"A Game of Confidence"

[Pharaoh]

"A Game of Confidence"
The Citadel of Red Rock
Roughly 110 miles Southeast of the Solunarian Capital
21 Ash 122
Pursuant to the events of Toe the Line

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Tucking away the observation that Dæmon registered comprehension of his Vallenor utterances, Phocion stepped onto the solid, stone floor of a moderately sized room. Whether it was a dedicated conference room or a had been hastily appointed as such was unclear, but it had been set with chairs around a circular table, which was arrayed with refreshments. Fruit, cheese, cured meats, biscuits, pastries, wine and water.

By Solunarian standards the room was far from ornate. It was a simple, spartan chamber the starkest attribute of which was directly across from the portal in the form of a floor to ceiling window overlooking the desert and a distant mountain range from a high vantage. In truth, the citadel was built into the side of a great mesa. The surrounding stone was, unsurprisingly given the name of the venue, of a crimson hue and the walls were adorned with banners bearing the sigil of the Vigilia Argenti. Perhaps the position of the sun at the current hour or the view of the mountains might inform the more navigationally-minded to recognise this was an Eastward facing window. Far from the show of force that was displayed in the capital, this room had only four uniformed guards- One in each corner. In fact there were more slaves than soldiers present. The soldiers were also bare-faced, rather than veiled as they had been at the arena.

Phocion rounded the table with his graceful gait, handed his glaive off to a nearby guard, and placed his hand on one of the simple, wooden high-backed chairs. Framed by the window that took up the entire rear wall, the Vigil used his free hand and removed his veil. Still little more than a silhouette to eyes that needed to adjust to the stark backlighting offered by the desert sun, he would eventually be revealed as pale-skinned, dark haired elf with angular features adorning a slender face. His silvery white eyes regarded the three across from him.

"Please take a seat and help yourselves to any refreshments that may appeal to you." He said to them in Common, before glancing to an attending slave. "Vinum pro omnibus." He instructed, and the servant promptly moved to fill their simple, copper goblets with a fragrant, chilled, white wine. He handed his veil off to a slave, and waited for the guests to take their seats before sitting himself.

"Now then." Phocion began, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms over a slender chest. "Why do you fain haunt our fair demesne, when your city grieves the loss of its halcyon prince, Your Highness?" The Semblers might glean from the now unimpeded Aura of the elf that he was nervously aware that the supposition he proposed was an uncertain gambit, but one that felt worth hazarding. His focus was entirely upon the man he now believed to be Talon Novalys, eyeing his visage with fresh intensity.

[Aeros]

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Æros watched as the Vigil called over another, listening as the man spoke to the other in Vallenor. Nothing he said was really all that strange…just instructions. Instructions, clearly, to somewhere out in the sands, the last place he wanted to be– but again, ah well. With the portal made and the Vigil having gone through it, the Starborn Fæ stepped forward ahead of the others to follow after him.

It was an odd thing, this. The room itself was quaint and it would appear that the serving staff was doing everything in a rush. It spoke to a lack of preparation, yet at the same time, efficiency at the speed by which people were able to be mobilized…especially if this entire turn of events was unanticipated. He wondered how much foresight the Sentinels had even had. Was Dæmon’s divinity even on the table?

He watched servii skitter to and fro, silent until the Vigil bade him to sit, something he was happy to do. Being served wine was a welcome sight, though in an effort to not appear too desperate, he picked up his goblet and drank from it leisurely– far more languid a pace than he desired, but…he had to maintain some semblance of decorum. The tension of this situation was getting to him, in truth. It felt…odd, like he had no allies in the room; it was a strange, isolating feeling that really was beginning to claw at him. Æros couldn’t help but feel some combination of powerless and disposable.

As Dæmon and Mathias made themselves comfortable, he sat in silence. His expression was largely blank, though one could detect undercurrents of both curiosity and fear if one were perceptive enough. However, the next thing said by the Vigil resulted in golden eyes widening in surprise. A prince? Was this information new? Why hadn’t he said this before? Fascinating as this was, he was even further perplexed by whatever motivations were involved with this whole farce. He wanted to say something, but at the same time, waiting for the warrior's response felt...wiser.

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'Thoughts'

"Vallenor Tongue/Speech"

"Vastien Tongue/Speech"

"Valasren Tongue/Speech"

"Common Tongue/Speech"

[Talon]

D A E M O N

As he watched Phocion, Aeros and Mathias step through the portal and into the stone chamber that awaited them on the other side, he had a fleeting moment of hesitation. Bitter memories of a stone walled prison flitted across his consciousness but he stamped them down. He cast one last glance to the sky. He felt that yearning that all of the Avialae felt upon beholding it, the want to stretch his wings and soar. He allowed himself that moment before walking through the portal and into the quiet bustle of the conference room. When the portal closed behind him, he suppressed the urge to stiffen and forced himself to relax.

Watching Phocion free himself of the veil and his glaive helped to reinforce the idea that there was yet an amicable path forward. The last thing he wanted was to be thrust into yet another tense standoff. He nodded for Mathias to seat himself. He inspected the refreshments that had been assembled around them carefully, looking to ensure there was nothing amiss from them. It was only after Aeros and Mathias had seated themselves that he stepped up to a chair between them. He ran his hand along the high back. How many times had he, throughout the course of his life, sat in similar chairs for meetings of royal importance? How many times had he engaged in such diplomatic discussions as this? He could not fully remember. He took his seat, resting his hands upon the surface of the table before folding them together in thought. Then Phocion spoke.

He was not surprised. The man’s distinctly Kalzasern dialect in common and his obvious familiarity with matters of intelligence was enough for him to piece together that the man was an informed individual.

“Because I have no choice.” He looked up from his hands in order to meet Phocion’s gaze. “If you know who I am, I would hazard a guess you know the circumstances surrounding that grief.”

Mathias, who had, in his opinion, wisely chosen to drink water; choked on that water.

“You’re a prince!?” Mathias blinked at him in shock. Then, seemingly remembering where he was, cleared his throat. Talon gave a sardonic smirk but did not respond directly. He lifted his hands to showcase the bracers that were still in place around his wrists.

“I spoke the truth to your kinsman, Vyxis. I cannot remove them. The master of my leash bids me to come here. To lend my strength to Solunarium in order to avert a coming calamity. One that the ruling family would seem to be at the heart of.” He folded his hands back together, rubbing a thumb along the flat of his palm. “Do not ask me who that master is. I am forbidden to tell you directly.”

He sighed and leaned back into the chair, folding his arms over his chest. He closed his eyes, collecting his thoughts for a moment before opening them and speaking again.

“My orders are simple; discover the calamity. Stop it from happening. Then leave.”

[Pharaoh]

Dæmon's assessment of the Vigilia's offerings would find no poison or tampering of any kind. The only thing he might consider unusual, if he were to Semble with any particular scrutiny, was that most of the pastries were not fresh made, but had been baked the prior day. This was not out of disrespect, but born of haste and the scramble to prepare refreshments on short notice at a remote outpost that hadn't been readied for such a meeting as this. It was also why none of the offerings were hot food- The entire array consisted of comestibles that had been on hand as the order was coming in a short time earlier.

"And you have my condolences for your losses," Phocion conceded, reaching for a biscuit and laying a slice of cheese atop it. "But your sustained absence from your homeland contributes to a deepening of that grief. And yet, you are here..." Silvery white eyes danced from Dæmon to his ward. He took a delicate bite of the biscuit-cheese combo and considered the brief exchange. He washed it down with a splash of the dry, floral white wine.

"I find I am somewhat relieved to discover that your predilection for deception is not reserved for Solunarians alone." He paused, sitting back and finishing the morsel in his hand as he listened to the massive man elucidate.

"Why do you believe that Vyxis is my kinsperson?" Phocion arched a brow pointedly. He had identified himself only as a Sentinel, not as a prince. This might have been a slip suggesting greater a greater level of knowledge than Dæmon had let on, or a blithe bit of Sembling or some other magic that found common themes in their blood. Their relation was distant, but he supposed whatever modicum of divinity had been passed this far down the line might have been enough to glean for one such as this.

This next bit was a lot to take in.

"'The master of your leash...'" He repeated that ominous phrase, slowly as he pondered its implications. Then perhaps this enigmatic exile was not a self-imposed one. As an adherent of the Cursus Argentus, well did Phocion know that no one was untethered- Not even the mightiest. There was something edifying in the knowledge that such a lofty creature might be reined in and reigned over, and something unsettling in the knowledge that this deft dominus dwelt obscured in the shadow of ignorance. For now.

"We have already spoken on matters of perspective, you and I, Dæmon... Most in Solunarium hold a different view of martial sports than you," He glanced mildly to the half-Fæ across from him, "Although it would seem your guarantor did not prepare you for those expectations or you ignored his efforts to educate you. So," He shifted his gaze back to the erstwhile gladiator.

"I have two questions for you that pertain to perspective, to get us started..." He gripped the edge of the table with both of his gloved hands, and leaned forward to gaze at him with fresh intensity.

"Firstly, am I to expect that your master's definition of 'calamity' would align with our own? Zaichaer's calamity was Kalzasi's blessing, was it not? An enemy cast down, a war averred. A Solunarian boon might be a foreign disaster, or a Solunarian disaster a foreign boon..." His fingers began to fidget along the table's edge.

"Secondly, I would ask why you chose to pursue a path of deception in the interest of this goal? The gravity of your particular identity is not lost on me in the current 'cultural context'," His eyes darkened as he uttered what may be perceived as a rather taunting pseudonym the man had selected for himself, "Dæmon." He pronounced it with a particularly Vastian emphasis, dropping his Kalzasern Common as he lingered on those two simple syllables.

"But you were either woefully unprepared to carry out this ruse, or you wished to toy with us most unkindly. Which was it?"

[Aeros]

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Æros sat there and listened for a bit while the two talked. His expression remained largely blank as Dæmon offered more of an explanation to his situation. Despite the nature of the information given, he barely did more than raise a brow in response. In some ways, it might appear as if he wasn’t even listening– though this would be notably false.

Being a fan of sweets, he helped himself to some of the pastries available; the Færie favored beignets and anything featuring red fruits, particularly raspberries and pomegranates. Silent and formal as he ate with his movements being ever so slightly less delicate than their Vigil companion’s. It was the words from his lips, however, that actually pulled any modicum of expression to the half-elf’s face– it was true. He did try to tell him some few things, Solunarium’s lust for blood included.

Æros questioned the notion that Kalzasi would hold their own prince yoked like this, doubting that his reason for being here had anything to do with the man’s country of origin, especially given what he’d had the chance to glean about world events over the past week. Wasn’t the nation without a leader, currently? Why would they send a prince so far away in that case? He very much doubted Kalzasi would show so much weakness as to admit their prince was missing if such a thing wasn’t true, which meant that he wasn’t missing, he was stolen by whomever had him bound.

As the Vigil continued to speak, the gravity of the situation dawned on him– here before him sat the kidnapped god-prince of another nation, sent here covertly, to prevent some ominous notion of ‘calamity.’ This simply did not bode well.

Before Dæmon could say anything, he set his goblet down and spoke, “Unprepared. That one I can answer. Whoever holds his reins told him nothing, for one thing, and for another– he is far too stubborn to listen in the first place. Whoever this master of his may be, they're either a fool or a lunatic to have not seen his discovery coming, to be frank.”

Perhaps emboldened by the familiar and comforting presence of wine, or perhaps he’d lost what little modicum of good sense he had left. Either way, something broke and the Færie no longer cared to hold his tongue. At all. Consequences be damned.

“From his very first fight, he flung a man across the room with a tap. He repelled my Mesmer with apparent ease– and I am a master. He has skills in, hmm…let me think,” he paused, trying to remember any magic he saw the other man use. “Negation, Kinetics, Reaving, Elementalism, probably Semblance...? Scrivening and Alchemy– none of this is lower than a journeyman, and if I had to guess, all near to master?" He actually had no idea what degree of skill the other had in each, this was bluster, but he entirely believed what he was saying. It's not as if Æros was unfamiliar with the concept of a bluff and that to be convincing, one had to be sincere.

Continuing, "Perhaps he even has more that have eluded my detection, but he does wear his abilities on his sleeve, entirely blind to how he compares to mortals.” He sighed, “I’d even hazard to guess he’s a consummate Runeforger. Sure, the trinkets adorning him and his squire could’ve been purchased, but…the earrings whose purpose is translation? Those are new, he arrived here without them. They would have been so very expensive, no? Yet I don’t recall him arriving here with any large amount of our currency, funny, that.” As he went on, his voice brightened, as if he were telling a joke, and yet this was mere conjecture. Assumptions, educated guesses...so on, but he was confident, at least, that he was right.

Æros wasn’t finished, but he did pause to better structure his thoughts, dropping the levity in his voice when he spoke again. “To say I didn’t perceive him as something far beyond mortal from the start would be a farce on my end. His prowess in combat alone would be enough to awe anyone. I’m only alive because of him– found me nearly dead out in the sands after my caravan was attacked by some Dreadmist-cursed fiend and a couple of wyverns to boot. My guards tapped out fast, too, most of the combat was done by Dæmon.” Here, he did let genuine appreciation and admiration bleed through into his words.

Then, the Starborn laughed a bit, “...if the intention was to be subtle, for as much skill as this man possesses, subterfuge and duplicity are so far out of his depth that to think somebody would willingly send him here? Honestly, I can’t…help but laugh.”

“I did try and push through whatever barriers he put up with my Mesmer, by the way, but the noise…I dared not go further, and now? With what happened to the other Mesmer who pierced that veil?” The Fæ shook his head in pity for the other mage. “My only regret is not going with my gut in the beginning and saying something to somebody. I confronted him at least twice with my suspicions, only to be lied to– bold faced lies, too, not him dodging the question, not him avoiding the topic, just blatantly shutting my suspicions down.” One would detect genuine woe in his voice, but at the same time, he sounded notably conflicted, threads of irritation bright in the tapestry of his voice.

He sighed, “For that, Vigil, you have my deepest apologies. My curiosity got the better of me and I wanted to ride out the situation, see where it went, glean what knowledge from him that I could…and it felt almost cruel to give him away after what kindness he did show me. Selfish, perhaps, but in the end…here we still are.” There was some shame to his tone he didn't try and hide, but it's not as if he can undo the past.

“One thing I can tell you, however, is that whoever sent him here is either ignorant or stupid. To such a degree that it’s insulting; there is no inbetween. Either they know nothing of our culture and customs or they are too egomaniacal to care. Dæmon, from my observations, is so…innately opposed to our traditions that even when I told him things, he chose to forego my advice. He has this sense of honor to him that is all his own, making his particular choice of cover…” he clicked his tongue, “...suspect at best. So to even think there was any thought or caution taken by him or his master regarding us, our society? Nay, perish the thought!”

Æros shrugged, “...for me, I wouldn’t pin any blame here on Dæmon. Controlled like a hound, he is. He’s far too…” he laughed, “...benevolent on his own. He doesn’t belong here; a fish out of water– sent on a mission doomed to fail by a leader with as much sense as a rock. But maybe, just maybe, that was the point? One must consider that a choice this, ah…bold could be on purpose, too.”

Nearing the end of what knowledge he had, the half-elf cleared his throat and passed his final thoughts off to the Vigil, “...but all that proves is that whomever sent him is a nation we’ve had little to no contact with, whose leader has an ego greater than a god’s, and the martial and magical prowess to wrangle a divine. Have you any ideas, Vigil? I’m afraid I’m…a bit ignorant on the northern nations. If you have any other questions for me, you need all but ask.”

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'Thoughts'

"Vallenor Tongue/Speech"

"Vastien Tongue/Speech"

"Valasren Tongue/Speech"

"Common Tongue/Speech"

[Talon]

D A E M O N

“You would speak to me of--” He cut himself off. His eyes flashed. His jaw clenched and the muscles of his body went tight. The judgement in Phocion’s tone dug into the deepest part of feelings he had not even had the chance to examine. It took a moment for him to rein in his temper. He reminded himself that the people in this room knew virtually nothing about what he had suffered. They knew nothing of the lengths that had been gone to in order to break him and subdue him. He had never broken…so they had resorted to something even some of the most twisted of minds hesitated to undertake.

“I lost everything, Sentinel. My father. My husband. Peace in my homeland. My dignity. More than I can even begin to explain in this single meeting. All so that I could be turned into a dog that serves at the boots of his master.” He leaned forward slowly, his eyes narrowing as he spoke through his irritation.

“So forgive me, if I am not so inclined to flippantly discuss the pains of my very recent past so loosely.” It took a moment for him to calm himself but he pushed aside his temper and addressed the first question that had been posed to him.

“I am a Master of Semblance. Among other things, as Aeros has said.” He left it at that. Looking over to Aeros he regarded the Solunarian nobleman.

“Call it hesitation on my part. Whatever you believe about me…” His eyes softened. “...I am not so ready to see yet more lives cut short when it is within my power to spare them. Even if only for a brief moment. Does that make me a coward? By your standards, I suppose it does.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. What room did he had to rebuild the small shreds of dignity he could find? Very little. No matter the freedom he was given to operate hither and to, there was still a leash around his neck. He wondered how long it would be until he stopped seeing it that way. It was yet something else of himself that he would lose. The idea threatened to blacken his already strained mood so he pushed the thought aside. He looked at Phocion as he posed his first major question. He could not say definitively what form this calamity would take. Would it be a kingdom altering catastrophe? Would it be a perceived disaster? Was it rebellion, ruination or nothing at all? None of that was clear. So he offered the only thing he could at the moment.

“In the lands of realms divide a conflict kicks the dragon's tail. The sun's light dips toward the horizon as silver chains drag it from the heavens toward a cage of stone. Purity is lost when the marks of the divine are stolen by the mixing tides of change.” He recited the vague prophecy that had been given to him. He was still as confused by the words as he had been the day he first heard them. To understand the prophecy required context he did not have and that the Imperium had been woefully incorrect on.

“The words spoken to me. The words that saw me sent here. A prophecy of calamity is what it is being referred to. My master discerned enough to know it was referring to Solunarium. More than that? I am left to discover on my own.” He shook his head.

“It is not exactly clear on what the calamity is or will be. Only that one is fast approaching and that it has something to do with your royal family.”

At the second question, Talon could not help the tug of the smirk that came to his expression. He tilted his head and regarded Phocion steadily.

“Can you think of no reason why I, of all people, would hesitate to walk directly into the palace and declare a prophecy of doom upon the heads of Solunarium’s royal family? No reason at all?” At the pointed pronunciation of his given name he nodded.

“I know who and what I am to your people, Sentinel. I acknowledge and understand that. Call it a nod to that acknowledgement. As for the gap in my understanding about the rest of your culture?” His expression soured. He inclined his head toward Aeros.

“I have to agree with some of what Aeros has said. Solunarium’s isolationist practices are effective in producing ignorance with regard to your ways. In my readings, I believe I came across the custom of spitting at someone as a form of greeting, to show respect.” The expression on Talon’s face said everything that needed to be said with regard to his thoughts on such a cultural exchange.

“With the exception of a few religious text, little else was of use.” He held his exasperation in check as much as he could but it was difficult given the circumstance. Beside him, Mathias scoffed and muttered.

“That’s putting it mildly.” Mathias picked up his water and sipped it. His posture still tense as his eyes glanced over to some of the other guards. Talon let out a long breath as he considered everything in front of him. The memories and difficulties that this conversation was digging up were taxing but he would push through it. He was not eager to relive everything they clearly were determined to pull out of him but he would endure it. If only to get to work on the real task at hand.

“Regardless of who or from where I was sent, the fact remains; I cannot leave until my task has been finished. Which is fortuitous for you, Sentinel. Dominus.” He nodded to each of them in kind. “It means that the power that is at my command is to be put toward protecting your country's dynasty.”

[Pharaoh]

Phocion shifted his gaze from demi-god to demi-Færie, as Æros began to flow like the Vasta, unloading gushes of useful intelligence and ostensibly venting some hitherto dammed up frustrations accrued throughout his acquaintance with Dæmon. The Sentinel inclined his head.

"Gratias, fili Atraxiæ. Relinque mihi suppositiones."
(Thank you, Son of Atraxia. You may leave the assumptions to me.) Without really answering the nobleman's question, he shifted his attention to the foreign prince as he began to reply in earnest. He arched an eye at the ire brimming beneath Dæmon's words.

"I can do naught but offer my condolences, as I have done." He responded, somewhat coolly. "Pardon my candour, but I am here to assess a threat, not to offer my shoulder to be showered in your tears- However worthily earned they may be." He tipped his head, almost deferentially.

"Ah." Then it had been Semblance that linked Phocion to his distant cousin, Vyxis. Useful information in itself.

"No. I do not think your reluctance to kill is a matter of cowardice. Merely a difference in our priorities. Why would you shed blood in sacrifice to those you saw fit to fell in a prior incarnation. Yes, Æros." His icy eyes turned sharply to the half-Fæ. "You conducted the ancient enemy of our realm directly into its heart. This is Talon-Arcas." His eyes returned to the demi-god as he related the prophecy that sent him to Solunarium. He canted an eyebrow and considered.

"The last calamity to strike our once sprawling empire, Arcas, was you." Phocion said so plainly that it sounded more of a fact than an indictment. That coolness was not long-lived, as he spoke on.

"You who ended the reign of our Founders and cast them down- Sundering us from our colonies and letting them fall to chaos and disorder, feral and unsheperded. You slew the mightiest of our wyrms and our draconic armies, in their grief, did flee into the mountains or resign themselves from our councils to mourn beneath the Mount. Are you certain you've come to avert a calamity? Solunarium would thrive if, rather, you would undo the one you dealt us in another epoch." By the end of his thought, his voice had raised and his blood was up. His upper lip quivered slightly and his clenched teeth were bared. His elbows were locked and he was leaned forward out of his seat with his hands flat upon the top of the round table.

He let out a quaking breath and sat himself back down, averting his eyes to collect himself. He let out a grim chuckle at the pointed question posed. It was enough to bring him back down to earth from the prior eruption.

"So you weren't taunting us intentionally, after all... Of course I can think of reasons why you would seek to conceal your identity. I trust you'll forgive me if I overestimated your guile as egregiously as you underestimated our scrutiny of outsiders." He smirked at his own retort, and punctuated it with a delicate sip of wine.

"I am very pleased you did not spit at me in greeting." Phocion sniggered, "That custom is not practised in civilised society..." He sighed heavily and placed his goblet down, then clasped his hands together on the table before him.

"The boon of your bungled attempt to conceal your identity from us is that, for all the might of your divinity, I do not think it is in your power to deceive me. I trust the veracity of what you've told me today." He began to idly rub the tips of his thumbs together, an unconscious tick on his part.

"How will you know when this calamity has been averted? Might it not be that, in delivering that prophecy to those of us better equipped to decrypt it, you may have already fulfilled your mission?" Indeed, the words that may have seemed quite enigmatic to the foreign prince, bore quite a few phrases that stuck out to Phocion's pointed ears.

[Aeros]

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Æros was skilled when it came to masking emotion on himself and in his own Symphony, something he did once again as the other two talked after he'd said his piece. He would appear, in large part, blank on the outside and masked the Melodies within to hide his rather intense irritation. Of course, he was understanding of Phocion's response, context being what it was, but nonetheless, he was not pleased with it nor was he pleased with the company of the divine upon the revelation that this was none other than Arcas.

Being young and treading unfamiliar water, he was at least self aware enough to realize that letting his emotions bleed into this situation would serve no purpose. Æros was rather used to his feelings being tertiary or irrelevant, so silencing his complaints was not a new concept to him. At least the information he gave was useful in one way or another, he supposed.

One thing of note, however, was the vibrant anger woven into the Vigil's words, crashing through the previously glacial tones of his voice. It resonated with him and, in this situation, he found it cathartic that the other man felt much the same way. This was the case even despite the pointed sharpness of the elf's glare at the revelation of Dæmon's identity just prior– Æros was very well aware he'd made a mistake, the gravity of which was no longer lost on him. He…wanted to say something, but what was the point?

As their conversation continued to flow, Æros felt a great many things he put a great deal of effort into concealing. Galled was he that Arcas had walked into his home and pointedly lied to him about who he was now that the picture was in focus. He, the very monster responsible for the fall of Solunarium's Founders, had lied to his face. More than once, at that. Then, there was the fact that the man very flagrantly disrespected both him and, by proxy, Solunarium as a whole by not dropping the act sooner given how blatantly poor his skills in subterfuge genuinely were. Further, the Starborn felt a deep sense of shame that he'd even allowed the other to tread freely without detection for as long as he did. He'd failed his people and he'd failed himself. The resulting vexation burned like a wyvern's acid.

And yet, the real twist of the knife was that he really couldn't blame the man. Whatever infernal machinations were at play here, Arcas was as much of a pawn as anyone else. Æros was not deaf nor daft; he heard the pain of that fact in the warrior's voice. Ever further, Arcas, this divine every part of him wanted to hate, had saved his life and shown him kindness in his own stony, austere way, bizarre as it was. Clearly, there were degrees of separation between this incarnation and the one that had wrought destruction upon the empire from which he had descended, but how many? How could he be trusted? He wanted to speak, but…he couldn't find anything of use. So again, what was the point?

As the last of Phocion's words left his lips, Æros felt a spark of curiosity, but it was something pining, sour, all the same. The words Dæmon had spoken about calamity illustrated a vibrant, fluent painting within his mind's eye– though on his end, he had no idea how to interpret it. The imagery of the words resonated with him, but in ways he didn't understand. Oh, but he wanted to understand, so very badly did he want to…so when the Vigil implied that such words had meant something to him? Cut like a knife, it did, based around the assumption that such privileged knowledge would certainly not be passed to one such as him.

This was a lot for him to take in, a lot for him to process conceptually, and yet here he was, living in the present and lacking the time to do so. And thus, the most coherent whorl of a thought that spun through his head was what he decided to add:

"Even should it be the case that he may have completed his mission by relaying that foreboding prophecy, what is the ideal response? Not just letting him be on his way, I don't think. Wouldn't sending him off, back to his master, leashed as he is, be poor? Who is to say he won't be sent here again, and with the knowledge that duplicity is not an option, who is to say by what method and with what intent he'd make his return?"

Paranoid as this line of thinking was, the reality that somebody, more likely some other, northern civilization, being in possession of Arcas of all things was not one that should be sustained. Not only for Solunarium, but for everyone– if the power to leash the divine is not checked, and quickly, the Fæ could see calamity striking in myriad ways, all over, all at once.

- - -

'Thoughts'

"Vallenor Tongue/Speech"

"Vastien Tongue/Speech"

"Valasren Tongue/Speech"

"Common Tongue/Speech"

[Talon]

D A E M O N

“The last calamity to strike your empire was yourselves.” He spoke flatly as Phocion ended his tirade. He narrowed his eyes. Perhaps, for the first time since coming to Solunarium, for the first time in quite a while, he let the veil of his mortality fall away only so slightly. The silver of his eyes became a luminescent mercury. The runic markings along his body glowed softly. Distantly he could hear the roar of dragons. He could feel the heat of dragonfire. He could feel the vibration of steel clashing against steel reverberating through his muscles. A sky filled with dragons mounted by elven warriors, headed by two gleaming beacons of divine radiance, filled his mind. Briefly, he saw himself, standing there reflected in sunlight. Beside him were friends and allies that had been hard won but they stood together even after many attempts to avert the coming conflict had failed.

Arcas closed his eyes in that moment as the memory dimmed. He had forgotten so much. He would need more time to remember it all.

“Avaerys and Varvara chose their path. They rallied their armies. They summoned their dragons. They brought war so it was war they received. In the end, I sealed them away after they took their own lives, rather than face judgement and be sent back to their homeland. They abandoned you because they did not want to face the humiliation of defeat.” He leaned forward, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes sparking with Dawnfire. “So if you wish to find the architects of your empire’s downfall, I suggest you make a pilgrimage to Mount Kaladon.”

“They say that history is written by the victorious, Curious it is then, that I had no part in writing the pages of yours.” He relaxed his posture, the Dawnfire fading from his eyes. “So, then, I ask you; who is it that is barring Solunarium from thriving? Me? I have been dead for ten thousand years. I am left to wonder what you have done with all of that time.”

He truly did have to wonder what they had been doing since the time of their God-Founders. Empires had risen and fallen in that time, the world had been torn asunder and new lands had formed. New opportunities to explore. It was not lost on him that the isolationist practices of Solunarium mirrored that of the high elves of Sol’Valen they were descended from. While Sol’Valen had opened itself back up to the world and rebuilt, rising up from the dust of its past, it seemed to him that Solunarium had simply wallowed in its own stagnation. For all of the incredible power they had put behind making a display of force against him, he could not ignore the question of what that same power might have done should they have chosen to put it toward more rebuilding.

He gave a chuckle of his own in response to the Sentinel’s statement regarding his and their mistakes.

“It is as I said, your country has done a supremely well job of keeping itself cut off from the rest of the world. Much is to be desired by way of information about your people.” Upon hearing that the man believed his words, he simply nodded. He did not enjoy deception. It did not sit well with him.

At Phocion’s suggestion that simply relaying the message was enough to avert the crisis, he shook his head.

“Surely you must know it is not so simple as that.” He looked into the distance, his eyes losing some of their focus as he probed some of his senses, allowing the Light to show him what it saw. “My master was clear. I must discover what the calamity is and avert it. I was not sent here merely to be a messenger.”

Aeros spoke. His words bringing a slight frown and a thread of worry into his thoughts. While he did not expect to be leaving Solunarium any time soon, he did expect to be leaving it eventually. The landscape might have agreed with him, the warmth and sunlight calling to a part of him he had forgotten, but the culture of the Atraxian region certainly did not.

“What exactly are you implying?” The first option was an attempt to imprison him. He could not suffer that. He would not be placed in chains again. The second was to attempt to kill him and Mathias. He would not tolerate that either. So that only left another option. He wanted to be clear on what Aeros was suggesting.

[Pharaoh]

Phocion glanced mildly to Æros as he spoke. His gaze darkened, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His hands clasped more tightly together, thumbs stiffening and ceasing their motion.

"Observavi iudicium tuum, Æros. Arcas ad Solunarium deduxisti. Quid ad me refert tua sententia?"
(I have observed your judgement, Æros. You brought Arcas to Solunarium. Why should I concern myself with your opinion?) He tilted his head, eyeing the half-elf up and down, before suggesting:

"Cura de te ipso. Relinque mihi curas regni."
(Worry about your own fate. Leave the matters of the realm to me.) With that said, his attention shifted back to Talon as his appearance altered. His lip curled into a subtle snarl as the man insulted his home, his faith, his culture. His shoulders tensed and his back straightened. He wanted to laud his land as advocatus for his ancestors. He wanted to rail against the supercilious conceits spewed at him. As a Solunarian and a Varværyn his blood cried out for him to answer these slights. But his duty, at the moment, was that of a Sentinel and in moments like these that trumped all the rest. So it was that, all things considered, his apparent response was a tame and a measured one.

"It seems I was premature in suggesting you would not spit at me." Staring down the glowing eyes across from him, he relaxed his shoulders and sat back in his chair. "I have been to Kaladon..." He would reply to that bit, at least, directly. He had gone and made his sacrifices, and been met with silence. It felt enriching just being in that place, but his gods had remained silent in his presence. It was a sore point.

"Curious perhaps, Dæmon, but I believe our conclusions as to why will be another one of those pesky matters of perspective we seem to keep butting up against." He pursed his lips and paused, to roll his neck in a slow rotation. He was delaying, as he contemplated, but also trying to stave off some of the tension that had been building in his spine from stiffening it.

"Very well." He rapped his fingers upon the table top, "I have a proposal." His other hand mimicked the gesture the first executed moments earlier,

"I do not believe it is safe for you to have free reign of our capital. You are not welcome there. From what I have gathered, you are unstable, reckless and arrogant. That is a passing precarious combination for our capital. Moreover, the Crown will see it as a particular inconvenience, given your timing coinciding with Her Divine Radiance's jubilee." There was a strain in his voice that made it sound as though such was a personal annoyance for Phocion, as well.

"But, as I said, I do not believe you are subtle enough to successfully lie to me outright, so you at least believe this calamity is in earnest and intend to thwart it. You may do so much more effectively with our support than without it. I would like to offer you this citadel known as Red Rock to serve as a base of operations. You may travel freely throughout the keep and the surrounding desert. There is a village adjoining this mesa. If you elect to seek social interaction there, I would only ask that you continue your deceptions. The Sentinels will augment your middling lies with Mesmer, if need be. Meanwhile, we will provide resources toward the execution of your goal. We do not know nor trust the intentions of your dominus, but if you remain here and act in good faith, we will do the groundwork in the capital and see that you have plenty to keep you busy here in the interest of an expedient conclusion to your business in Atraxia, so that you may leave in haste. Do you object, or will you oblige the will of the Crown and accept these terms?" Phocion drummed his fingers on the table once more, and then suddenly withdrew both hands and placed them in his lap out of view, as his eyes assessed those of the demi-deity opposite him.