Afternoon came, and the sun looked in through the window of Seymour’s room to see a transformation underway. First, he covered his face, hands and neck with a peculiar, sticky substance, and contorted each to make each as wrinkled as possible. The substance dried quickly, retaining the creases and thus making him appear much older than his twenty two years. Next, he donned a wig of long, grey hair, which he attached expertly to his head and pulled back in a messy braid.
He paused only a moment to admire the result in the looking glass before proceeding onward to the next step, which was to pull on a ragged, brown dress (complete with the necessary prosthetics in the chest and hip areas) over his normal clothes. He adjusted it so that his collar didn’t poke out, then threw a shawl about his shoulders and hunched over a bit. Perfect.
Seymour was small for a male of his species, not even seven feet, so he had always found it relatively easy to pass for the opposite sex. It was greatly advantageous for his profession, an ideal disguise. No one had ever seen through it.
There was a knock on his door. “It is us,” came Mialina’s whispered voice. “Are you red’thy?”
“Yes,” he replied, sliding back the latch on the door.
The three mages stood gaping at him a moment. “Impressive,” Alt-Mage MacQuarrie remarked. “And without magic, too.”
“Thank you. Do come in.”
As they filed past him, Seymour distinctly heard Henry mutter, “It figures.”
The Aechyed pretended that he had missed the comment, addressing the three of them at large. “Will you keep my luggage for me?”
“Certainly,” MacQuarrie responded. “It will be waiting for you when you arrive in Carviliet.”
“Now,” continued the Alt-Mage. “Ready?”
Seymour nodded beneath his wig, and MacQuarrie took a small pouch from his pocket, pouring from it a tiny amount of grey powder, the consistency of volcanic ash, into his palm. Raising his hand over Seymour’s head, he let the powder fall.
The Aechyed vanished.