The sounds of battle were cleaning up outside, but Torquesville was not there to hear them. Or if he was, he was willfully ignoring them. Instead he was focused upon the dirtflecked, unpolished lookingglass set before him, its edges rough yet straight upon his washstand. He was eying his reflection within, mysteriously, as if expecting sudden moves, though none were made. The face within rotated back and forth like a cobra, moving from one near profile to the other, the eyes locked in place, forever staring outwards. He noticed, as if for the first time, though also he was certain the thought had crept about before, that he could not quite place the age of the face behind the glass. It was much too set, too defined to be within the third decade of life, or even into the early years of the fourth. Yet the comparative lack of wrinkles meant he could not have been older than five and thirty. No face should have appeared quite so lived in, and yet so unmarked. And to top it off, the subtle, practiced motions of the face, the dart of the eyes, the slow raising of brow, the set of the mouth, betrayed the easy practice of a soul that had been living for over a century. It was a face that was perfectly unnatural. And it was his.
"How weird," he thought. "Men should no longer be living."
Outside, there could be heard the sound of a man falling to ground nearby the tent, and being set upon and torn open by long blades, screaming in wet horror. The dying sounds caught hold of Torquesville and pulled his soul back across whatever oceans it had crossed. The fae were making sport of another town, and he had business out-and-about.