Upon arrival back to the camp at long last, time seemed almost nonexistent to the Mage. There was the sudden bustle of activity, Healers checking him over to make sure he was unharmed, then he was herded into a nearby tent and told to rest.
As if sleep could come to him so easily.
Nomine lay there and stared at the roof of the tent, thinking over today’s occurrences with a scowl on his features. Such a look was quite rare to be found but after being held as prisoner, though it was a short amount of time, he found himself feeling bitter. Relieved, of course, but bitter. The bitterness, however, was more directed at himself rather than his captors who now lay dead in the crumbling stone of what was undeniably once a fine castle. Understandably his magic was still weak-- ❛ in development ❜, Grand Enchanter Fiona had said, but to have been overwhelmed so easily should have been a disgrace. One of the Inquisition Soldiers unfortunate enough to have been the first to fall went down fighting-- but him? He nearly cried. Such thoughts made his scowl deepen further, the outside world nonexistent as the mental cascade of abuse hurtled around in his head.
