The Free City of Antiris
20th of Glade, Year 122 Steel
Kalzasi was a mess.
As one of the public faces of the Golden Peacock Theater, Aurin had been called to help maintain order after the debacle on high that set airships afire and then the political and social landscape. The ban on travel had been lifted and the Skyharbour repaired, and the Iron Queen was now the Iron Queen Regent—authoritarian order had been established so he felt his people were safe enough for him to fulfill a promise he had made to one of his people.
It felt a bit strange to be back in Antiris. He had been back since Arvine Venasyr swooned into his arms and began to construct Arvalyn Val'Cithaeron from whole cloth. Now he was back specifically to search Arvine's roots. Using all the information Arry had provided him, he found the building he had grown up in until he joined the little army of ragamuffins. The human-dominated ghetto made him think of Brenner Dornkirk's insinuations last season—it felt so long ago, but wasn't quite. Asking around yielded little, until someone remembered a Ruslan Venasyr and the bar he used to make a sad showing at on the regular, swimming in his own piss and vomit from the sound of things. Aurin frowned. He didn't hate the man he had never met, but he wished he had done better by himself and his son, even if that meant Aurin had never met him.
Walking those streets, he half expected to feel an inexpert hand in his pocket and to turn and see those frightened, calculating golden eyes under a knit cap. He wished he had done better by Arry, but things seemed to be treating the half-elf better now. He had survived several sad excuses for men.
When he found the bar in question, he didn't quite look himself. He was dressed for the crowd, though perhaps trending toward the more prosperous of the neighborhood. His seeming trick was played to turn red hair gold, his complexion to complement, and his features blended toward Arry's. He might have been a brother or a cousin, though his ears were rounded. He wasn't Aurin Kavafis, nor Darus of Haqs, nor even Oren Cavafy.
He took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink, quiet and observant, not causing any problems. If a bartender got chatty, all the better. If not, he would try to suss out who had been here the longest and see if he couldn't ask some questions. Or hells, their memories might draw a line from his face to Arry's to Ruslan's, and the words might just come pouring out. Aurin did like to make things easy.
20th of Glade, Year 122 Steel
Kalzasi was a mess.
As one of the public faces of the Golden Peacock Theater, Aurin had been called to help maintain order after the debacle on high that set airships afire and then the political and social landscape. The ban on travel had been lifted and the Skyharbour repaired, and the Iron Queen was now the Iron Queen Regent—authoritarian order had been established so he felt his people were safe enough for him to fulfill a promise he had made to one of his people.
It felt a bit strange to be back in Antiris. He had been back since Arvine Venasyr swooned into his arms and began to construct Arvalyn Val'Cithaeron from whole cloth. Now he was back specifically to search Arvine's roots. Using all the information Arry had provided him, he found the building he had grown up in until he joined the little army of ragamuffins. The human-dominated ghetto made him think of Brenner Dornkirk's insinuations last season—it felt so long ago, but wasn't quite. Asking around yielded little, until someone remembered a Ruslan Venasyr and the bar he used to make a sad showing at on the regular, swimming in his own piss and vomit from the sound of things. Aurin frowned. He didn't hate the man he had never met, but he wished he had done better by himself and his son, even if that meant Aurin had never met him.
Walking those streets, he half expected to feel an inexpert hand in his pocket and to turn and see those frightened, calculating golden eyes under a knit cap. He wished he had done better by Arry, but things seemed to be treating the half-elf better now. He had survived several sad excuses for men.
When he found the bar in question, he didn't quite look himself. He was dressed for the crowd, though perhaps trending toward the more prosperous of the neighborhood. His seeming trick was played to turn red hair gold, his complexion to complement, and his features blended toward Arry's. He might have been a brother or a cousin, though his ears were rounded. He wasn't Aurin Kavafis, nor Darus of Haqs, nor even Oren Cavafy.
He took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink, quiet and observant, not causing any problems. If a bartender got chatty, all the better. If not, he would try to suss out who had been here the longest and see if he couldn't ask some questions. Or hells, their memories might draw a line from his face to Arry's to Ruslan's, and the words might just come pouring out. Aurin did like to make things easy.
