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[Azunda]

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Azunda arrived in Blackmarsh, convincing himself he came to order some provisions. He intended to leave with milk, that much was true. But such wasn't his goal; It was never that simple with Azunda. His mind no longer worked as a matter of science, but as an abstract art. Brutally warped and delusional, he crafted his confusion into a tool, a method to employ to best his challenges. Would it backfire one day? Certainly so, and he realized this. He wasn't doing himself any favors indulging and reveling in a side of himself that any sane man would repress.

He looked into a pocket miror, ensuring that the mortal coil didn't reflect the beast within.

"A poor substitute."

Azunda groaned. He was hardly in the mood to listen to voices he wasn't certain were really there. He clenched the mirror tightly in his palm, then slid it back into his pocket. As he walked towards Blackmarsh's tavern, he could hear the faint sound of a hag's cackle trailing from behind, or perhaps below.

He stood before the tavern, taking note of the pair of women sitting by the fire. Absentmindedly, he nearly started to walk past them.

"Oh, right."

Azunda stopped, then turned to the pair.

"Go on, sit!"

"I'd rather not."

"Sit child, sit!"

His face was still, void of expression. "I trust that I'm allowed to sit." Azunda spoke. Both of the women seemed quite disturbed by his presence, and naturally so. At least one of them had witnessed his antics and indulgences a few evenings prior. The other one, Camilla, was foolish enough to send him her hair. "Go ahead." spoke one of the women, though he wasn't certain which. Azunda sat on a bench with fluid motion, and took note of Camilla. She seemed quite off, more than usual at least. Azunda was convinced she was at least partially insane, so he didn't think too much of it.

Amidst his random epiphanies and curious thoughts, he became aware of his surroundings again, and realized he was already engaged in a conversation with the pair. Camilla, again, had a bothersome look on her face. Azunda was certain he said something offensive, but he couldn't imagine what it was. He examined her closely, eventually his gaze went to her hands. They were bare.

"Her palms."

"What about them?"

"Read them you foolish brat!"

"I don't know how, scams of divining the fates through palms was your art."

"You're a cunning liar, lie your way through it."

"Don't be outrageous, I'm a saint."

"Focus your thoughts elsewhere again, you'll carry it on naturally."

This familiar voice was correct. Azunda did have the unnatural blessing, or curse, to absentmindedly carry on small talk. Though Tyranthraxus, or at least the illusion of Tyranthraxus from his trance several nights ago, was correct; Azunda was using Camilla as a substitute for the Mirror. It was her own fault, if one were to ask Azunda. She sent him her locks of hair, after all. Did Azunda even ask for it? He wasn't sure anymore, nor did it really matter. Why did he even come to Blackmarsh that day anyway? Why was he there now? Oh, right. "Milk".

Azunda delicately released Camilla's hand, and stood up. "While I'm here, I'd like some milk." The pair went inside, and carried on more conversation that Azunda was hardly interested in. I want my mirror. Camilla seemed quite delighted that Azunda had nothing but pleasant things to say about Blackmarsh's milk, seeing that she giddily hopped behind the bar to fetch several pitchers. This doesn't work. I need the Mirror. She carried a small crate with a few pitchers of milk inside. Azunda offered a soft smile and a bag of silver. This isn't how it was supposed to be. He should be here, and I should be looking into the Mirror. She graciously accepted as Azunda called forth a small, blue fiend from the depths to haul the crate. I want my future back. He tipped his hat and left the tavern, the fiend in tow.

He walked down the road towards Britain, eyes narrowed looking straight ahead.

"A poor substitute."

"I hold no feelings for her."

"Yet you long for her."

"I long for the Mirror of Morgaz."

"The Mirror will never be yours to hold. She is your new mirror."

"She's a fool's crusade of an obsession."

"The Mirror is an obsession."

She is my new Mirror.
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