Legend of Ransera

Arvælyn rolled his eyes at Hilana’s revisionist history and returned his attentions to the elder.

“We were under orders from the Vigilia Argenti, yes…” He conceded, not wishing to take more credit than was due for his role in aiding the tribes. It was better for them to believe that the Sentinels had served their interests before Zalkyriax forced the split.

“My interests are varied.” Arvælyn demurred, lifting his cup to sip as he contemplated his company and surroundings. Feeling a bit awkward, he would smooth the moment over with a delicate application of Mesmer infusing the Symphonies of the unfamiliar Vastians. Satisfaction, ease and a subtle amplification of awe served the will of the Princeps Draconum. Let them take his scant words for regal austerity rather than the uncertainty of a socially awkward youth.

“I think I took to it more naturally than Finn. This is, perhaps, by design…” He trailed off. He’d taken to fantasising that his bard had somehow been part and parcel to the machinations of his parents or, better yet, the Sacred Founders. The actor in him was passing fond of fatalistic presentiments and fancied a universe in which there was something grandiose binding him to his amatus… something beyond the ferocity of his will that was potent enough to be irrevocable. Would that His Peerless Majesty Eikæn himself had been architect to their romance. It was unlikely, to be sure, but it was pleasant to imagine such a force keeping them together despite the obstacles that may come.

“Complicated things are simpler here and simple things more complicated. But maybe that is just due to the position in which I find myself. I doubt it is thus for everyone.”

Arvælyn's attention dragged Finn-ward as he moved his injured arm, poised to ease any of the sharp pains that could intrude. They had certain established boundaries when it came to the practise of their Crafts as it pertained to one another, but the dulling of physical pain (or more specifically increasing the mind's ability to brook it) was not off-limits. It hadn't been something that needed addressing prior to the misadventure abroad, and since then it had been very much warranted.

Satisfied that Finn was comfortable, his attention shifted back to a more general sweep of the room as lofty issues were raised. He was amused to find Hilana's grandmother shared her predilection for idioms. He supposed she must have come by the habit honestly, as he tipped his cup to finish the offered drink.

"The derby? I suppose I shall have to see whether my diary allows, but I imagine the odds are favourable, so long as war or another bloody magical cataclysm doesn't sweep the realm." He said, glancing absently in the direction of the Sceptre of Aværys.

"Næ, my good woman. One drink will do me. I fear our visit is brief and we must needs spend the rest of it in the public eye fostering the perception of personal connection. I am told it will make people more likely to swear and sustain fealty if they see me in the flesh and feel they've connected with me somehow..." Already a bit more candid an admission that one might have expected of him, but at least he didn't go so far as to explain how the Mesmer conditioning they'd all experienced was more potent when the leaders they were meant to obey had physical faces. Even for the most adept Mesmers it was difficult to project complicated loyalties toward abstract figureheads known to them in stories and depicted on tapestries, and the most adept Mesmers were not those whose enchanted evangelism brought them into the deep deserts dwelt by these folk.

"But I thank you for your hospitality. I hope we shall meet again under less formalised circumstances." He rose in one smooth motion and Finn would feel the tug of Arry's Kinetics nudging his side, offering to help him up subtly so it wouldn't look as though he was enfeebled.

As Arvælyn assumed his throne in an official capacity, he would exploit his Masquerade in subtle ways to give himself an immaculate, unblemished appearance. He would appear in clearer focus, perhaps larger than life, to onlookers— even those who observed from afar. Once more he wore a mask of Re’hyæan stoicism, as oaths were sworn to his family.

With each fealty pledge, his eyes would glow silver. Unseen by most, but observed by Arvælyn, Finn and those who Sembled at even a novice level, each pledge created a tether between subject and liege. Both would feel the force of it and it felt like pleasure. Like the artist’s satisfaction at the completion of a long unfinished sculpture. Like the release of death after savage suffering.

The gifts were accepted with grace, if not unseemly displays of enthusiasm. Most would join the dragons’ horde at the end of the River Sanguis.

When all was said and done, the great platinum dragon stirred from his rest, shaking off the settled sands and regarding the magnati that approached him. He lowered his neck for Finn to ascend to the saddle that looked so small upon the back of the beast. Arvælyn pushed himself aloft of the sands with a burst of Kinetic energy, and caught himself in the air with his wings. Kairyndralok would allow his far smaller nephew fly ahead, lest his greater and more practised wings jostle the novice flier from the skies.

All would ascend toward the Sceptre, before which a massive portal appeared to return to magnati to the capital. They would find themselves in the Umbrium, above the mouth of the Thalamum Draconum, where the draconids landed and all could return to their homes.