Autumn Bindings

[Akantha SolEilran]

"I thank you, mammi. Your work is beautiful, and I will treasure it always," Akantha smiled at the elder. She retrieved a few gold coins from a hidden pocket in the skirts of her dress, certainly enough to pay for half the table, and made the offering to Karaitë. She knew it was plenty, and that they may not have accepted it from her otherwise, but the Princess was always generous with the Makers, and donations and offerings were always well-received. She did love having hidden pockets in her outfits, and with the hand removed, the fabric seemed as it had been. Blue eyes roamed the figures on the table, from the smaller ones to the larger, and she couldn't help but be drawn to a large, stuffed version of Suion.

And it was certainly far too large for a pocket, but Akantha was happy to carry it with her and display it anyway. "I really do love how this was made," she was admiring as she held it up, touching the yarn and stitches and fabric. "Yarn and fabric have been blended very well. The shaping is quite precise, the tension is perfection, and these details, down to the scales and eyes, are exquisite. I don't think She could have been represented better," she held the stuffed Suion in front of her and offered the elder Maker an incline of her head. "Please keep crafting, Maker. May Fyraea continue to smile on you, and may Suion keep the passion for your Craft thriving."

Princess of Thorns though she was, and she knew she might look a bit odd carrying a large stuffed doll representing Suion at a festival, considering she was a grown adult, she was quite pleased with her prize. Furthermore, it was excellent advertising for the crafters and artisans that she had gotten it from, and it was no different from how she showcased outfits, from avant-garde to ostentatiously formal, from designers. They were Makers, and respect was due. Akantha had a large collection of stuffed figurines and animals that were carefully warded against dust and on display in one of her rooms in Eilranoikos, and the Suion would be a welcome addition to their ranks. She would also make sure to have it found out to see if they had a shop or a stall somewhere else; because she was pretty sure she could use more. But others might well assume it was a gift given to her, rather than something she had deliberately purchased for herself, and so much the better for the artisans.

She did see Filaurel in the distance with an Avialae. Ah, that was good to see him out and about. She started in that direction. Perhaps she could introduce him to the designers who had dressed Mother Naori this year, and he could see the garment up close and personal and talk about it with them. It would be interesting to hear his perspective, and the questions he would think to ask were surely different from her own, even as versed as she was in the details... there was something to be said for a Maker's intimate knowledge of their craft...

But as she was going in that direction, she did find that her path led her directly towards Sivan. She could see that he was with a man, and his attire was... well. It certainly marked him. Not necessarily in a bad way; the beauty of clothes and fashion was that clothes told the story one wanted to. She did activate her Semblance Rune on the way, studying what she could from his Aura, curious. Hm. She did stop before she came up to them. "Master Len'Myren, how are you?" Akantha offered him a smile, inclining her head in greeting. "I don't suppose you would be his business partner from Kalzasi?" She addressed Torin. Her outfit was certainly a bit different than the standard Hytori around them... this might be the one for whom he was making the mnemonosyte library.

It was impossible to miss the red hair that was her favourite Knight and sometimes Mannequin, and she could see Rhydian going to the blocks with a number of other runners. She knew her friend's drive and determination, and she knew his love and devotion for her Father. "Have you been watching the races? I see that Prince Rhydian of House Val'Kor is on the blocks for this one. I would certainly lay a bet that he is going to win that heat," Akantha seemed amused, nodding in the direction of the races. She wouldn't miss this one.

"There is no rose without a thorn."

[Thimryl]

➸Autumn Bindings➸

➸1st of Ash, Year 124, A.o.S➸

➸ Thimryl enjoyed the scenery around him, despite the overwhelming nervousness that was filling his body. He wasnt going to allow that to spoil his fun, however. A messenger then approached him, saying he was expected in the next foot race. To his surprise, he never recalled signing up for such, but given the festival and how many noble people were watching, he figured it would be good for him in the long run.

He wasn't too out of shape, as a soldier they had a routine regimen to adhere to for training and running was a part of that, but even then he struggled to keep up with the rest of his company sometimes. He would do his best however as he made his way over to the starting blocks. Looking at those that he would be running against, he saw Prince Rhydian, a blush running across his sunkissed features and his heart picking up in pace. To race against a prince was both an honor and nerve-wracking for the young elf.

Now more than ever he would have to keep his composure, he didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of the prince, or Pater Themis for that matter. Looking about he could see Princess Akantha too. His first time living in the capital and now he found himself surrounded by nobles and people of note. Saying a light prayer to the Eikaen and Naori he readied himself for the race. Regardless of any expectation he held for himself, he would do his best, if not to win then surely to stand out among the rest. ➸


"Common Speech"
"Mythrasi Speech"
"Self-Thoughts"

[Torin Kilvin]

In the months that he had spent under the tutelage of those who had once studied under Sivan's beloved master, Torin had learned that it was easier for him to make his way through the city dressed as a craftsman. He had tried, in the first few weeks, to dress in the native fashions but this had earned him more confusion and even what seemed like disapproval than had wearing his Kalzasern clothing. When he had made his way either two or from Tavárinoikos, dressed for the days' work, he had received significantly less of both curiosity and judgement. He was most comfortable dressed thus, and, it seemed, so were the people of Sol'Valen with him when he was. Some even approached to ask him of his work, which had led to the few open conversations he had had with strangers since coming to the city.

The young smith did not seek attention, but being actively looked at askance any time he stepped out of his rented home or his place of employment had soon made him feel like someone was always waiting behind him with a raised fist. A stranger in a strange land he might be, but if he could be seen as a useful tool, then at least it didn't feel like he was about to be asked to leave.

He had actually learned the story behind the festival, but he wanted to hear Sivan tell it. One of his calloused hands strayed self-consciously to his belt pouch in which lay a small wooden carving that he had made himself. Woodworking was not one of the crafts he was proficient in, but he did carve clay for metal molds fairly often. It was supposed to be a crude image, he's reminded himself, and given himself permission to let go of the perfection he expected from himself in his work.

The set of golden brows rose at the use of the new use of a pet name for himself before his nose caught the scent of roasting meat and he grinned at his own misunderstanding. Sivan's taste for flesh had grown since the elf had been granted Animus, and none of the expressions of that taste had bothered the human one bit.

Gesturing to the stall owner for two portions of their mouthwatering offerings he paid the cost and handed Sivan one before biting into his own. The juices ran down his face and he felt a little of the wildness he saw in his friend when he'd spent too long in the shape of wolves.

Sivan was right, the magic would take them where they should be, if they relaxed and let it.

[Hekatos]

Autumn Bindings

As Filaurel remained seated, Turuher took a knee rather than make him stand or crane his neck. He was aware that the tailor had mobility issues, and he tried to mitigate those issues without making an issue of it. He didn't look closely at any of his sketches without an invitation to do so, but smiled sincerely at the man while occasionally looking out to see what the festival had to offer (most definitely not nubile racers and dancers and the like).

"They do occasionally let us off the leash," he managed by way of humor. Then an entirely sincere, "I consider myself fortunate a regularly scheduled day off coincided with something like this. It has some of the feel of a rural festival but there are so many people in once place here." It could be overwhelming, still. He would be more comfortable in the sky, watching from above.

As for the question, "I think most people dress appropriate to the festival, or what they think is appropriate to the festival, but also... they are dressing for the job they want, as 'tis said, or for the role they want. Lovers, people seeking advancement, et cetera."

He himself was in uniform, but unbraced. This was not a formal affair and none would fault him. His clothes were honest: a soldier on leave enjoying a festival. If more of his impressive chest was visible than when his uniform was all buttoned and laced, well, perhaps he had a mind to go courting as well.

As he respected Filaurel's expertise on all things sartorial, he glanced sidelong to see whether his honest answer was correct or not.

"Oh, the wings don't help much on land," he admitted.

*~*~*

While he was a master sembler, there was quite a bit of life and magic around them; they were even a part of the magic, their feet following forms that created great sigils that the Gods might see from on high were They looking. While the food caught Torin's full and undivided attention such that he missed the approach of royalty, it did not catch Sivan's.

He was trying to figure out how to surreptitiously get Torin's attention, but had to settle for a deep bow. Festival rules were one thing, but she was still a princess.

"Your Royal Highness," he greeted. He was nodding in preparation to confirm Torin's identity and make proper introductions, which might be more difficult with food in Torin's hands. However, at mention of betting, the princess was interrupted and Sivan's chance to respond in a timely fashion stolen.

A rakishly dressed elf of some means with a darker complexion and bold red hair was smiling like he had some oceanfront property to sell them in the Clockwork Wastes.

"Your Royal Highness knows her racers," he said urbanely, with a pleasantly dark timbre in his voice. "Prince Rhydian is a big chalk, to be sure, but is a master duelist the fleetest of foot? Alas, no agility course but a mere footrace. Still! I am licensed to witness bets..." There was something about him, but nothing semblance could sense if they had the presence of mind to turn it upon him. If they did, they would see an elf who was entirely what he seemed, which might normally have been suspicious, but wouldn't trigger a thing in them.

Somehow, he was herding the princess and the pair of artisans away from the food and toward the races themselves. Torin didn't even think to protest when he plucked Sivan's food out of Torin's hand and took a bite with gusto and sincere thanks. When he tasted it, he flashed a surprised, then amused smile at Torin.

Whether he got her to put her money where her mouth was...

The racers approached the blocks. From another section, the King was observing. From yet another, Laurevere was glowering at Destyn, but also feeding him spun sugar from his fingertips rather than pay attention to the races.

The race itself went without a hitch. Whatever bets were made, the results were thus: a tie for first, a tie for second. For those who found races exciting, this one was exciting. If these were proper Games, magic would have been used to determine the true winner, tie-breaking, but as this was just a festival, only eyes and good faith were used. The prince was matched by another runner who quite clearly spent time training for this particular sport. Those tied for second were a soldier and a half-elven lad. All four were invited to the next heat.

As some of the racers remained, congratulating each other, they could all overhear an ancient elven woman telling a group gathered around her, "I don't know why they don't treat these races like the Games. You would think Suion would want to appreciate the view without clothes in the way."

"Grandmother!" one of them whispered, scandalized.

The racers, it seemed, had been appreciated by one crone, in any case.

As the bookmaker was paying out and still smirking at the vig, he paused to catch Sivan's attention and nod at Torin.

"Did your friend intend to eat the lamb with the ecstatic mushrooms?"

Sivan's eyes, before upon the nigh-victorious prince, swung to Torin's whose pupils were quite dilated.

"Fuck."

[Thimryl]

➸ With the first heat over, Thimryl was surprised that he tied for second, let alone was able to keep up with a prince. "Well met your Serene Highness." he greeted Rhydian between ragged breaths. With a smile, he used the much needed rest to catch his breath and to see his fellow members of the Harbinger company cheering him on. It helped boost whatever confidence he had after the first foot race. Being invited to the next one was both an honor and a big deal for him, cause it meant there was a possibility he could best a prince, and that could work in his favor.

Having worked up a sweat from the first race though, Thimryl removed his already scantily sheer shirt as he didn't want to stain it with any more of his sweat. Running over to the sidelines he handed to one of his comrades. There the group congratulated him, telling him who bet on him to move on to the next round or to have lost. He even had some of them flirt and compliment how his body looked when he ran and how pleasing it was to see. He couldn't help but blush at the compliment before returning to the group for the next heat.

Looking at the one he tied with he smiled and gave a quaint bow. "Well met to you as well, may the gods smile on us both for this one." he greeted, before turning his attention to stretching for the next race. If he focused and put everything he had into this one, he could very well beat Rhydian this time, and that would be a great boost to his confidence for sure. The Val'kor house were exceptional warriors after all, and if he could beat one in any form of competition, well that would be icing on the cake for him. Foot races first, then swordsmanship, and from there who knows what else he could achieve.

Though the reality of it was that no one always gets what they want. Looking out into the crowd he happened to catch the gaze of a man, he didn't recognize the face, but he from the way he was dressed Thimryl could only assume he was nobility. He seemed to be looking directly at him, like a predator watching their prey from afar. It caused a chill to run up his spine, but he pushed it off to focus on the race first, even if the way the man was looking at him weirded Thimryl out. ➸

"Common Speech"
"Mythrasi Speech"
"Self-Thoughts"

[Rhydian ValKor]

► Show Spoiler

In the sunlight, Rhydian's crimson hair looked more scarlet as he took his position. He was glad that the other contestants were focused, intimidated or deferential enough not to bother him before the race. While athletic, Rhydian was more of an acrobat than a runner, though he did have a few advantages when it came to sprinting. He'd never have entered a marathon, but he was accustomed to short bursts of energy, but his secret weapon was a means of meditation that enabled him to tune out all but his mission. It wasn't a complicated conjuring of magic, but as the others Sembled their opponents and surroundings for weaknesses and opportunities to exploit, Rhydian was subtly weaving his Negation into his Semblance to tune out all distractions and focus upon the intricate manipulations of his muscles.

Once the flag fell to initiate the race, it was as if everything went into slow motion for him and he could completely orchestrate the movements of his own body. His ministrations were entirely internal. It wasn't as if he was cheating by streamlining his path or nullifying the effects of friction against the natural winds in his path, but rather he was managing his own perceptions from within and amplifying his mental control over his own form. It was only when he'd passed the finish line and let his Runes dim to inertia, that he was even able to realise he was one of the winners. Before he did anything else, he turned to face the king and bowed low and at length, then bowed to Pater Themis. Only then did he acknowledge the greeting of one of the two second-place competitors. Serene as his unutilised form-of-address suggested, the prince answered Thimryl's salutation with a silent nod of acknowledgement. If he'd been about to speak, the protestations of an older elven woman pricked his pointed ears. Smirking, he unhooked the back of the taut vest covering his pectorals and the golden collar that fastened it to his neck. He rolled the fabric up, tucked it into the collar and tossed it lightly, underhand, to land before the cheeky matron.

"For Suion." He called back. Those who knew Rhydian only in the midst of the rush of victory, often mistook him for being downright extroverted. He twisted his now bare torso toward his fellow first-place winner and gripped their wrist in congratulations.

[Filaurel]

"Interesting." Filaurel responded, "Dress for the role you want, eh?"

The tailor glanced about the crowd, taking in the sights less individually and more as a gestalt. Were the young men and women showing so much skin lovers, or did they merely aspire to it? Were the priests donning symbols of Suion as testaments to real devotion, or as claims upon their striving for it? Were the people of high society dressed in elegant and flowery cuts because they were showing off their style, or...

"I like that, Turuher. People dress for what they want to become- and perhaps, in some part, they even attain it? Makes a tailor feel important. You should be careful of that, by the way, we're a notoriously vain breed already."

Well, it was entirely too nice a day to squander on philosophy, Filaurel thought. He'd got his sketches now, and maybe even a bit of insight he could turn over and try to make something out of, so he gathered up his papers--or rather, they gathered themselves up, folding neatly into a little folio--and lifted one arm to wave gently towards the racers. He wasn't a man inclined to gamble, even back when he was a soldier and there was little else to do, but it was a fine contest even without anything on the line.

Even if he couldn't join it.

"A tie! Well, surely that is a sign from the goddess of love, no?" What outcome could be more evocative, after all? Or perhaps the runners were simply more concerned with one another than victory. Either way.

Even as he spoke, Val'Kor surged ahead of the competitors, marking a second tie. Perhaps it was truly a sign from the gods, though Filaurel would not venture to say which ones.

Slowly, bit by bit, Filaurel levered himself off the ground, doing his best to make it look gradual and natural enough that it drew no attention from those around him. His folio darted up and into the satchel worn over his left shoulder. "I am going to get something to eat. What about yourself? You are ever-hungry, if I recall aright."

[Castor Green]

Nobody, Castor thought, needed to know how much he hated losing.

He’d realized he’d lost before he had, his magic trailing ahead and catching the twined victors, the blaze of glory and pride that burned as brightly as any sun; his aura withered in contrast. Second place wasn’t first, and that he’d even tied for that left a sour taste on his tongue. But he couldn’t be so publicly upset - not here. Oh, no, never here, with its princelings and nobility.

So, he smiled, and as he did, his magic cannibalized his own aura. Semblance was such a handy tool. He could play pretend, and maybe that would be enough, but there were others (too many in his opinion) with enough knowing to spot a sore loser. Castor propped up his aura in sweet laurels, and ease, bright and shining. He stitched in the colors of dawn, dewy pinks and soft golds, reflecting summer warmth, summer ease. Self-pity and annoyance and ungainly competitiveness washed away and gone, drowned under sugar, spice, and everything nice.

His prize (he’d tell everyone) was the chance to compete. Such an honor.

The monarchy wasn’t something Castor ever really thought about, or supported even, but even he was aware of who the winning princeling was. The son of Princess of Aerion, the (apparent) favorite of the king. Lucky him. All the luxuries one could imagine, and each more unearned than the next. Still, Castor wasn’t a complete idiot. He understood what was expected of (poor, lowly) him.

He would play his part. If only because he didn’t want to be asked to leave.

“Your Serene Highness -,” and Castor bowed to the princeling. “My congratulations,” he said. He didn’t say what he thought, and his aura certainly didn’t tell anything, but Castor was sure his congratulations was worth a fat nothing to prince Rhydian. “It was an honor to compete against you.”

Ugh. Ew. Vomit.

And still, Castor smiled. His aura remained a cheery gold. Pretending was easy. Easier, definitely, than saying how he really felt.

And to the other - hm. He wasn’t sure who he was. Not that it mattered. Congratulations all due to everyone involved, even to the elf who tied against him. “May Their divine radiance fall on us both, good sir,” Castor said, not believing the gods would, but again - not the time nor place. “You ran well,” he added, wondering if he too was some sort of princeling. They did seem to breed like rabbits. One could never be too sure.

And then - rather belatedly - did he remember the king. Right, yes, of course. As much as this was for the gods, for Suion, it was a ceremony for him and his family, too. To the king, Castor bowed, and bowed deeply.

[Akantha SolEilran]

When Sivan bowed to her, Akantha inclined her head graciously. There was something interesting about the Maker whose acquaintance she had made last season, and when she had Sembled him, she had found he still had his little collection of spirits clinging. There were some visible without the Craft, of course, and they were quite amusing to watch. They did seem a bit different from the last ones, but it did speak to his nature and his ability with the spirits that filled their world. She had to wonder what might happen if he ventured out to Norsavan. She had to assume he'd collect so many little nature spirits that he probably would not be able to move... as funny as it would be to see it.

When Torin seemed too busy with the food to join their conversation, the Princess of Thorns elected to chalk it to idiosyncrasies of some particularly driven Makers, the ones who were so caught up in their Craft that the necessities of life became an afterthought until it wasn't. It would certainly be best to extend a bit of grace: this was not a royal affair, it was a festival, and the young man was clearly ravenous. And the food he had selected, well... He likely needed it, if he was as busy as she suspected that they would be in Tavárinoikos. He was likely the sole human there, if Akantha had to guess, and that surely led to considerable pressure to produce and perform.

At the newest arrival with the red hair and the darker complexion, the blonde Hytori offered a pleasant smile. "I know him well," she raised an eyebrow, long fingers still enjoying the stitchwork of her Suion doll. "Good day to you, sir. You are also well-informed, I see. You are, now? Lovely. I'll wager five gold Avens on Prince Rhydian," her smile was as sunny as her hair. For some, that was a small fortune. For Akantha, it wasn't something that she worried about. Whether she won or lost, it would go back into the community. But she had faith in her friend, and she knew one thing - her father was watching, and that meant the crimson-haired Prince would do everything he could to win.

They found themselves where they could watch quite easily, and she gave Rhydian a nod. Good luck. She knew what he was running for, who he was running for, and when the runners took off, she observed with her osprey's sight. He would do well. And her faith was not misplaced, either, as he tied for first. Akantha clapped with the crowd, floating her prize beside her with her aerolyth dragonshard order to do so, before holding it with both hands once again. "The same again for the next heat, if you would, for Prince Rhydian," she told the bookmaker.

At Sivan's oath, the Princess refrained from chuckling, but there was clear amusement on her face. "Well, he'll certainly enjoy himself for the rest of the day." But when she saw Rhydian strip off his shirt, that got a laugh out of her. Whatever lessened the wind resistance and made him a little faster, so be it.

"There is no rose without a thorn."

[Torin Kilvin]

In one moment Torin went from feeling at connect to the world around him in harmony to feeling like he was a confused and awkward foreigner again. The appearance of the statuesque elven women went entirely without his noticed as he procured snacks. At least until Sivan's aura went all embarrassed and worried, causing him to spin around, the juice of the two skewers spatting in a half circle before him. Thankfully, Sivan was in a deep bow at that moment, meaning the greasy spray flew over him rather than landing on him. Torin still winced and was trying to figure out how to perform the correct bow to royalty (which involved some hand motions) without simply throwing what he was holding when the three of them were interrupted.

The redheaded newcomer swept them all up in his wake, charming and knowledgeable and before the smith knew it he was set up to watch the races. Something about the way the man acted felt familiar, perhaps not personally, but generally, his confidence, the way he laid claim to the people around him. When he leaned over to steal one of the skewers, which Torin was still clutching, it made the human's cheeks flush a deep pink. There was only one person in his life who behaved this way and it had been too long since Torin had been able spend time with that person face to face. It was having... an effect. Perhaps the magic in the air, being literally breathed in, had something to do with his reaction, but then again, perhaps not. In an attempt to cover his embarrassment, and to convince himself that embarrassment was all it was, he began eating through the remaining skewer. It was good, the flavors light but full, and there were mushrooms pressed between the hunks of meat.

By the time the race was concluded, in a double-tie no less, he was beginning to feel better. Not only that, but the magic moving all around him had began to take on new elements, colors becoming more vibrant, mixing with the music and voices all around them as though they were part of one single, massive organism.

Sivan's worry spiked suddenly as he turned toward the Princess who had deigned to offer them her company. The belated bow the human offered Akantha was precisely correct as though he had been practicing constantly and fluidly graceful to the point of being boneless.

"Your Royal Highness," He said, meeting her eyes with his own, the blue of them nearly drown by the black of his pupils, "You honor us all with your presence."

Having managed this in flawless Mythrasi he turned to Sivan, so obviously seeking his approval the he looked like nothing so much as a puppy waiting for a treat. Speaking in what he believed to be a quiet tone, but was actually a whisper that only made his words more obvious he said, "Your language is easier, with the magic, like its... inside me?"

A beat too long, and then "Should we race?"