appearances.
everything boiled down to appearances.
the sorceresses of aretuza did it well; no matter how ugly or unfortunate their circumstances were when they arrived at the school, they all came out looking as beautiful as a spring flower, a true blossoming. he, in his own right, was no different-- when one pictured a mage, a wizard, his was the sort of image one’s mind would conjure-- older, dignified, an air of skill and finesse to him that certain younger mages might only dream of acquiring.
and with that association, it granted stregobor a power that no mere magic could provide.
a power of influence.
he, who had served his king in kovir, who blasphemed the witcher of rivia-- he, a master of illusions, a man who convinced the council of the dangers of the black sun’s curse-- he knew that if he were anything but what he was, he’d never have acquired that same influence, that same venerable station that he so craved. if he were younger, more handsome-- no, there’d be none to take him seriously.
yes, in this world, everything relied on appearances.
stregobor knew that well.
