By the time Zaril makes it as far as a records cache, he's aware that he's in terrible shape. Long days traveling alone on foot, insufficient food and water, and sleeping rough in the cold have been hitting him a lot harder than usual, and he's not really much closer to rendezvousing with his organization. 

He doesn't think that he normally comes back this, well, small. The child whose body he stole must have had an unusually early-awakened mage-gift. If the jumbled memories he inherited with this body can be trusted, he's about seven years old. 

He's much less sure than usual that any of his memories can be trusted. It feels like there isn't enough space for him in his head, the mind of a seven-year-old too restricted and underformed to actually make sense of his goals and plans. He feels constantly disoriented. Now, on top of that, he's picked up a nasty cough and sore throat, and this morning he woke up feeling feverish. 

His mage-gift isn't really adequate for Gating right now; he doesn't have the raw channeling capacity or the control, and he certainly doesn't have the reserves, after days of inadequate sleep and little to eat he has barely any mage-energy to work with at all. 

The records cache has an artifact that he thinks is for boosting complex spells, possibly including Gates targeted off a map. He's not entirely sure he remembers how to use it, but it's increasing clear that he's not going to make it all the way north like this. He needs to reunite with his organization and allies, and he's starting to suspect that he needs the attention of a Healer as well. 

...The Gate doesn't feel right. But most casting he's done lately hasn't felt right, so Zaril isn't sure what to make of it. Especially when the Gate threshold goes up oddly milky-opaque, so he can't see what's on the other side. 

He steps across, and immediately stumbles and falls to his knees, all the strength drained from him. He's - where is he - there are glass-fronted buildings on either side of him, glowing non-magical lights and neon signs in a language he can't read. It's night, but the sky is an odd orange color and he can't make out the stars at all. It's drizzling, too, a cold rain that quickly has him soaked.

He should find shelter, but it feels too hard to move, so he just curls up. 

It's 2 am, and there isn't a lot of foot traffic even on the main street of downtown Reno, Nevada, but eventually a random passerby will spot a tiny, underfed-looking child of six or seven, hugging himself and shivering on the sidewalk in front of a 24-hour 7/11, coughing into his elbow.