Voices Raised [Arvalyn]

[Torin Kilvin]

As Arvalyn returned to the table to meet his eyes, Torin tried to just be. He seemed to often misunderstand people and cause issues when he didn't keep himself carefully in hand. Except with Aurin. Once he'd learned to recognize when the older man was teasing they had meshed together easily.

"I'm sorry." He said again, though whether it was a repeat of the original apology or a new one for inadvertently threatening the man's job was left to the listener to decided. The hushing had seemed gently playful, more honest than any of the rest of their short conversation, and Torin obeyed it. The use of his name also eased him; settled down his ruffled nerves, left him feeling foolish for snapping.

"I couldn't do what you do." The compliment was simple and wholly believed by the speaker.

Shaking his head, still chagrined at his own bad behavior he said,

"It's nothing like that. I'm a ru... Ehm, a blacksmith. Just an apprentice. I work across town. Aurin was kind to me when I came to make a delivery, for my master, a few weeks ago. He was accepting the package and wouldn't let me leave hungry. It seems normal to feed people here." The idea gave the Cabaret a different sort of warmth in his head than the heated idea of drinking, touching, and smoking he'd witnessed in his first visit as a patron. It was likely he was associating Aurin's treatment of him with the place they had met without realizing it.

"I was allowed to work on a solo project for the first time and I just wanted to show him." It wasn't entirely true, and it was partly the two lies he'd told, but also partly the obvious need for the redhead's approval that brought a flush to the larger boy's face.

"I shouldn't have been rude to you. Please don't judge Aurin on my behavior. I've only been in the city a short while and the way people behave here is very different from my... home." The hesitation on the last word was deeply tangled into his idea of home and what it meant, what it should mean.

"Have you been here long?" The accent coming from Arvalyn wasn't exactly that of the folk of this city. Neither was Aurin's, or, indeed, many of the people living in Kalzasi. Torin had just started to recognize the native accent of the city and was trying to learn others.

[Arvælyn]

"I don't even know what you're sorry for," Arvalyn admitted, with a slight chuckle, "And I'm sure there's no need. I certainly could have been friendlier, I just..." He shook his head, electing not to finish that thought. "Well, I live here and there is such a thing as becoming too comfortable in one's own home. Particularly, when that home is also one's place of employment." He patted Torin's arm,

"See that you don't take up doing what I do!" He teased again, "Or, if you must, at least have the decency to take it up at a rival establishment. I have more than enough blonde competition as it stands." He withdrew his hand, and crossed his arms over his slim chest- the jangle of the many bracelets he wore on each wrist loud, then muted by the flesh and fabric against which they came to rest.

"A runesmith?" Arvalyn worked out the verbal stumble and ignored the attempted correction, "Interesting... And yes, Aurin can be very kind, can't he?" He glanced askance, wistfully. Aurin had been a stranger- an intended victim of the sleight of hand of Arvine Venasyr in distant Antiris, but that bungled theft had yielded a far greater treasure- A new home, a new name, a new identity. It had taken longer than he'd of liked, but a year into his life in Kalzasi and Arvalyn Val'Cithaeron was happy and hopeful. He made jokes, now, because they amused him- Not because he needed to find light in the midst of the dire.

"That doesn't surprise me in the least." He chortled, "It's quite normal to feed people here, though most have to pay for the privilege- Aurin's magnanimity notwithstanding, of course." He turned his face away, and glanced to the plates on the table once more, rather than at the boy's flushed face.

"I assure you, I've long since judged Aurin Kavafis and my verdict is final- Your actions don't come into it." His gaze and one brow rose at the personal question, "No, not terribly. I arrived here about a year ago. And you? From whither hail thee, runesmith?"

[Torin Kilvin]

Right. The Velvet Cabaret was this man's home. Torin had come in, made an ass of himself over nothing, when Arvalyn had just been trying to relax in his own space.

Stupid. Torin chastised himself and only barely kept in an additional apology.

"Of course." He said, trying to be as generous as he was being treated, "That makes sense."

The pat was nice, not overly familiar, comforting.

"I have no intention of trying to make my way in your profession." Rubbing the back of his own neck at the embarrassing idea of even standing before a crowd, let alone perform. "I'd be more like to fall off a stage than anything else."

When he relaxed and forgot about himself, in his work or other physically demanding activities, he could be almost graceful, but in anything else; he was clumsy, afraid to touch anything, and almost as worried anyone might take notice of him. He was trying to grow out of being shy, learning to assert himself where it was right to do so. His early efforts at conversation with Arvalyn showed that the effort was nowhere near complete.

His flushed didn't deepen as the other blond intuited his true profession as though he'd spoken it, but it did remain. He was more than happy when the conversation moved away from him and back into safe territory.

"I did offer to pay him, though he grew displeased with me the third time." It had been hours later and the thing he was offering to pay for hadn't been food, but the statement was still an honest one.

"How do you judge him?" His curiosity sparked as soon as the other boy stated he had a verdict for the sharp older man. Knowing how the people who lived and worked with Aurin thought of him might be very useful in coming to correct conclusions himself.

"I'm only an apprentice." He murmured before going on to answer the actual question about himself; the fact that he had been an apprentice since he'd been four years old didn't change the fact in his mind.
"I hail from a village about fifty miles from the city. Not much of one, no one here seems to recognize the name."
He had always known there were huge cities in the world, Kalzasi the closest to where he'd grown up by far. He had ridden into the city a few times with his old master when they had needed supplies that the runesmith didn't trust to couriers. The dozen trips they had made in his lifetime had, in no way, prepared him for the reality of life in the capitol.

"I came here just past two seasons ago, to apprentice to a new master. Finish my education." That had been the plan, anyway, to finish and then return. While the place he had grown up still existed there was no place for him in it now. He tried not to think about his future beyond the work to be done to earn his keep.

"Do you like this city? Where were you before?"

[Arvælyn]

"I'm glad to hear it." Arvalyn conceded with a chuckle, and gestured back toward the table at which they'd dined. Now that things had grown more cordial between them, he was in no rush to quit the presence of the large human. He reclaimed his own chair, as he continued: "This work certainly isn't for everyone, this... masquerade of glamour, executed by so many charlatans." His eyes darted about the room, and there was an adoration in his voice, even when the words themselves seemed less than complimentary. "But the service we provide is nonpareil. We traffic in dreams and fantasies and, if we do it well, we truly inhabit them for a spell." He seemed to be lost in one just then, staring off through and beyond the corporeal world until Torin's voice brought him back- his eyes snapping to the lad.

"Aurin is..." Arvalyn clasped his hands in front of him on the table to keep them from fidgeting, "Very charming, when he has a mind to be and often when he doesn't." His gaze trailed down from Torin's eyes to his own hands, "He's an unconscious collector of lost souls, like thee and me. I truly don't think he means to do it, but we find our way into his orbit and take to revolving." He cast a faint smile toward the tabletop,

"But you asked for a verdict, not the reasons for it. I will forever be fond of Aurin Kavafis." The fingers of one hand closed around the fingers of the other, and a slight tension twitched at his brow. "He saved my life, more than once..." Now he was treading on the precipice where the real life of Arvine Venasyr bordered with the fictional creation that performed here under the name 'Arvalyn'. "...took me into his home, after I'd fled mine. I..." When Arvalyn;s eyes rose to meet Torin's an errant tear escaped, and fled down his cheek- his hands parted sharply as one rose to catch it before it leapt off his jaw. He turned his face off to the side, and rubbed the streak on his face with the back of his left hand, a few of the bracelets on his wrist parting to reveal the a few of the crimson lines of his 'inheritance'- branded thence by his mother many years earlier.

"Forgive me. It's difficult to get out of the headspace of that song, sometimes." He cleared his throat, and collected himself tilting his face back toward Torin and adopting a smile,

"I quite like it here, yes. Far less stuffy than my upbringing in the East." It occurred to him that he might have passed Torin's village in his actual travels, and he wondered: "In which direction is your home town? Do you prefer it here?"

[Torin Kilvin]

Moving to join the other boy in returning to their table, he sat with the same exaggerated care as he previously had.

The apprentice did not understand all the words the smaller blond used; unsure if they were in a different language or simply outside his own scope of common. The meanings were fairly clear though, the other boy loved his work. It was something exceedingly relatable to Torin. He loved his own work; it was, perhaps, the only thing he loved anymore. In his limited understanding of himself and the reality he existed inside, he didn't believe he could love people who were gone from his life. He did still love them, but he wouldn't have said so if asked. Not having any response to the description of working as an entertainer, he gave none, only listening attentively, his interest out for all to see.

When the topic moved on to Aurin he listened even more intently. The tale reflected his own, though he suspected there was significantly more to Arvalyn's than his. The idea that Aurin collected lost souls made sense, but the idea made Torin reflect on himself in a way that wasn't entirely comfortable. He was a lost soul. He could see that now that it was being starkly presented. He wasn't sure if that changed anything. He would think on it later, with the heat of the forge at his side and a hammer in his hand.

Marks of abuse were something Torin knew well. He assumed everyone knew them well. He noted Arvalyn's but did not comment. He carried his own scars, faded and stretched by his growth, but still visible, still obvious when seen. Thankfully, most of them were not visible when he was clothed. There were a few on his face but they were very small. Virtually no one survived to adulthood without small scars and no one seemed to automatically assume his were the product of anything specific.

The description was apt. He was beginning to revolve around Aurin. His hand went, again, to unconsciously touch his jacket pocket. His first solo project was a very important step in his apprenticeship. It had come to be about Aurin, or, perhaps, Aurin had inspired it. Torin couldn't see how that was a bad thing. It had gone well, his master had inspected and approved of the result. Without having met Aurin he wouldn't have thought of the idea and would still be struggling with his schema.

He brushed off the apology with a gentle negation motion with one hand, "I let one slip just listening to the song, I don't know how you get through singing it without weeping."

Knowing nothing of the East Torin nodded, slipping into his natural state of active listening, trying to learn what he could of all things.

"It's East of the city, down the main road, then splitting as you get into the wilds." He dipped a finger in one of the water glasses and drew a crude little map. There weren't many turns, the way was easy, just long. He considered the second question; did he prefer it in the city? His first answer was an emphatic 'NO', but as he kept considering he realized that as things were he wouldn't be happier in the village. He'd be even more lost and alone, so, he said,

"I think I do prefer it here." Sounding confused by his own realization. "I thought I would want to go home, more than anything, but now..." His large body fidgeted a little, trying to adjust to the new ideas he now faced, "I don't think there is a home for me there anymore."

[Arvælyn]

"You're a quiet one, aren't you?" Arvalyn observed, with not unkind amusement curling one corner of his lips. It was early, yet, and Arvalyn wasn't one to wake with the dawn bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Well, bright eyed perhaps, but only in the very literal sense. At any rate, he was slow to rise and slower to sharpen. It took him at least an hour to acclimate to the day, and even when he did he could be a tad surly. Torin had learned as much a few moments earlier.

He looked the boy over, thoughtfully and his eyes followed the path of his rudimentary cartography, thoughtfully.

"Ah." He acknowledged, when he comprehended. "I passed by on the main road here when I first came." He dipped his finger into the wet spot, where the road split off toward Torin's village. "But I just kept going straight." He didn't properly remember much of the trip, but he knew he'd taken that road. He knew enough of the surrounding geography at this point to have sussed it out after the fact based on the first gate through which he passed to enter the city. That he remembered, but much of the journey was muddled in his mind from the exhaustion, dehydration and other afflictions that joined him for the trip.

"Yes, that is another familiar sensation for me. A regular refrain for lost souls... I think that's why I was drawn to the song you heard me practicing." This seemed to be dawning on him in real time, as he spoke. "Everyone fondly remembers things from their childhood that they can never reclaim, but for some of us the loss is more potent. Some people get to keep souvenirs that betoken their bygone years, but for some of us those artifacts have long since blown away in the wind- Soot and ash." He shook his head,

"I beg your pardon. That was a bit macabre..." He forced a smile, and recovered a lighter tone, "Anyway, how exactly did you meet Aurin? Was it here at the cabaret, or...?" He trailed off, one of his hands vaguely gesturing, as the other idly stroked the soft flesh between the thumb and forefinger there.

[Torin Kilvin]

Torin did not reply to the comment about his silence, it seemed like the right thing to do.

"No reason for anyone to visit the village unless they live there." He couldn't think of one anyway, or, no good ones. There were raids occasionally. Swallowing the thought and the lump it brought to his throat, he returned his concentration to the other boy. He was speaking about happy childhoods. Torin did think he'd had a happy childhood or any memories from it, but he also considered his childhood to have ended when he began his apprenticeship. He had many happy memories from growing up, but, like to many other things, his lack of scope robbed him of understanding that.

At the mention of souvenirs he reached up and wrapped his hand around the necklace he wore, it too had a pendant that held magic, albeit a very little. His old master had made it for him when he left, if he activated it he would hear his master's voice again, encouraging him. He had considered sending it to the man's wife and children when he'd received word of his death, but hadn't. Unable to let go of the only piece he had left of the man who had been more than a father. Knowing his choice was selfish, and possibly cruel he tried not to think about it.

Letting go of the necklace he shook his head once,

"It's alright." Clearing his throat he said, "It was like I said, I was bringing a delivery by and he accepted it. We got to talking over the meal he offered and I offered to return the kindness and buy him dinner sometime. He accepted but also said I should come back when the Cabaret was open, see what it was like." His smile grew fond, "He showed me around, let me ask questions. I wasn't really in a fit state to walk home by the end." His flush returned,

"So he was generous enough to let me sleep in his... cottage." He wasn't sure why he didn't want to say 'in his bed'. There was nothing improper about men sharing a bed, but the memories that came up when he thought about that night, and the next he'd spent in Aurin's bed were likely to cause reactions he didn't want to have right then.

"The next time I had a free day we met up and went climbing and hiking outside the city. I miss the wilds. It was nice."

He ended the tale there, asking, "How did you meet him?"

Expecting to hear a story about how they'd met working together Torin put his chin on his fist and rested his elbow on the table.

[Arvælyn]

"Fair enough." Arvalyn nodded, "I'm more keen on cities than villages, so I certainly wouldn't have cause..." He couldn't imagine living someplace with only a few people. Always the same faces walking the same roads, doing the same things. It was hard to get lost in a village. One would have to leave, just to lose oneself for an hour and even then it would be a lonely loss. Like to be surrounded by more of grass and trees than people. Arvalyn very much liked being around people, even if he thought most of them were awful.

His eyes darted to Torin's necklace and he smiled, reaching to touch his chest through his robe, where talisman lay between the soft, hairless flesh over his sternum and the silken garment. It was a souvenir, as well, but not some magical relic. It was something that once bore another kind of power- a shard from a forgotten age and, for Arry, a memento of his father. A man he'd only known during the sunset of what was said to have been a brilliant life. Before Arry was born, at any rate.

"Ah, yes..." Arvalyn glanced behind him toward roughly the direction of the aforementioned cottage. "I considered letting you in to wait there, but I don't want to vex Aurin by being presumptuous again. To be fair, you could be an assassin sent to kill him, for all I know, so better you should wait here..." He trailed off,

"How did I meet him?" Arvalyn repeated. A wistful shadow seemed to cross his golden face, and he looked off to the East. "That, my good man, is a story from another lifetime, and a boy who treads the boards needs to hold onto some element of mystique." He pursed his lips, apologetically. "I hope you'll forgive me, Torin, if I keep that souvenir to myself?"

[Torin Kilvin]

When Arvalyn reached into his own flimsy garment for a moment, Torin gave him a shy smile. The other boys in his life weren't known for their sentimentality and it felt nice to have even this small connection.

He shook his head at the mention of being let into Aurin's cottage,

"I wouldn't want to intrude without his permission." With a self-conscious little shrug, he explained, "Even if I knew I was allowed I wouldn't want him to walk in and find me unexpected." All the weapons evident, and, what he assumed were many less evident, assured him that startling Aurin by being in his sanctuary unannounced was a bad idea. Something in the words just spoken by Arvalyn caught his attention belatedly.

"Again?"

He shrugged when his question was declined, it seemed that people who made their living in entertainment, directly or indirectly, preferred to keep their lives close to their chests. It sort of made sense, they were open with emotion and themselves in front of endless strangers, on display. Retaining a sense of self and personal privacy would be more precious than for someone who spent more of their time with no eyes on them.

"As you wish." It was giving, accepting, not dismissive. "Nothing to forgive, your life is yours." It wasn't as if he hadn't denied a question himself during the conversation, and significantly less politely, come to think of it.

Standing again and stretching way, way up; arms above his head, he yawned. Then, holding his hand out to the other boy he said,

"I think I'll go wait outside, it's a bit warm in here for as much as I'm wearing. If you see him, will you tell him I'm there?"

Once again he moved toward the front door but stopped, turned back, "I hope they let you perform the song, it should be heard. Maybe I'll be lucky enough to be here when they do."

Slipping out the way he'd come, with a little wave to the drowsy coat attendant, he was gone.

[Arvælyn]

"Again." Arvalyn nodded with a grave expression that bespoke a lesson hard learnt. "But I'm not a complete twit. Whenever I make the same mistake, I always executed it in a markedly different way." His stern grimace gave way to a cheeky smile.

By and by, Torin was looming over him again (albeit less threateningly) and Arvalyn rose to his feet to close that gap at least somewhat.

"Ah yes, of course." The lithe entertainer's eyes danced across the form of the larger figure at the mention of his rather heavier garb. "Don't judge me too harshly for the unseasonable paucity of fabric..." He said, gesturing down to the satiny vestment that covered parts of his shoulders, a fraction of his chest, and everything from his midriff to his upper thighs. Even what it did cover it did so thinly, and it seemed a shift in how he was lit might have rendered it sheer, or a gust of wind might have blown the whole garment to dust.

"Of course. I shall let him know." He said inclining his head. He gathered up their dishes once more and started to turn. Torin's next words halted him in his tracks. He glanced over his shoulder and his eyes glistered with something new- A glimmer of hope. He touched his hand to his chest, grateful, and headed back into the kitchen to deal with the plates.

It had been an unusual morning, indeed, but there were a few hours until he would be needed backstage. If Torin was in earnest and he was good enough for a solo, then perhaps he should start thinking about a costume. He headed up to the costume closet he called a bedroom, and dressed in sterner stuff to take on the weather of the season and assail the market for something lustrous.