@ormir location: feywilds, nearing the silverlands notes: post 'return the jar.'
Smoke billowed from behind grit teeth before Emre took in a breath, with a great sigh the gladiator exhaled a cone of draconic flames - burning through the trees, foliage, and whatever tricksters might have been lurking in wait for them within. He grinned in typical form as some indigestion rumbled in his gut, quickly quelled by a sharp strike of his fist to his gut, a loud belch followed.
There used to be a lot of bad talk about the Iskarans, about this man and the Prince in particular, but the nation had garnered some sympathy for the Iskarans in recent months. Emre didn't attend bardic plays, but it used to be that they'd dress up prisoners in Iskaran regalia so that gladiators like him could cut off their heads for the crowd. The arena had been closed since Aventia was attacked, but in the weeks before that practice had come to an end. Truthfully, that was the only means Emre used for attuning toward which way the wind was blowing. Popularity was a gladiator's livelihood.
"What are your plans when we get back to the city?" He'd decided without really thinking that he'd escort the Hand to the Silverlands where travel back to the Eterna would be simpler and less prone to unexpected obstacles and interruptions. Much like his association with Praxis, there was an underlying attachment to being pointed in any given direction. Emre was always at his best when he didn't need to think.