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@badson
In another assortment befitting The Golden Dawn of the World, Roland has side-swiped and side-stepping and meandered past opened thornbrush to seek the dusty tomes hidden in the proverbial basement, and decides to coincide with a Seeking Career off across the continent: for Something considering the olde legends of the Picts.
Thankfully, and unfortunately, the trail between London and Scotland is a merely an expensive trainride--- paid for by his ‘friends’ in the Big Business of the Paranormal back home--- and with his luggage compartment of books and writ scrolls hidden off in a separate car, a fancy blindfold for his sleep, Roland merely naps for the dozen of hours--- even a few days--- to truthfully get there, without pause.
He checks into a inn far off the coast of Glascow, by a small village with a name that couldn’t be translated into English properly, and everything’s paid for by his ‘friends’. A bar tab, the sum-amount of days already wired by his group in London, and even a mule from the stable behind the building. Roland could broach no argument, and spends another day blessedly peaceful in the light of his flickering candle that tiny amount of short stories and untranslatable Legends borrowed from the proverbial basement of the Higher Folk in nobility. He snorts roughly.
He does his homework, with his gilded reading glasses and the silence of the green hills, close enough to the shore where he can well and truly smell the Sea.
