Legend of Ransera

"Stagnation is anathema to our sacred scripture's tenets." Arvælyn agreed. It still felt odd to speak in such pious terms and to understand them... to believe in them. What he'd known of faith in his past was learnt by rote and never taken to heart.

"You are still speaking cautiously. I understand that, but what I am hearing is a desire for old boundaries to be broken down." It was not the sort of radical rhetoric (radical by Solunarian standards, at least) that he might have expected from Finn who, raised as he was in the chaotic, Kalzasern culture, would have preferred what he viewed as equality, rather than the rigid hierarchy of the Solunarian power pyramid. This young diplomat still spoke in the supremacist terms of his homeland, but wanted for a relaxing of the bonds that constricted him and other members of his in-between class and in-between race. He wisely noted Arvælyn's own blend.

"It has been called The Dual Realm for so long. It seems long overdue that we truly embrace our dualities..." He conceded with a nod. But then it was time to head into the banquet hall, where he would sit at the table's head with his mother to his right and an esteemed senator of an ancient, elven house to his left.

Though most were reticent when, mid-meal, Arvælyn and Cithæra called for opinions, their encouragement ultimately drew out some dialogue. At first it was all cautious... obsequious even, but eventually (perhaps due to wine or the subtle plying of grandmaster-tiered Mesmer,) candour began to burgeon forth.

There were some in their midst who would have preferred a direct duplica of the current Senate, only smaller. Some called for the removal of the Vastian senate, and others for its expansion. Many questions were posed to the Draconic Crown as well as the general assembly at the table, and a few arguments broke out that left their participants red-faced. When the diatribes and desserts were finished, Arvælyn stood.

"We thank you for your opinions. You have given us much to think on. We shall bring your thoughts before the Consilium Draconum to discuss them with His Exalted Majesty. For now, we are adjourned."

Farewells were exchanged and obsequies offered. A furtive servus stepped up to Æros and whispered that he would be conducted to a private sitting room where he would await the prince, as he wrapped up with the guests and his mother. It was clearly done in such a subtle way as not to curry the envy of other senators who were not afforded such an invitation. Upon arriving at the the smaller sitting room, he would be offered his choice of beverage and of music if he wished for diversion. But, after about twenty minutes, the princeps would arrive.

"Thank you for waiting. Politics cut more and more into my recreative time, unfortunately."

Arvælyn pursed his lips, considering the fæ's defence of his reluctance. There was indeed a time and place for reticence and, in Solunarian politics, it seemed increasingly apparent that that time was usually and that place was nearly everywhere. Though it was rare for candour to be invited and could be a precious opportunity, he could also see whereas it was likely not invited in earnest on most occasions that carpet was rolled out at all. In his experience, it was often a trap or an offer posed to curry compliments rather than truths.

Throughout the dinner discussions, Arvælyn and Cithæra seemed to be of the mind that this was one of those times and places for reticence. They posed questions, but demurred from answering any and Cithæra seemed particularly adept at changing the subject without people noticing she'd done so. Arvælyn was less practised at politics and more prone to employ his Craft to do the politicking for him. There was a moment early on wherein Æros might have gleaned the mother coaching the son a bit via the Re'hyæan racial trait of parent-to-child telepathic communication, but the Grandmaster Sembler would mask their Auras within seconds, if she became aware of anyone seeking out such information.

Whatever the case, the dinner was done and at last the Umbrian prince was able to relax into a plush seat and extend his legs, crossing them at the ankle.

"Aquæ vitæ." He ordered with a flick of his wrist toward the nearest servant, though his eyes remained on his current companion.

"My 'metamorphosis' wasn't handled, per se..." He noted with a snigger. "It was more that my true nature had been suppressed since my adolescence. Draconic features typically don't present until then in mixed bloods, and it was around then that my mother gifted me a talisman that proved more potent than I ever knew. Upon removing it, the change took place unbidden. I didn't know what was happening at first, but the roughest bit was called 'Greater Threshold Sickness'. It was like suffering through all of my runic initiations again, but far worse and all at once. My... draconic kinfolk helped me to assuage the symptoms, but it was still hellish..." He trailed off.

"Has anything interesting transpired in your life outside of your senatorial role?"

"Apparently the condition is passing rare and only came about due to a peculiar confluence of events particular to my situation. The artefact that disguised me did so not through mere camouflage, which would have been pervaded by Semblers of potency. Half of my very nature was suppressed. Dragonborn typically do not present their draconic side until adolescence and, before mine took root, it was waylaid by the talisman. As such I was, for all intents and purposes, a full-blooded Re'hyæan, with no trace of the dragon. That means I was initiated as an Elf, and brooked the transition accordingly. What I have since learnt is that dragonborn, while we rarely if ever die from initiation, have some of the worst symptoms. So, after my paternal side began to reveal itself, it was like I was going through my initiations anew- this time far worse... and concurrently. There was a... rite that did something to assuage the symptoms, but they were still harrowing." Arvælyn shuddered at the very memory, before pressing it down and burying it under the welcome distraction of Æros' words.

On the matter of the Fæ's initiation addiction, Arvælyn said nothing- Only smiling faintly to himself as he raised the goblet to his lips for a taste of his libation. The mention of an encounter with Aværys arched his eyebrow, however.

"...from the memories of another?" That was unclear to the princeps as delivered and, though he might have sought clarification in the Symphony of the other, that course didn't really lend itself to a worthwhile conversation, even if the information gleaned would promise to be more detailed and truthful than anything mere words might offer.

At the query regarding the Founders' feelings on the state of affairs in contemporary Solunarium, Arvælyn only smiled inwardly and shrugged.

"I've no doubt They'll let us know in explicit terms when They are inclined to."

Arvælyn thought, for a moment, to impart a more explicit understanding of the experience via the conduit of the other man's Symphony, but he stayed the impulse. While it may have been enlightening, it would have also been cruel. For the purposes of their conversation, he'd elaborated sufficiently.

"Suffice it to say that the rite, like many things in this realm, dealt with blood and sacrifice. It did not cure my symptoms, but it assuaged them somewhat..." And, due to Finn's influence on his moral compass, he wondered whether his comfort was worth the cost. His own nature prevailed in reminding him that the sacrifices had been made without his prior knowledge or consent, and thus he could not be held culpable in the eyes of gods or men. So why should he let it confound himself?

Æros' elaboration on his meaning regarding 'the memories of another' yielded an arched eyebrow over one of his glowing, fiery eyes. He knew Hilana was of a very agreeable nature, but even so... He supposed it was the lot of the Vastii to submit to the will of their social 'betters'... Or so it had been for many centuries. It was odd how Solunarium made him feel softer. In Kalzasi he always felt like he came across so severe, but here he was a bleeding heart.

"I did meet with Them... Finn and I." He knitted his brow and glanced down to his drink. "If you'll pardon my reticence, the entire experience was intensely personal. I'd rather not get into it in any detail."

He glanced up, and pursed his lips considering the last question posed.

"You know... I really wasn't overly concerned with it until I woke up this morning and saw them off. Finn and I haven't been apart at length since we came to Solunarium. I know he's only a blip away, what with his Traversion talents, but... They may be in danger, and if his instincts are half a second too slow..." He shuddered and shook his head,

"You amatus...?" Arvælyn thought back to the group that assembled earlier that day. It was two Sentinels he didn't recognise, his siblings and his draconic uncle. The only other person he didn't recognise was... "The servus? Ah yes, I'm now realising the familiar notes I sensed in his Symphony were tied to you. It didn't occur to me at the time. He's dashing, for such a skinny thing. I had to warn Finn off of him, lest he wake my Zalkyrian impulses." He said, playfully narrowing his furnace-churning eyes.

Arvælyn furrowed his brow at the expression his vagaries yielded from his present company. Apparently Æros had made inferences, despite of his deliberately ambiguous verbiage on the matter of his balms in the Dragon Chamber. He wasn't wrong, but the response surprised him somewhat... He felt shades of the shame Finn sometimes stirred in him when he did something callous or cruel.

"I wasn't consulted on the methods before they were undergone..." He noted, half a pretext half a protest. Even if he had known, he hadn't been in his right mind at the time. Not to mention he was knowingly speaking to dragons for the first time in his life. They had millennia of wisdom to draw upon when rendering their decisions and he didn't expect they brooked critique with ease.

Arvælyn inclined his head as the half-fæ accepted his reticence on the matter of his divine audience. He considered this man a friendly acquaintance, but they were not so close that he was keen to reveal the vulnerability of those moments... nor to risk the wrath of Them who now favoured him to sate the curiosity of one who, by his own admission, bore 'bittersweet' memories of his own empyreal interactions.

The prince sucked through his teeth at the next question posed, and took a slow sip of wine to fill the pause before replying.

"Finn is... an artist, and thus an æsthete. It has taken me a while for my mind and heart to catch up to my Craft. It's still..." He shook his head, realising he was overexplaining.

"I... cannot fathom doing harm to Finn." His gaze danced down to his goblet sharply, "Not directly." As he tilted his face back up to turn a fiery gaze upon Æros, small plumes of smoke were wafting free of his nostrils unbidden. It took a moment for him to notice the phenomenon himself and he seemed slightly taken aback, adjusting himself in his seat and consciously willing himself toward becalming.

"I don't know terribly much..." He'd been present for some of Hilana's initial briefing, but he'd been in the throes of his growing pains and not terribly focused at the time. "As I understand it they're exploring some sort of... ruin or some such thing in search of clues to find... another ruin? Phocion and Valæra tend to know more about those kinds of things. I've been focused on the transition of power here."