a Volitionist if given an excuse. She took a deep breath and opened the front door.
Kuvio ran her fingers along the worn pages and almost sighed. She’d made this trip before, about a year ago. She had laid out the course in her notebook, in the case that she lost her way. That wasn’t why she was checking it now; thanks to a not-quite-approved Volitional Act, she never needed to refresh her memory. The reason for the prohibition of that particular Act was still unclear to Kuvio, and she tended to push against every boundary that wasn’t sufficiently explained.
She stashed the journal back in her satchel and stepped out into the sunlight. Her back ached from stooping and she stretched before continuing to walk. A few paces into the field her thoughts were interrupted by a loud crack, and she was hit squarely between the shoulders. A ball, made of conglomerated wood chips. A couple of boys playing in the grass. She closed her eyes in pain, shutting out the boys’ shouts and laughter, and considered disintegrating the ball.
She kept walking. Giving those ignorant children a reaction would service her nothing. Kuvio wondered if they even knew why they hated her. I’ll go the long way. She ducked into a narrow street and told herself that it was only to avoid further confrontations, and not to delay her arrival. Her Mask made her appear nonthreatening and uninteresting, which kept her mostly hidden from the typical onlooker. It wouldn’t hinder anyone purposefully looking for her, or protect her from deliberate malice.
Kuvio approached the Institute of Justice building from the side instead of the front, avoiding its shadow. It loomed over the streets and pedestrians, tall spires reminiscent of the spears with which the Hands of Justice would happily skewer a Volitionist if given an excuse. She took a deep breath and opened the front door.
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