Appearance of his was one to make some standoffish. Leathery skin that looked more at home on something reptilian was brown that glimmered with a bit of green in the bright sunlight. A short-cropping of white hair grows soft as feathers about the base of his skull. Though he's about the average height of a Human male, the line of his spine curves midway up his back and to his head. He clothes himself in robes of various colors and cloths, depending on the weather and mood of the day. Fingers are long and spindly, as strong as they are gentle and each are tipped with black talons honed to sharp points.

Since his youth, he has been many things over these many years: student, teacher, librarian, collector, writer, and even a merchant of curious things. The latter is what he is. From watches that talk, to books with words that dance, and so much more he has a keep at the end of the marketplace that serves him as a home as well as a shop for those looking for curiosities. He doesn't use the magic he has for the trinkets and such, but for mundane things or when pressed into absolute necessity. There was already enough use of magic about the land until it had diluted its rareness in the eyes of all. Let the young flaunt it about, was his thinking.

It had been months since he had done more in the heart of RhyDin than to make a single visit to the Valucia Sedai at Bulwark Cove. And it had been longer since he had stepped into the Red Dragon Inn. It was time to make his visits to the great RyDin Proper a bit more frequent. The aged one was barely known at all, but for those who knew that he might exist he was one prone to stay indoors among the piles of books, scrolls, tablets of wood and stone, and more. But for him, it was the hard part of just stepping a clawed foot out the door when he would rather be sipping on a shallow bowl of gultoran treeblood.

But there had been a missive about meeting with one of the librarians in the great, ancient city. And though he was loathed to stop with his writings on the histories of the Ma'qui, he knew that he could never be so selfish when it came to learning about new species, cultures, and happenings. It was the duty of the schooled Ma'qui to never let such an opportunity pass him by. It was as natural and necessary for him to document others ways as it was for most to need to breathe.

He put aside an abridged version of a drow translation book and reached for his side where a metallic, brass-like globe was handing down from his belt. He lifted it up in the middle of his palm with talon-tipped fingers curled about it bit, and then tapped the top of it. Out and up sprung an image of RhyDin World and all of its ever-changing cities, continents. With the forefingers over his opposite hand he touched the diaphanous image that was slowly spinning and caused it to stop. Then tapped it with his claw again. Time in over six languages " symbols and numbers "were suddenly heading the image. It was all done in a matter of a second, then snapped the brass sphere closed and let it drop on its chain.

There was enough time to travel without the need for magical doorways or stripped-down magic at all. He preferred to move about on foot, though he didn't mind magic ? when it was used for good purpose; not abused or thrown about like glitter at a fairy wedding.

A reptilian hand slid along the strap of Skelrisan's haversack. It had once been a very ornate, leather piece given to him by a lady of one of the ancient RhyDin houses; tooled leather with magical creatures and symbols; light and dark, alike. Images on it had once been painted brightly in reds, greens, blues, and even black. But the decades had left only the barest hints it had been painted at all. A rather large haversack, for him, it served him well for most functions and purposes.

He stuffed the haversack with supplies for writing and reading. Only after he was finished with that did he consider packing some of his robes, trinkets, herbs and elixirs, various types of coins, among other things.

He intended to stay in RhyDin Proper for at least seven of its two-mooned nights and it was time to get going.

Skelrisan remembered her for her hair, mostly. It was a strange things to tell anyone about " at first " until they either gained an understanding of their own or saw the woman for themselves. Her hair rivaled the beauty of any RhyDin's autumn foliage with its reds and golds, except hers did not fade or pass with the seasons. It flowed down from the top of her head, framing her alabaster features, and reached a length of where he guessed her calves might be. Only a guess on his part since the lovely woman was never in anything indecent. She clothed herself in dresses that did not cover her so much that you were reminded of a marm, but of a lady.

She was, in fact, one of the regal and royal among the sky people. Her name was Is'en Nelanu TasVerant. The Lady was of the ancient House of Verant. It was an old my many worlds' standards. The fair and lovely Is'en was not.

While visiting the Cloud People, he was scolded quickly, though gently, that to call them that was the same as referring to a dragon as a lizard. They called themselves Istiaiass. For the Istiaiass, it meant roughly 'to soar', but Skelrisan was still a child in learning about them. He might have misunderstood it. It seemed to him that it might mean 'aloft' or 'sky-rise'.

"You look upon her and you frown."

He had been caught off-guard and shuffled about slowly to face the tall, thin Istiaiass male. By comparison, the old scholar was at tall as the other's elbow. One of them, anyway. The Istiaiass had four upper arms, though they were obviously bipedal. "C'radas, I did not hear your approach." Skelrisan adjusted and smoothed his robes, then re-positioned the strap of his old, leather haversack.

C'radas stood at almost nine feet. And as that might sound an incredulous height, he did not lumber or stomp about. He was as lithe and graceful as any Elf noble. His skin had a sheen to it that reminded the scholar of mother-of-pearl, not one true color " undoubtedly subtle in all tones and hues " and a certain iridescence to it. He strolled along and came to stop alongside Skelrisan. The clothes he wore were finely made. A long tunic hugged his torso and flared out a little just beneath his second set of upper appendages. Slim leggings, pants of the same gray and silver were tucked into a glossy pair of boots. One pair of arms were tucked behind his back while the others were folded over his chest. His hair was long and red, like the lady's, but alternating silver and black ran through it to his waistline. "Very likely because you have no ears, Scribe."

"None of that. I have ears and I do scribe, but I am not a scribe, C'radas. Should I start calling you Lady Is'en's lap-dragon?" Skelrisan was neither frowning nor smiling to say it. After he saw C'radas give him a partial glance and look back to the large room that was filled to overflowing with Istiaiass and others from lands not part of the sky, he continued. "I was wondering how old she is. That is all. It is a hard thing to tell among your people. You, I know from what you said, are seventy-four in Human years."

"Yes. You remember this telling correctly." C'radas paused a few second, his gaze of silver, slanted eyes were on the crowd and the lady who sat on a backless seat. "But even I do not have the knowledge to tell you how old she is."