[Flashback] The Demon of the Crossroads [Arvalyn]

[Aurin]

Antiris, Free City of the North
16 Frost 117

If Aurin thought his wandering days were done when he finally settled in Kalzasi two years prior, he was wrong. His running days were over for the time being, though. He had employment that he didn't hate, that wasn't what he was trained for but for which is training made him strangely suitable, and he now had a small home of his own, though he hadn't let anyone into his fortress of solitude yet. Perhaps he never would. Life left scars on the most fortunate of people. His wounds, forever unexamined, might just never heal. But few people knew he was wounded, and those who did probably assumed he had bled out by now.

In Kalzasi he was charming, even when prickly. But if it was going to be his home indefinitely, he had to have something more than just managing a brothel-cum-cabaret for an exigent Hytori woman. And so he was listening, sutbly training those around him to listen as well. Alcohol was the least of the intoxicants running through the veins of the Velvet Cabaret's clientele. Neither was lust. But so far, he hadn't weaponized the things he had learned. He was only now beginning to monetize them. It was a subtle knife, information. And now, having time and space to breathe, he was able to play the long game. He might never be Shokaze of Kalzasi, but there were many ways to rule. Politics was only one of them.

Chasing this lead out of the city served another purpose, too. Lunaria had been an inch from ordering him to take a vacation. He didn't fuck her whores. He didn't skim her profits. Well, he didn't make a habit of fucking her whores, and if it happened, it happened without drama so she didn't have to deal with it. Three years of exemplary service was uncommon in her experience and so, while she took care of all her employees, she was motivated in seeing that he stay happy because he kept the money flowing into her coffers and he dealt with the minutiae that would give her headaches or a heart attack.

Wheeling around back to Antiris, nobody remembered him, but he knew the lay of the land. He could practice old skills to whittle the rust off them and bring them back to a killing sharpness. In Kalzasi, he was wicked. Elsewhere, he had been bad. He was content to be wicked most of the time, but if he had to be bad to survive, he wanted to be good at being bad.

Affecting dress and the dialect of a man from Haqs, he was haggling with a merchant. The merchant thought he was haggling over jewelry—his stall was affixed to the front of his shop, and only the flashy, but ultimately not priceless things were displayed there. Inside, there were valuables. Deeper still were goldsmiths and jewelers producing things to bring him wealth. He was a spider sitting atop his supply chain, thinking he was spinning his web around a rich man whose purse needed lightening, not knowing the man wasn't rich at all, and was angling for his inner sanctum to draw intelligence out of him.

And so the mummer's farce continued, Aurin's attention on the merchant and the boy manning the stall with its trinkets and dross, pretty baubles for pretty maids who would spread their legs for any shiny thing, not on the thief who wanted his candy. They were all of them going to get more than they bargained for that day.

[Arvælyn]

It was just another day trawling the stalls for Arvine Venasyr. He'd started his morning at the food stalls, which kicked off their days earlier than most but offered meagre yields due to the class of their clientele. During the later morning, when things were picking up at the textile bazaar he made his way down those winding paths bumping into his share of marks and lightening their purses with downcast eyes and many pardons. Then, at last, came the afternoon when the people of leisure had woken from their wine-laden stupors and broken their fasts with rich victuals that dulled the pain and enabled them to emerge to shop for pretty, unnecessary things. Thus it was mid-afternoon that Arry emerged from an alleyway into the jeweler's market. His head, capped by a brown, woolen beanie, remained tipped downward even as lustrous golden eyes canted up to scan today's shoppers.

The post-pubescent pilferer wasn't dressed in rags, by any means. His criminal career might have started in the prototypical garb of an urchin, but now that he found himself in a criminal collective, he had a support system that better equipped him to carry out his duties. A soot-smudged waif dressed in tatters was the sort of person a mark would keep their eye on. But not a boy in a slightly worn shirt that might have been white once, or might have gone cream from being lived in. Not a boy in nice knickers, knee socks without holes and shoes with hard soles.

He didn't look pristine either, of course. That might have attracted attention of another sort. He had just the sorts of smudges and stains one might expect of a rambunctious teenage lad who'd just come back from playing ball with his friends, or getting frisky with a pretty lass in a dim, dusty alleyway. His face bore a few smudges as well, artfully placed to shift the perception of his complexion and offset the golden lustre of his sun-kissed visage. They'd even been placed to create shadows that contoured his face to suggest slightly different features- Softer than those with which he was born.

The biggest visible tell of his non-human heritage and the one he didn't conceal, but rather averted, were the golden eyes that found the red-haired man ostensibly arguing with Magdar Troskey over his- admittedly unreasonable- prices. He paused at the mouth of the alleyway from whence he'd emerged to take stock of the situation and ascertain whether this was a mark worth pursuing, or whether the risk wasn't worth the reward. Beneath his beanie, dagger-like ears perked and took note of a foreign dialect spilling from the shopper's lips. A half-smiled crooked his own, as he slung his pack over his shoulder and made his way toward the stall as if heading to the path beyond.

A few paces from the heated negotiation, Arry stumbled, as if tripping on a rock and caught onto the stranger for balance- one hand on his waist, the other on his outstretched arm. The fingers near his belt worked quickly to loosen the pouch that hung there, as his face registered surprise and embarrassment over the episode.

"Pardon me, sir." He shifted his position a bit, as he released the man's arm and started reaching with his other hand to tuck the freshly purloined coin purse into a pocket hidden in his knickers.

[Aurin]

The kid had skills. The problem was, Aurin had them as well. Were they bosom buddies, they might have shared stories and found a surprising amount of similarities, but they were not and they did not. The kid wasn't even sloppy about it, but under his clothes were scars that would explain why any unexpected touch, and even many expected ones, read to his lizard brain as the precursor to a lighter pocket if he was lucky, the cold, sharp kiss of a blade if he was not.

Adder quick, he snatched the wrist of the hand that had touched his arm, grip strong enough to be uncomfortable and promise pain. Turning, he instinctively poured aether through one of his Runes, and looked into his attacker's soul as much as his golden eyes. Surprise. Alarm. Fear. He could have seen those without magic. Aurin wouldn't call himself a magus, despite his Runes. He wasn't powerful, but he was quick and dirty and he took the path of least resistance to the source of as much fear as possible and it connected to his lips almost without the editing of his own mind.

"Struggle," he hissed, low and quiet, "and I break your wrist. Move, and I will make sure you live and die in this town, never amounting to anything anyone would call an accomplishment of note."

Fortunately for the lad, the unskilled use of this magic couldn't hurt him. Given time and more skill, Aurin might have come to know him better than he knew himself. But in a trauma-fueled reaction moment, one existential dread was about as much as could be expected with which to pair with a very real threat of violence. The quickest way to a man's heart isn't through his stomach, she had said. Even if you're using poison. It's between the fourth and fifth ribs. Right here. But he wasn't trying to reach the boy's heart. He just wanted to control him, to control the situation, so his own heart would stop hammering against his ribs and he could get back to his own grift.

Turning back to the merchant, his vicelike grip unchanged, he smiled.

"I'll be back, sir, but first to find the constabulary..."

And then he turned away from Troskey's shocked apologies for the state of the neighborhood and stuttered directions to the nearest constabulary, dragging the lad along. He could do it by sheer force, he figured, but he hoped the kid was smart enough not to struggle until he spotted a proper opening. He thought he had caught creditable intelligence in the structure of his aura, though such things were subtler than his skill could pin down. He only headed toward the constabulary until he gauged himself out of the merchant's sight, then turned a corner.

"Calm down," he said then, "I'm not going to turn you in. I'm not going to hurt you unless you struggle."

That said, he pulled him into the first tavern he saw. A quick, surreptitious inhalation told him the taproom had a decent kitchen attached.

"We're going to sit in the corner," he told the bar wench. The bar wench nodded his head. "Two ales. Two meals. Thank you." Then, when they approached the table in the corner farthest from the door, he released him in that direction with some momentum. "Sit." Aurin did so, his back uncharacteristically toward the door, but he wanted to be between it and his prey.

Not his prey. He didn't even ask for his pouch back. It had been fairly stolen; he just had to recuperate before he could focus on his own objective again.

"Not bad," he said, though he couldn't quite bring a smile to his face that wouldn't look like a caged beast snarling. "Just unlucky."

[Arvælyn]

Already smirking to himself about what promised to be a happy haul- if one were to judge from the weight of the purse- Arry was starting to turn back toward the path down which he'd been heading, when he felt the sudden constraint of a grip about his slender wrist. Before he could even attempt to pull away, his mark had whipped around and was gaping into his eyes with an expression as fiery as his hair. Transfixed for a moment, Arry forgot himself- Froze like a rabbit with wide, glimmering eyes agape as the man's gaze took on an aspect he didn't recognise- An aspect that mortified him. He parted his lips to scream, but snarled threats halted his tongue before sound left his tense, taut throat.

He furrowed his brow, as terror and confusion found another companion roiling in the pit of his stomach: Despair. The soul-crushing anguish of a complete stranger staring at him with wrath in his gaze and threatening him with the sum of his most heinous fears- That his life would never amount to more than it was worth today. And what was that? Tantamount to the rest of the rubbish that sullied the seedy streets he called home. Baring his teeth and turning his face away as tears began to tingle in his eyes, Arry tried to summon the power his mother claimed to have bestowed upon him the night his father had died. She'd told him it would be there when he needed it, and in this moment with his freedom at stake, he called upon it... and it didn't answer.

Arry relented, uncurling the fingers he'd unwittingly clenched into a fist and relaxing the arm he'd tensed to near the point of petrification.

"Yes, sir..." He said, quietly- resignedly. He hadn't really registered what the stranger might to do from here, but he knew he couldn't vie with a full-grown man with that much height and weight on him, whilst he was yet amidst his adolescence.

"The constabulary? Please, sir..." Arry said, in a harsh, desperate whisper as the man began to guide him roughly away from the jeweler. "You aren't from here. I can tell from your accent." Arry's own had flipped R's and heavy-laden L's. "The city guard... They are not lawful or just here." He kept his eyes downcast, but the tears were still brimming. But then they'd rounded a corner, and the man promised not to turn him in. He hazarded eye-contact once more- His glassy, golden gaze fixing onto the hazel eyes of his current captor. He didn't say anything, but he nodded, and allowed himself to be guided into the tavern.

He stumbled a bit at forceful jerk with which the man let go of his wrist. He quickly grabbed it with his other hand and inspected the red ring left by his firm grip. When he was commanded to sit, he looked to the door, then to the man. After a pregnant pause he slide onto the roughly hewn bench, which wobbled terribly because both it and the floor were far from even.

"Unlucky is sort of my thing."

[Aurin]

"You can tithe to Zedros all you want, kid," he said, not unkindly. "The old dragon helps those who help themselves. Not just to other people's pouches. Keep it, by the bye. You're young. Stash it somewhere. Start saving. You're going to need an escape plan and the capital to see it through someday. I'm a bad man, but I'm not the worst one out there. And fuck the constabulary." He made a face that meant he probably would have spat upon the ground if they weren't indoors. "Hypocritical cunts."

Some of his scars came from 'upright men of the law' abusing their power.

Ale came quicker than food, and the bar wench brought them over. He said, "Food will be just a few moments."

"Thank you," Aurin said, still in a dialect that wasn't his own, nor of this place. The lad nodded and returned to his duties. Aurin pushed one tankard toward the thief and pulled the other closer. He was about to drink when he looked hard at the thief for just a moment, then laughed quietly. "I didn't pour it. I didn't tamper with it. It's not poison."

Then, he took a gulp of his own, his pulse starting to slow.

"I figure, after a spot of lunch, I can get back to my grift. Maybe use this to my advantage if I'm clever. Need to get something from that cunt that he won't want to give me. More delicate than thieving. You should look into branching out. Picking pockets is a child's scam. Smaller hands. You can call me Darus. It's not my name, but it's passing for it here."

And then the food came. Aurin's smile was kind enough; he was polite to wait staff, which made him better than most constables, who mostly wanted free drinks and free gropes.

"Here, wait." He gave another quick glance about the room. Seeing no observers who worked there, he fished out sufficient silver from some other part of his person and set it on the table. There were at least two more silver coins than the meal and the drinks would warrant, and the lad could pocket those without a supervisor seeing in case this was the sort of place where the people with power garnished tips as a matter of course. "We might stick around for another round of drinks, but I don't like outstanding debts." He laughed convivially enough, and the bar wench also looked around the room before bending down to drop the extra silver into his shoes, one in each so they wouldn't make noise.

It was the sort of place where the people with power garnished tips as a matter of course, then.

"Thank you, sir," he said, and the relieved, grateful smile got turned on the thief as well before he returned to his work.

The food smelled good to Aurin, but he glanced askance at the thief.

"Please stop scowling at me like I just broke up with you. Or your mother. Shit."

[Arvælyn]

"Got to tithe to Demitrov." Arvine said with a sneer. "If he doesn't get his cut the impact on my luck level is swift and severe. If Zedros starts threatening me with his belt, maybe he can shake me down, too. In the meanwhile, saving ain't easy." He said, absently slipping his hand down to the lump in his breeches that had once been affixed to the foreigner's belt.

"That's right." He nodded in firm solidarity at the anti-constable sentiment, "All Constables Are Bad." He reiterated a common saying amongst his little band of bandits, but not loudly- lest any of said bad constables be in earshot.

At the approach of the tapster, Arvine quickly lowered his head and stared at the table. His hands shot up to tug his dull, brown cap lower over his forehead until it met the border of his stark eyebrows. He waited for the other boy to leave, and then stared at the ale that the strange stranger nudged his way. Even after hearing his concerns addressed, Arry sniffed the contents of the tankard before flicking the tip of his tongue into the foam of the thick, rich ale. He took a light, cautious sip.

"Mm!" Then a thirsty, savouring draft- gulping down a third of the contents, and letting out a sigh followed by a bit of heavy breathing.

"I am a kid. My hands are small. You didn't notice while you were halfway to breaking my wrist?" He wiped some foam off of his snarl with the back of his slender, albeit long-fingered hand.

"All right, Darus. If we're sharing fake names, why don't you assign mine while you're on a roll? I'm a bit distracted by the fact that I just got dragged in off the street by some lunatic who has yet to tell me his angle." He noticed the approach of the returning server, and suddenly clammed up and looked down. His eyes did dart- gold orbs to silver discs, as 'Darus' placed a few tokens on the table, but they were soon gone, as was the other boy. He raised his gaze once more.

"I'm not scowling." He snarled, "This is just how I look when I've been abducted." He said grabbing the hard, thick slice of bread that had been placed beside the stew. He tore a piece off as aggressively as the angst of the moment demanded, and dipped it into the stew, before taking a bite.

"S'good." He slurred with a mouth full of gravy-drenched bread. He seemed almost annoyed at finding the meal enjoyable.

[Aurin]

"All constables are bastards," he amended, albeit without rancor, at least at the kid.

Aurin-called-Darus shrugged off the kid's sass. He had been in a similar strait, albeit owing tithes and fealty to an actual parent, which maybe ought to have made things better, but truly only made them worse, the traumas betrayals on top of everything else. He didn't say anything until after they had broken bread and taken a few bites. To be fair, he didn't know why he hadn't released the lad once he turned the corner. I like him, he realized, which was stupid and probably just an echo of his inept, knee-jerk use of magic resonating with his intuition. So the kid was a good kid probably. So they had things in common probably.

"You stole my purse. I squeezed your arm. Would it help if I apologized...?" There was a hint of incredulity in his voice as if the idea of apologizing for anything done in retribution—especially when he was letting the kid keep the coin—seemed a bit silly. "Unless you bruise more easily than a bleeder, it won't even hurt tomorrow. And you've probably made it sorer from jerking off than it is now." He scoffed, then spread his hands to indicate their meal.

"Consider this my peace offering if you want. Or fuck... leave if you want. Just don't go back around his shop until tomorrow and you'll never have to see me again." The food and drink had been improving his mood, but his inability to connect with this kid was spoiling it, which he also realized was stupid, but feelings, in general, were stupid. She had been right about that. Even though he could read a soul, albeit with only a moderate level of literacy, he was bad at making friends. It was one thing to charm and beguile the patrons of the Velvet Cabaret. It was one thing to earn the trust of courtesans who counted on him to protect them from overzealous and overamorous and overintoxicated clients.

Simple things that most humans should be able to do, though, were beyond him. Fuck this city anyway. He would not be here long. A gulp of ale, a couple of spoonfuls of stew. He stared at his hands. They were no longer small. His fingers were still long, though. Several of the instrumentalists he knew claimed they were good hands for making music, but he just laughed it all off or deflected with assertions about how good they were at finding pleasure spots. There were faint scars; there from a knife fight; there from barbed wire and a narrow escape; that half-moon from a lit cigarillo. He had looked into those golden eyes and seen a fair amount, but what they reflected back was more damning.

What did he think he was going to do in Kalzasi, become like him?

[Arvælyn]

"I'm a bastard." Arry observed, glancing up from his stew. "So I like mine better." He shoved another spoonful into his mouth. He didn't frequently get extra meals. It was usually a fortifying snack in the morning before heading out to ply his arts, then a dinner that ranged between meagre and satisfactory- And only the latter if he'd been a top earner that day.

"Wouldn't hurt, would it?" The thief stated at the mention of an apology, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Nevermind Darus' perfectly valid point and the fact that Arry had been the first and worst offender, whose punishment he'd spend the past half hour exaggerating whilst being rewarded with a nice meal and smooth ale. Aside from the clank of a wooden spoon against a wooden bowl, and the slurps of an underfed youth shoving stew down his gullet, Arry remained silent as Darus spoke on. He got to the point where the spoon was out of its depth, at which point he picked up the bowl and tipped the remaining broth into his mouth.

"No." He almost groaned the word, as he broke off another piece of bread. "I don't want to leave. I'm just being a prick." He sighed heavily, trilling his lips in the process.

"You embarrassed me." He confessed, reaching across the table to dip his bread into Darus' surviving stew. He continued as he let it soak there. "It's been a real long time since I've gotten caught and you-..." He winced at the memory, and drew the bread out of Darus' bowl.

"You said something really biting. Made me feel like nothing. Like garbage." He bit into the brothy bread, chewed as he spoke. "But you're right. Now you're buying me food, so." He shrugged one shoulder and rolled his eyes, "Well done you, I guess."

[Aurin]

"Well, that makes two of us," he said, of bastards. The term itself wasn't offensive to him, though, even if applied to him. Perhaps he had reclaimed it, so to speak. At least, it had never been a badge of shame in his youth.

There was a lot being said, and a lot to unpack. He didn't speak for a while, but listened. He ate slowly while the kid inhaled his. Without words, he took the plate with his untouched bread and moved it over toward the Hytori boy. He was Hytori, after all. There were probably knife ears hidden under his hat, but there was no hiding his eyes without glamour.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he said finally, his voice twisting like his throat hurt. "I'm sorry I made you feel like garbage. It was a trick, meant to keep you still." A trick, which is what he considered his meager magics. "A dirty trick, I admit. I don't... like to be touched. When I don't expect it, especially when I'm in the middle of... what I was doing... my body assumes a knife is coming and my mind sort of... gets turned off while I react. It's not an excuse, but I figure maybe an explanation might help. A little. Regardless, I'm sorry. You aren't garbage. You just need to look out for you. If you survive long enough, eventually you will age out and Demitrov will deal with you. Or Demitrov will age out of his position and someone will deal with him, which could fuck you over too. Be adaptable. Be prepared.

"Fuck, who am I, right? Never mind. Just keep your eyes open."

He looked down at his stew and started eating again, politely eating around the bread that had been impolitely shoved into his food. He almost wanted to laugh at the kid's nerve, but he didn't. Apologizing hadn't made him feel better, though it made things feel slightly less off.

[Arvælyn]

"Well, your dirty trick worked, didn't it?" Arry observed, sitting back in his seat and lifting his head taller than Darus had yet seen it. "I'm here, aren't I?" He groaned plaintively, realising begrudgingly, that he understood better than he wanted to.

"I guess I don't even believe in dirty tricks. I believe in means and ends. And I can pretend I don't and that you're worse than me, but that's just me trying to means my way to a different end." He half-smiled as his eyes fell to the table, "Picking pockets is a dirty trick, and that's only the first one I tried to play on you. But you're better than me." He wrinkled his nose, "Older, too, which explains it, but..." He sighed through his nostrils,

"Anyway. I don't mind your advice. I guess I respect you, now." He rolled his eyes and grunted. "Which is not ideal, but..." He reached across the table to reclaim the well-soaked bread he'd left in Darus' bowl.

He took a bite, and suddenly started laughing to himself as if struck by a notion too amusing for words. He tipped his head back, letting peels of laughter permeate the room. This was not a boy who typically drew attention to himself, and yet at the moment he seemed unable to control his volume. Ere long it dwindled down to a chuckle, as he swallowed the last of the bread.

"I am kinda garbage though, aren't I?" He offered with a churlish grin, taking up his ale tankard by the handle and washing the bread and the sentiment down with some of the tavern's thick draft.