blending in, he’s learned, doesn’t particularly help when your armor is only the most prolific of sorts. alfor has long since realized the paladins are famous here still, but he’s also learned that everything is backwards and wrong. things are different, and the questions that are asked of him, he has no answers.
not to mention, all the clothes here are most definitely fit for something... not two armed and two legged, much to his dismay. the most he’s gotten is a bag made out of what he was told to be “authentic tanned flesh,” lazily shucked over a shoulder.
alfor shoulders his way to the front of the crowd, and his eyes land upon a familiar figure. not familiar in the right sense, though; the outline is different, but the combination of colors is striking. but this is not blaytz, this is somebody else entirely, and he cannot see their face through the paladin mask, squinting against a ray of sun that reflects against it.
whatever this is, it can’t be good. he’s learned nothing about this universe but the misery that lingers within it. he’s learned hostility inspired by fear and the fact that there is nobody like him. caution is for the best... and so he freezes when the head tilts down, scanning the crowd and stopping in his direction.
in fact, all of them do. too many eyes are on him and his armor and what that must mean, and alfor goes rigid,
“ ...uh oh. ”
and bolts.
