Legend of Ransera

Aurin was well pleased that Yshvold seemed inclined to accept the helping hand he offered; it might seem like charity at the moment, but soon enough, the Lysanrin youth would begin to earn his keep. The helping hand was the opportunity to earn his keep, afford him a bit of dignity of which the world would continue to strip him if he let it. If they were sewer rats, they were much more terrifying in a swarm. He knew that much from experience the last time they were down there.

He canted his head to the side.

"You could pass for a servant in fine livery," he allowed. "You'd have to brush up on your fine manners, though. But these aren't so fine as all that."

As for the rest, he considered before answering.

"I'm working on a fortune, don't you worry. But I couldn't live like they do—not really—not while knowing how their privilege fucks the rest of us over and over again without a by your leave. I don't want to shit on a golden privy. I just want the resources to protect myself and mine, you know? I don't want to forget what the world is really like. That's how it comes back and fucks you again."

Aurin would never be Father of the Year; he clearly saw no reason to mitigate his blue language in front of a boy. But then, Yshvold had surely heard worse. Niceties were nice for people born into silk-lined bassinets and silver spoons. In any case, what did he know about raising children? He just tried to help the odd one survive into adulthood with enough agency to make a life for themself.

Aurin nodded at the boy's big words. He didn't doubt him, but he knew that attitude would only avail him in certain situations and he would eventually have to learn to be more adaptable if he wanted to survive, let alone thrive. But for all his silences, the boy's words tended to come out like surpise knife attacks and as for his question, Aurin could only smile.

"Lots of sharp things here," he said. "Why don't you come at me?"

Aurin had learned to be almost as lethal without a weapon as with one, and he was curious if Yshvold had learned to keep on keeping on if he should chance to lose his weapon. There were probably better ways to teach, but Aurin wasn't the best teacher. At least, he had never thought of pedagogy or method; he only knew how the woman who liked to deny the fact that she was his mother had taught him: when he needed to learn to swim, she pushed him into the river.

He thought he might be a bit less sociopathic for Yshvold.

So he waited to see what the boy would do, which weapon he would choose, whether he would fling a dagger from a safe distance or close the gap between them to engage. They had a lot to learn about each other, and hopefully, they could learn to work well together. He might even end up with a small army of the young and overlooked who were willing to work for something with someone who was willing to work with and for them, like Arry's little gang back in Antiris could have been if the man in charge hadn't been an utter fuck.

"Tomorrow, we can go down to the Low-City and you can learn from Elwes if you think I'm unworthy of your martial talents."

Normally, that challenge would have been followed up by immediately bringing his semblance trick to bear, but as he knew that made Yshvold uncomfortable, he opted not to. And normally, he wouldn't allow someone he knew was about to cut on him to get so close without a challenge. But he took a calculated risk that they were going to spar, see what each other was made of, and he would have to trust that Yshvold wasn't going to try to spill his entrails on the floor of this place he was going to get to stay until he earned enough for his own spot.

If Aurin needed stitches after this, so be it. His hide was already scarred from plenty of knife fights.

With Yshvold's hair right below him, he now knew what Lysanrin smelled like. At least he was clean after using the bathing facilities.

The face the boy had made was worrisome. Aurin could understand social masks. He wore them like costumes himself. But he wondered whether that feral, sociopathic smile was just a way to scare off bigger people or an indicator of what lay beneath the boy's obvious trauma.

His own body tried to find that sweet spot between coiled tension and open relaxation that made these deadly dances easier to survive. He pulled his head back out of the way of the knife, which added to the momentum the boy used to push him back, though he managed to get a foot behind him to prevent him from falling. Using that back leg like a spring, he pushed back, pushed hard, shoving Yshvold in the chest to send his smaller bulk backward. Aurin would always have an advantage if they were farther apart. If he let Yshvold up close, his dagger could do lots of damage rather quickly.

"Could've tried to hook your ankle behind mine," he offered. It was just a suggestion now, and he would see it coming if the boy tried it now. In any case, he might remember it next time he was in a similar situation and then he might end a fight quickly and victoriously, the best way to end one.

For his part, Aurin observed Yshvold's incredulity and the quiet that followed. He wasn't a mind reader even when he did ply his semblance trick, but he could practically hear the clockwork wheels turning in his horned skull. When he voiced his lack of capitulation, Aurin nodded and refrained from smiling lest the kid think he was mocking him. If anything, he respected Yshvold as one survivor respects the other. Especially now that they were going to be working together and there was no reason to believe they would get in the way of each other's goals, he was inclined to help the kid with his own.

"Never give up," he said with approval clear in his voice. "Pretending to give up is one thing—a temporary ruse—but giving up is the end and things will only get worse from there." Perhaps not giving up in a training session, but it did set a dangerous precedent in Aurin's mind. Whenever he had given up, getting back on his feet afterward had always been more difficult. "I'm strong in some ways, weak in others. I try to hone the strengths and hide the weaknesses. You'll find them eventually. You're clever."

He thought he saw Yshvold's eyes linger on the sword a moment longer than the other available weapons. Considering what he would do for a moment, he decided to doff his coat and hang it flat over the back of the chair. There was no sense in getting tears in the thing; just because he was making good money now didn't mean there wouldn't be lean periods in the future. Best to be somewhat frugal still. He loosened his collar and rolled up his sleeves, collecting on kunai and then the other. Between the two, he could block the heavier sword with ease and maintain his speed and accuracy, even if the kid's reach might surpass his with the larger weapon.

Aurin slipped his index fingers through the holes in the pommels of the tools and spun them around and then caught them in reverse grips.

"I'm not giving up either," he replied with a vulpine grin. But it appeared he was patient enough to wait the boy out.

Aurin listened to his new protégé speak, watching him calculate the values of various weapons again, whether to sell or to use, and memorize the terrain of the room once more. That was all for the best. If he was going to stay here, it were better he knew how to defend himself should someone burglarize the place or one of Aurelio's cultists come looking for him again. That seemed unlikely, though; it had been months of quiet on that front. Rather, he went investigating in the Midden; they left him alone up here. Alter egos and glamours helped cover his trail.

Finally, he nodded. "Terror can be an excellent weapon, but it shouldn't be your only one."

Of course, he knew it wasn't the kid's only weapon. He had seen him in more than one skirmish now. All the same, tactics had to be adaptable to the situation, and eventually, he wouldn't be able to get by on desperation and rage.

"I'm not certain if it's possible for me to keep my tricks active while I sleep. That's something I should look into." It occurred to him that he might get injured at some point and need to hide in a corner, masking himself from eyes and magical vision until he could recover enough to move. He bit the inside of his cheek thoughtfully.

"If you're bored, we might as well take a walk. Get some food. I'll tell you about these weird cultists in the Midden who seem to want to harvest Avialae wings... Something for you to keep your ears open about, anyway. Maybe I'll introduce you to the Avialae they almost caught. He's invested in sussing it all out, but he's not good at being discreet." He almost rolled his eyes. Aurelio was this kid's opposite in a lot of ways, but perhaps Yshvold was just the person to get on the trail.

"C'mon," he said, beginning to weave his glamours on the alley outside. "Once we get a couple streets away, you can eat the glamour. Aether food and real food so you don't stay that height forever."

Lore:

Yshvold
Stealth:
Unassuming Approach

One-Handed Weapons:
Dual-Blade Daggers: Close Range Feints
Dual-Blade Daggers: Throwing Techniques Novice

Unarmed:
Grappling: Knocking Off-balance

Singing:
Lullaby

Aurin
Deception:
Dress for the Environment
Let Them See What They Expect

Interrogation:
General Knowing to Narrow Down
Pushing for Small Details

Negotiation:
Try to Make Them Comfortable
Setting Expectations
Current Favors for Future Ones
Foundational Trust
Give It to Them Straight

Persuasion:
Accommodation
Willingness to Listen
Keeping Promises
Answering Questions

Psychology:
Recognizing Similar Trauma
Suppressing Hard Memories


Points: 8 Each, not for magic

Injuries/Ailments: None

Loot: None

Notes: Almost sweet, trying to not kill each other.