Zelgadis Grayweir

He's laying on his side on a deserted edge of the beach, legs in the path of the waves so his ivory trousers are soaked and sticking to his stony blue skin. Small bumps rise up under the wet fabric at irregular intervals along his legs. Jutting out from under his left hip, his sword is half buried in the sand. The hood of his cloak is mostly obscuring his face.

He's breathing but not conscious, despite the rhythmic wash of sea water over his feet.




Whenever Iago's ready...